#do whatever you want at least its consensual

[nahoney22]

Hello there!

Congratulations on 4,500 followers!

May I request a NSFW prompt 30: come closer and keep me warm or something like with F! Reader x Mayday, please?

He needs more love!

Warmth in the Night*** 🌊

🫧 pairings: Commander Mayday X Female!Reader

word count: 1.9k

prompts:

• “Come here and keep me warm.”

plot: Trapped with nothing but a lousy flickering fusion lantern to keep you both warm, yourself and Mayday decide to take advantage of this time alone.

warnings: NSFW, 18+ only. Established relationship, cuddling (amongst other things) for warmth, kissing, consensual sex, p in v sex, cock warming, dirty talk, explicit sexual content language, praising, fingering, trapped in a snow storm.

authors note: im so sorry for the wait @ladypunz and I apologise it’s short! But you’re right, he does deserve some love!

“Do you think it’ll hold?” you ask, your voice trembling as much from the cold as the worry gnawing at you. Together, yourself and Mayday had managed to barricade the rickety door of the abandoned shack you’d stumbled upon, but the raging blizzard outside wasn’t letting up.

Mayday steps back, eyeing the door with his hands on his hips. “Should do,” he says, his tone calm but a little cautious. “And if not… well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

You try to laugh, but the bitter cold seeps into every part of you, stealing the sound before it can form. Stars, the bitter breeze stabs at your skin like little needles.

Pushing aside your discomfort, you move to help him gather whatever scraps of blankets and fabric you can find and then drape them around a fusion lantern. It was the only thing providing little warm but its light flickers weakly, threatening to go out at any moment. The thought of it completely shutting down makes you nervous which doesn’t go unnoticed by Mayday.

Setting his helmet on a cracked, uneven table, he steps closer, his gloved hand brushing against your frosty cheek. His touch was warm despite the frigid air.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice steady and reassuring. “We’ll get through this. We’ll rest tonight, and by morning, the storm will have passed. Then we’ll make our way to the rendezvous point.”

You lean into his touch, seeking out the comfort it offers, and before you know it, your arms are around his waist, clinging to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you knitted to warmth and safety. “At least I’m with you,” you say softly.

His lips curve into a fond smile as he wraps his arms around you, his hands rubbing gently up and down your back in an effort to warm you. “Likewise.”

You were both meant to be delivering supplies to an outpost but were caught off guard by the sudden storm and luckily, you and Mayday had been together for a while now. He liked to tease that you fell for him first, and while that wasn’t entirely untrue, it didn’t mean he didn’t fall harder. He was everything you wanted in a relationship and you were glad he was so calm in a rather precarious situation.

“How are we on rations?” you ask after a moment, sitting down on the pile of tattered blankets whilst he pushes a broken table against the door just for a little extra reinforcement.

He grabs his pack, rummages around, and pulls out two ration bars, offering a wry smile as he hands you one. “At least it’s the flavor you like.”

“Lucky me,” you mutter with a half-smile, taking the bar and nibbling on it. If you were going to be stuck here, you wanted it to last.

Once the makeshift barricades are as secure as they’ll get, Mayday settles in beside you, the two of you huddling under the pile of blankets. The only light comes from the pathetic sputtering lantern, and the majority of warmth from each other. Despite your best efforts, your teeth chatter relentlessly.

Mayday drapes an arm over you, pulling you closer until your back is tucked against his chest. “Come here,” he says, his voice low and soft. “Keep me warm.”

You don’t hesitate, nestling into him, your head resting in the crook of his neck and shoulder. His warmth envelops you, a small reprieve from the biting cold.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to the back of your head.

“A little bit,” you admit, your breath shaky, though you can’t deny how much this was helping.

Night falls swiftly, the wind still screaming against your shelter. “I hope this storm ends soon,” you whisper, your voice barely audible above the howl of the wind.

“Me too,” Mayday replies, his arms tightening around you. “But at least the company’s good, right?”

You smile despite everything, catching the teasing lilt in his voice. “It’s perfect,”

“You know,” Mayday murmurs, his voice low and teasing as his fingers trace gentle patterns across your stomach, “it’s been a while since we’ve had some time alone.”

Your eyes, which had been closed in contentment, flutter open. A playful smirk spreads across your lips as you tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze. “You’re right,” you say softly, your voice holding a hint of mischief. “It has been a while.”

Mayday’s answering smirk is wicked, a flicker of heat sparking in his inviting eyes. He leans down, capturing your lips with his, the kiss starting soft but quickly deepening into something more needy.

A gasp escapes you as his hand tangles in your hair, pulling you closer. You turn fully to face him, your fingers threading through the textured strands of his long hair, tugging gently. The sensation draws a low groan from his throat, his lips parting against yours as your tongue slips into his mouth.

The kiss turns hungrier, more demanding, as his hands begin to wander. One gloved hand peels away, and when his now-bare palm glides over your skin, the chill of his touch makes you gasp again.

His lips curve into a smirk against yours, and his free hand slips lower, exploring with deliberate slowness until it finds the waistband of your pants. He pauses for just a moment, enough to let anticipation coil tightly in your chest, before sliding his hand inside.

You tremble under his touch, his fingers brushing against your folds. The coldness of his skin sends shivers across your body, but it only heightens the heat rapidly building between you.

“Already wet for me?” he murmurs darkly, his lips brushing against yours. His thumb circles your clit with an intense and measured pace, and he bites down lightly on your lower lip. “You needy girl.”

A whimper escapes you, your body arching into his hand as waves of pleasure roll through you. “C-can’t help it,” you stammer, your voice breathless. “You’ve been neglecting me.”

A low groan rumbles deep in his chest, his mouth moving to your neck, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His breath is warm against you, a stark contrast to the icy air around you.

“Let me fix that.”

His fingers move with purpose now, sliding against you with expert precision. Every flick of his thumb, every stroke of his hand, draws soft gasps and moans from your lips. The storm outside is forgotten, the cold replaced by the searing heat of his touch.

“Mayday, shit… don’t stop,” you plead, your voice trembling as you clutch his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his under-armor.

He grins, a low, knowing chuckle rumbling in his chest as he tugs your pants down just enough to give his hand the space it needs. His fingers slide against you, then press inside, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. The sound makes his grin widen. “You feel so pretty,” he murmurs, his voice rough and reverent. “So perfect.”

Your hips buck instinctively against his hand, desperate for more. A string of curses falls from your lips as he adds another finger, spreading you open with a skilled, deliberate rhythm. His lips find your neck again, trailing hot, searing kisses along your skin that make you shudder beneath him.

“Stars, I’m g-gonna—” you stammer, the words caught in your throat as the pressure inside you builds to a dizzying peak after a measly few minutes.

“Yes, you are,” he growls, his voice laced with hungry satisfaction. His lips leave your neck, his gaze locking onto yours as he watches you unravel. Your eyes roll back, your body arching as pleasure crashes over you in an uncontrollable wave.

You come undone, trembling and gasping his name like a prayer. “Yes, you fucking are,” he says, his voice thick with pride, his fingers slowing but never stopping, coaxing every last ounce of bliss from you.

Stars blurred your vision, your body trembling as waves of you come down from your high. You felt drunk on his touch, the aftershocks of your climax leaving you breathless and spent. Sweat glistened on your brow, your legs shaking as you tried to steady yourself.

“That’s it,” Mayday murmured in your ear, his voice low and soothing. He withdrew his fingers carefully, his touch lingering for just a moment before he lifted his hand into the faint glow of the lantern. Slick with your arousal, his fingers shimmered in the dim light.

You closed your eyes briefly, letting the moment sink in, before looking up at him with a lazy, somewhat goofy smile. “I think it’s only fair if I return the favour.”

His lips form into a smirk, and without hesitation, he leaned down to kiss you, his mouth claiming yours with renewed desperation. As his tongue brushed against yours, your hands found their way to the waistband of his pants, fumbling with the latch. Mayday chuckled against your lips, helping you shove them down before kicking them off entirely.

Your breath hitched as his cock sprang free, thick and swollen with need. He gripped it lightly, stroking himself with deliberate slowness.

A soft moan escaped your lips at the sight, and an idea formed in your mind. You slipped your pants completely off and shifted closer, your hand wrapping around his length. He gasped at the initial contact, your touch cold against his heated skin, but the sound quickly melted into a groan as you aligned him with your entrance.

With a gentle roll of your hips, you guided him inside, both of you sighing as he stretched you open and settled deep within. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, and he let out a sinful groan, his arms wrapping tightly around you as he buried his face in your chest.

“Fuck, it’s been too long,” he rasped needily, “You feel amazing.”

You bit your lip, your walls fluttering around him, clinging to every inch of him as he throbbed inside you. A teasing smile played on your lips as you whispered, “You like this, Commander? You like being in my pussy?”

“I love it,” he groaned, his voice muffled against your skin and knowing full well that you calling him Commander gets him all hot and bothered. One of your hands tangled in his hair, holding him close as you shifted your hips experimentally.

But before you could start moving in earnest, his grip on you tightened. “Stop. Stop,” he panted, his tone commanding yet soft.

You froze, concern flickering in your eyes. “Is everything okay?”

“Don’t move,” he said, his voice ragged. Pulling back slightly, he cupped your face with both hands, his gaze locking with yours. “You’re keeping my cock so nice and warm.”

It took a moment for his words to register, but then a playful smile tugged at your lips. “Using me as a cockwarmer, are you?”

“Yes, baby,” he murmured, pressing a delicate kiss to your lips. “You’re so damn warm, and it feels so good. Just… let me stay like this for a while.”

Your smile softened, and you leaned into him, brushing your lips against his once more. “Anything you want.”

Settling against his chest, you let your body relax, your arms wrapping around him as his cock remained snugly sheathed inside you. He pulled the covers over the two of you, cocooning you both in warmth.

The storm outside howled, but for the first time in hours, you felt nothing but comfort. You didn’t know how long this moment would last, but for now, you hoped the storm wouldn’t let up anytime soon…

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[anxietyshota]

So many anti's on the 'kink-critical' tag are so afraid to admit their a rad-fem yet will share the same exact opinion's and view's as them. It's complete and utter BS.

[hayw1res]

𖦹 ` 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧

𝅄 ; synopsis : von lycaon is a true gentleman, he would never act on his selfish desires on his master. that is until mating season rolls around…

𝅄 ; warnings : 18+ , knotting , mating press , mentions of breeding “pregnancy and pups” , p in v , unprotected sex , light predator x prey , slight dubcon but everything is consensual , animalistic urges , slight fluff at the end

𝅄 ; a/n : my first fic on this account, i do hope you enjoy! my requests are open of course. not proofread ; sorry for any errors!

NEW ERIDU, is home to many individuals and home to many different factions. One of those being Victoria Housekeeping . You found yourself at the mercy of those individuals from time to time, especially the ever so proper Von Lycaon. A gentleman through and through , who isn’t afraid of protecting his dear master from the depths of the hollows where you often find yourself after conducting research.

Now, you knew better not to get too involved in any of his personal business, but when he sent a sudden notice of absence it worried you. Why on earth would he need to leave? For how long? What was wrong with him? You had to know, as his close friend and well.. esteemed patron. That’s what lead you to meet at the place you knew would have your answers. Strangely enough, none of the girls were home either, not even Ms Alexandrina.

It sent a shiver down your spine as you crept through the empty halls, it was silent..eerie. It was almost perfect for their faction at least but even for them this seemed a little far fetched. A little too silent for your liking. You could hear the way your heel clicked and clacked against the concrete floor beneath you. It was dark, the sun set a while ago..the moon shined bright through one of the cracked windows, the cold hair caused your hairs to raise and goosebumps to form. Why was everything suddenly so much scarier?

You just needed to find Lycaon and deliver the basket of treats you made for him , to hopefully quell whatever illness he described in his latest message as to why he had to be distant for a while. You turned the corner, only a few feet away from the room of the wolf thiren when you heard a growling. It pierced through your ears as the only thing breaking the eerie silence, that and now your increased heartbeat. You gasp, It sounded like he was in pain.. you didnt want him to feel pain anymore! You were just here to help.

You pick up the pace almost speed walking to his door, it was locked. You turn the handle again and again, calling out to him to let you in! To let you cure his sickness. Oh how naive and ignorant you are. The wolf was no longer the pristine and well groomed man you usually met , but more an untamed beast of pure and undeniable lust. The door swung open, almost off its hinges as he towered above you. Did he get taller? His chest was exposed, his once clean attire was discarded in rags behind him. He panted , his fangs almost dripping in saliva as he looked at you like you were his meal.

You didnt know why your legs burned as you ran away from the beast, you didn’t even know why you were running to begin with. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest as you heard his heavy footsteps behind you, no less giving you a lead. You knew Lycaon could catch up to you if he truly wanted to. But this wasn’t Lycaon this was someone—something else. You blanked, which way did you come from? Where were you? You made the mistake of standing idle while an animal hunted you. His breathing was ragged in your ear as his clawed hand tightened around you waist yet he didnt hurt you, in fact it was the opposite.

“Stay.” He finally spoke, his voice was almost unrecognizable as the rest of his appearance. His fur was unkept, his eyes were almost completely black as he stared down at you..but the small part of him was still there- that still wanted to protect you, his master. He knew exactly how to, he knew how to protect you from everyone else, everyone who wasn’t him—every other thiren or human out there who dared to claim you. No. He would do it first before them all.

Completely compromised, you’re almost forced in position with your face touching the hard cold floor and his hands forcibly tearing apart your garments. You squeal, you try and break free and tell Lycaon to calm down! Your pleads fall deaf to his ears, the only sense he can make out is your scent. Arousal, fear.. it was a deadly mix for a wolf, it made him crave you more. His hands were somehow soft against your plush skin, playing with the fat of your thighs as he forced your body in every position he could until he was satisfied. You couldn’t help but feel your core leak at the sight of him when you’re finally on your back. His cock was large and swelling, pulsing over your entrance as he tried to hold back every urge he could until he knew you were ready.

His long digits found way into your core, it stun as he dragged them in and out, you knew you needed more than this you needed him. “Ly—Lycaon” You’d call, forcing him to throw out every thought telling him to take his time. You needed him as he needed you, and who was he to deny his master their desire? He almost couldn’t resist when your walls clamped around his thick member, his saliva dripped down onto your exposed chest- coating your mounds with the liquid as his hand came up to massage it in. His pace began slowly, he still cared of course. You could feel everything, every thrust, every twitch—you could feel it all.

Gradually he sped up, he started to thrust at an unforgiving pace, his moans breathless and mixing with your downright pornographic voice, he never felt so much pleasure in his life—all that buildup truly meant something now that he can unload everything he had into you, yes, yes hed give you his all. He would fill you to the brim and get you nice and pregnant with his kin—with his pups. You could do that right?

“you-you will mother..mother my kin—wont you master?” He purred, his tongue lapping at your neck as he started to fuck you like an animal- like the beast he truly was. You could barely speak back, your brain was practically mush at this point. You could only cling to the little you could as your poor cunt got abused by his unforgiving pace. His knot began to swell against the base of his cock, you could feel it prodding at your entrance— no, you couldn’t take this! Not when you could barely take his cock. That didn’t matter to Lycaon though, you would take it whether you liked it or not. His hands came to your thighs yet again but this time to force them beside your head, your teary eyed fucked out face only urged him on.

“yes—yes! take my knot.. my beloved-! my master—please, please let me in..” He’d growl before biting down on your neck , you scream as you feel that familiar burst of energy shock through you- the slick from your cum and arousal created the perfect substance for his knot to slide inside of you..filing you to the brim with his cum. He licked at your neck as his tail wagged behind him furiously.. he finally found someone suitable for his kin.. for his love..for his desires to be fulfilled.

He couldn’t let you go now, not even long after he calmed down. In reality, he was terrified on seeing you now that he was in the right state of mind..what an idiot he was. “Master—I deeply apologize for my behavior. This is why I notified everyone about the full moon” His voice made you chuckle, of course.. the damn moon. “Master-?” He called again, afraid he may have broken you. You surely were “broken” at least that’s how your body felt.

“Lycaon”

“Yes Master-?”

“Carry me to bed”

“Of course..I am at your service”

[writella]

Screwed Up and Brilliant

Synopsis: Negan is ready for you. Daryl isn’t; and maybe he’ll never be. Negan makes that clear to you tonight.

Details: Negan Smith x fem!reader, Daryl Dixon x fem!reader (mentioned), Negan is a bad guy but there is nuance— at least I hope I accomplished doing so, angst, guilt, forbidden love, probably super stereotypical, reader at the Sanctuary, moral dilemma reader (but you got to understand, they’re both so fine!!), I feel like I need more cws but I can’t think of them and of course, smut, 18+: consensual, unprotected, vague dacryphilia, soft? dom!Negan, lite daddy kink, fingerings, riding, and basically just Negan blowing your brains out… but not in the walker way— the good way, the way we like. Amen.

A/N: Could you believe I started writing this in October or something? This is my first time writing Negan and I’m scared I may not have gotten it right so definitely feel free to give notes! This is set during season 7/8, I’m picturing Negan at the end of 8 and later seasons but there’s something about him older that gives me heart eyes everywhere, but whatever you prefer makes me happy. Anyway, from my heart, and maybe somewhere a little lower, to yours; with love from writella. ♡

You’re screwed up and brilliant, look like a million-dollar man; so why is my heart broke?

—— LDR, Million Dollar Man

The space was clean; minimal. The kind that let out no secrets of the owner that inhabited its insides. And of course there were the little things that let out some slight details: the ashtray on the nightstand— a smoking habit; a ring, a metal chain, another of black rope— an unsuspected, albeit small, interest in jewelry; the bottom nightstand closed by a lock—mysterious and cautious, though that was to be expected. It was only reasonable he’d have something he wanted hide. But other than that, Negan’s bedroom was quite unreadable; almost purposefully mundane.

There was a fireplace, a window at the corner, and a bed at the center. It had a dark, brass, rusted headboard that leaned against the wall. Two pillows at either side. The sheets were white, and the large blanket was of fur, a tan or medium brown, it was thick and heavy. Probably unnecessary for the approaching spring heat, but it adored the bed end well; matching the other bronze, or brown, wooden and darker aspects of the room. Even the light from the small fire, though you could see clearly, made everything mildly dim— the Sanctuary wasn’t known for its brightness after all.

And truly, nothing in this bedroom, or in this fortress of a place could be described as anything close to bright. Unless you counted the sun outside in the courtyard, or the largest fireplace that blazed in the main hall, or Negan’s piercing, priceless smile— so pristinely white, so wide it almost looked painful to perform. There was an eeriness to it as well. That was at the forefront, and everyone saw it. With the way he maintained their cleanliness, it was something that could look so pure, so put-together on any other; but on him, its power could scare you into worthlessness. It’s the one he used when he told someone what to do even if they hated it; it’s the one he used when killing someone’s best friend.

It’s also the one he used on the first day he ever spoke to you. The first time that truly mattered, really.

It was during Negan’s first supply gathering at Alexandria.

You still remember it well.

Your faces filled with desolation, but chins held high; you were strong— good at hiding the pain, the fear— only straight, pokered eyes and mouths allowed as everyone silently agreed with you. You had told Negan that Maggie was dead.

The Widow, he had coined her. The wife of your good friend that he killed— so generous a man was Glenn, even when he wasn’t trying to be. And she’s your friend too, brave Maggie. That’s the one he wanted, but as far as he knew, she was gone.

Thank God, you thought, Thank God, yes, indeed, until—

Negan’s eyes glazed over your frame for just a moment too long.

You weren’t speaking anymore. You kept it short enough. He should have turned his attention back to Rick but he didn’t.

Where there was sly roguery in Negan’s eyes, anxiety weld in the looks of all others: Rick’s throat tensed and tightened uneasily, sweat trailing down his curls and onto his forehead; Rosita’s jaw clenched with bitterness, brows furrowing under her green khaki cap with anger; and then there was Gabriel: his eyes turned from solemnity and pretend peacefulness to wide bewilderment. The plan you two exchanged had worked: you would tell Negan of Maggie’s passing, as per your idea, and Gabriel would swiftly solidified your lie by saying he was the one who officiated the short funeral. But then, another problem arose; one where he could be nothing else but helpless in aiding you. What was he, or anyone to do? It was easy to help Maggie, she was more than twenty miles away. But you, you were here. Right in front of him.

“Wait a minute…” Negan’s pointer shakes lightly by his temple, his mind turning curiously. “You.” He said, shooting his finger in the direction of your chest.

His smile, mischievous as ever, only grew wider as a moment passed and he made his realization: “You’re the one with that- tight- grip!” He balled his raised hand into a fist as he said it. A slight snicker came after, proud of his entendre. “My men were tryna put Daryl in the trunk and you latched onto his foot like it was your dying- act- which—” you attempt to lessen the startle in your eyes at his upward hitch in tone, “—it most certainly could have been.”

Negan comes closer now, his face nearing your own, “But you know better now, right?”

Obviously, you did not.

Or you would have stayed home, not given him the chance to remember you as he said he would after your nails could no longer claw into Daryl’s ankle. He was thrashing too much and Negan’s men pushed you away; they were too strong together against the two of you. They kicked dirt in your face for it, held a gun to your head until Negan told them to stop. His point was made with your two friends he had killed, no need for another— especially not one who amused him like you had just done.

‘DAYUM. She is surprisingly strong!’ He had yelled, ignoring the weeping faces of you and the group kneeling in a line on the ground; sweat, blood, and tears dripping everywhere. ‘And I do like ‘em loyal…’ He had given you a once over while telling his men, ‘Hands off, gentlemen,’ and before returning his attention back to Rick, he added, ‘I’ll keep my eye on you.’

And he did.

You made an impression.

Now you’ll pay.

Rick should have told you why he wanted you to stay with Judith. He remembered what Negan said too. He remembered what Negan said to everyone. He couldn’t forget. But maybe it didn’t matter. It was only the start of Negan’s day here. Maybe he would have found you anyway.

Rick would feel it was all his fault nonetheless, but all you could think about is how truly, it was your own, and no one’s at all.

The sun allows glints of wickedness to sparkle in the whites of Negan’s teeth as he continues imparts his demand, “From now on, don’t stop me when I’m giving an order, okay?” It’s like you can hear him underlining his words just with his darkened voice. Turning his waist, he extends his hand to everyone as he finishes, “And that goes for all of you.”

You force your face to remain leveled as he meets your eyes again, that cheshire look returning directly toward you. He curls his head to the side, whispering near your profile, “So… you’re his girl, huh?”

Your mouth becomes slightly agape. You don’t even realize it before you can try to close it. He asked the question of aversion, or at least that’s what you assumed it was to Daryl.

You knew it was just his way, that speaking about things like this might have not been his strong suit. Besides, there were more things to worry about almost all the time, but it still hurt to know that when asked, the only complete and honest answer there could be was no.

Your eyes trail down slowly, desperate to avoid his, and Daryl’s face— a few feet away from you— turning to the side, looking at nothing. He could not hear what was being asked, but maybe Rick did, Rosita and Gabriel too. It was unclear, but their eyes prodded with more tension, more worry, Daryl could register that, and even more so, he could not stand Negan’s face that close to yours; he was probably trying to make an advance on you, scare you, or both. He pretends not to care, but ultimately it’s useless. Negan detects your expression and turns to look at Daryl’s; he notices both failing attempts at impassivity.

“Oh,” he muses, voice returning to its normal volume, “or not, my bad…. I guess that does make more sense though.” He speaks louder now, casually, like he’s a close friend consoling you about your boy troubles, “I personally haven’t been able to hold a conversation with the guy either, and I’m just tryna be friends.”

Daryl was right. Negan was weaseling his way in. He snarls because of it.

Only Dwight hears this and sends him a warning glare.

You feel the sweat beading from your hairline to the nape of your neck. The danger felt from Negan’s presence was as thick as the sun’s heat that shone directly on the cemetery grove. It’s hard to look up and especially to look at him directly for that long as if he truly was the fire in the sky, so you look down again.

Negan pats your shoulder sympathetically, his hand then going to hold up your chin, his thumb tracing your jaw softly.

It makes Daryl’s arms twitch and his stance jerks forward, but he’s pushed back, Dwight beating him on the chest. It’s only once but you can hear it, everyone heard it.

It only makes Negan’s grin become more sly because— there it is— a reaction; an answer. It makes what he’s about to do that much more sweet: “Fuck, darlin’. I’m sorry. Idiot,” he tisks. Then more quietly he adds, “I’m not one though.”

This time it’s for sure: Rick caught that, and Rosita too. They give each other an alarming look as Negan continues to trail over your dispirited form, like a wilted flower. His hand lowers back down to your shoulder, then trails to your arm, to the elbow, and then off of you entirely.

Despite the feeling of Lucille under his grasp telling him he shouldn’t, Rick urges himself to speak before Negan says what they all know is coming. “Negan,” he starts, swallowing the slight shake in his voice, “would you like to see the pantry—”

“Did I ask you to speak, Rick?” Negan states, his frame still positioned in front of you. “I’m thinkin’ here… I’m thinkin’… particularly, that you should come with me.”

Daryl makes a sound that you couldn’t hear, for Dwight was already barking a “Shut up,” at him. Only the swat he gives to Daryl’s shoulder is what is once again heard by all.

You almost choke on your gasp, but you hold it in. Only letting out the faintest sound as you ask, “What?”

“You heard me,” he plainly says. “I mean, what do you even do here anyway?”

You almost felt embarrassed to answer.

“No, I’m askin’. Seriously. Does Rick actually utilize you?”

As you begin, your voice is still quiet, “I… I work in the garden, with the produce… I help tutor the kids… I go on runs, gather supplies. I cook. Help with weapons maintenance, I—” you stop, realizing your grocery list of jobs probably sounds pathetic to him, you’re like a chore boy, “— I do a lot. But everyone does.”

“Hm,” Negan responds, playing with his nails nonchalantly. Your thoughts come to fruition with his next words, “So you’re just everyone’s helper?”

He noticed the sad offense emanating from your eyes, so he raised his hands, “And those are important things to do, I mean it. It must mean you know quite a bit from everyone, that’s smart, and there’s no trouble in it. But… I saw you. I think you can do more.”

“How?” You can still only gasp out your words. “I’m not Maggie. And she’s not here.”

“No.” He brings up one finger, “But you’re clever,” you look at him confused as he brings up his middle finger to join the first, “and quick on your feet, that I now know.” A third and fourth finger comes up, “You’re strong, you’re loyal— things I’ve stated before.” Then the fifth he says with a smug smile, “And you’re a looker, I must admit.” He moves his hand to one side of his mouth, pretending to secretly tell you, “But that’s just a plus,” he winks. “And more importantly, it seems to me that just like most people in Prick’s community, you are undervalued and not paid attention to whereas I see potential.” He says it all so simply, he truly believes he’s offering you so much better that he finally ends by saying: “Hm. Yeah. I think you’ll be much better off with me.”

And so, with no true goodbyes said, in a van you went after Negan’s visit was done. A different one from Daryl’s, of course. Taken away from the first home you had in ages.

Before the trunk door closed, Negan gave you parting words: “You see?” He had said, “I told you I’d remember you, didn’t I?”

The words rang in your ears for the entire ride as they still do now, even more or less than two months later as you sit in his room.

Your heartbeat started to rise little by little as time went on and he hadn’t arrived. With the window allowing you to escape into thought, you were left to think about the last couple of days, and specifically, the last time you were in here:

You were sitting with him on his bed. You had asked if you could talk about anything other than the world you two lived in now, and surprisingly, he obliged. It was nice. Sometime later, he had finally opened that locked drawer.

You heard him suck his teeth, what he was getting seemed lost, which allowed you to take a closer peek inside.

There was a picture of a woman. The first wife? The only real one? You couldn’t tell and you wouldn’t ask, it would have been too much. You didn’t even get a good look at the woman anyway— part of her face was covered and he was fast. But he saw your eyes, so you decided to take note of the books you caught a glimpse of, pretending it was the only thing you saw. You try to think of something to say… It did make sense he was a reader, at least even mildly if that was all it was. The way he describes his ideals, his persuasiveness, his diction— it impressed you, even if you disagreed with a lot of it. It was almost ironic that the only cover you saw was of a dictionary, the more valuable ones probably hidden under. “Is that where you get all your big boy words from?” You asked.

“Some of them,” he joked back, composing himself.

It was strange to almost catch him off guard. It was so unlike him to allow it, but what happened next felt even more surprising.

Whatever he got from the drawer was enclosed in his hand. He put the free one on top of the other as he started, “Now… I don’t want you thinking I’m growing soft on you. I just thought you deserve it because—” and then his voice fades. Even Negan, the ever curse-filled wordsmith, was finding it hard to describe in any other way that he was pleased with something as absurd as you not trying to escape anymore. He knew you would probably think that was the only reason for a gift, but then he opted for something that even you couldn’t help but know was equally true, “You don’t seem to proactively hate me anymore. You’re here. I appreciate it, so I wanted to,” he says sincerely. “That’s all.”

Negan opened his hand, resting the piece in your palm— it was a locket; lovely and rusted floral engravings all over it.

You felt sad that you thought it was beautiful, and even worse for knowing the reasons why he was giving it to you. No wonder his voice had faltered.

You remember the soft shock and awe on your face, how you said thank you and how your face felt so hot when you said it, how he asked you to turn, and how you looked at him from behind you after he put the piece on. He was so close and it felt like he was coming closer. You don’t remember if that part was real, but you can see it so clearly that it must have been. Unfortunately, the only thing you remember for certain is that knock at the door that sent Negan away to handle whatever was going on downstairs.

Had you almost let him kiss you? Would you have liked it? Are you the most deplorable person for even thinking that while Daryl was somewhere else locked up at the time?

“I see they delivered my message.”

You return from your daze, your startle leaving as soon as it comes.

It was just him. There Negan finally was.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to just come in. The door was unlocked.”

“I knew the meeting was gonna go longer than expected; thought you might as well make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to you, “which I see you did, and no—“ you were getting up from his bed, “it’s fine.” Negan sets Lucille near the door. He walks over to you, sitting down on the edge of his bed as well. There is a bit of distance between you two.

“You know, I came back the other day,” he informs, “I was actually going to talk to you last night, but then I heard you tried to leave. Again.” His eyebrows furrow, “We still on that?” He asks. “Thought we had a breakthrough the other night.”

“But after Carl—“

“—Carl,” he interjects, “came here all by his badass self, and for that, I did not lay even my pinky fuckin’ finger on him.” His hand goes to his chest, “I even took him home like a gentleman. And after I got here and found out they put you in a cell without supper, I had you back in your bed before midnight yesterday, so I’d say I’m doing pretty well.”

“Seriously?” Your incredulity is hidden under the softness of your voice as you say it, but it’s cracking.

“As a heart attack. It’s your ex-people who don’t listen. At least I was nice this time.”

You sigh heavily, docility officially fading. You shake your head with a slight chuckle, “That’s hard to believe. Especially if you were gone for most of the day. I know what that means. You had whatever the fuck your version of fun is.”

He grits his teeth, holding his words back. You’ve gotten a little too comfortable with the back talk, and you especially shouldn’t be saying anything after the night you had yesterday, but he allows it.

This time.

Of course, he didn’t like you leaving, but he rather that it was Daryl who escaped than you. And based on the bruises: one on the side of your head, one high on your shoulder— he imagines you might have gotten pushed against a wall— and the light ones that littered in a couple of spots on both your arms— he could tell his men must have been rough with you as they brought you back. He didn’t like that; therefore, he lets you quip. Someone would be getting their own bruises for it some time later anyway. He would take your smartass mouth out on them to cover for it.

“Maybe,” he finally says. “Nothing was undeserved though.”

You breathe in, the back and forth was no use. “What happened yesterday?” You asked, losing the sarcasm. Your eyes peered into his for honesty, hoping to skip the sly replies and get to the truth. “Just tell me what happened at home.”

Home. You knew better than to use that word. In fact, you have just stopped using that word. He let out an exasperated laugh, but skipped the lecture. “You want the truth? Or just the SparkNotes?”

You roll your eyes lightly. You probably don’t even notice you did it. Despite the situation being discussed, it makes Negan’s head turn endearingly— your tone of voice, the things you say, the way you react to him… you still don’t realize how fresh you’ve gotten with him, how comfortable. But he sees it.

“Alright. Well, Spencer’s gone.” He reveals offhandedly, replying to your silence.

Your eyes do not widen, you know what gone means. You simply nod and try to not think about how the now-cleaned bat most likely looked before.

“And don’t tell me that you care,” he says, pretending to interject to your continuing silence. “You gotta know he was a small dick nepo-prick, right?”

You bite the inside of your lip, shaking your head slightly. You won’t give in to a cheap joke even if it was pretty accurate, so he beckons you by name, “C’mon, that was funny.”

Still, you give him nothing.

He sighs; taking off his leather; and sits near you on the bed, his hands cupping the ledge. “Thought we were finally over this quiet thing.”

“A lot has happened this week.”

“Like…” he prodes. He would only talk about it if you brought it up.

Your eyes shut tightly before opening again. You didn’t want to say it, but you had to. “You know what. Daryl.”

He states the fact plainly, “Daryl left you.”

“Are you kidding me?” Your voice is fierce now. You can’t believe it. You won’t. “He’s not that kind of person and this isn’t an easy place to get out of— I obviously know that— he wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I know,” he jeers, “but he did and he didn’t bring you with him. Even though you were found trying to find his cell. That’s some real idiotic bullshit right there, isn’t it? From both of you.”

You glared at him hotly, you wouldn’t give it up, but unfortunately you had no rebuttal. Both of you would just continue on with the same argument, the conversation going nowhere. And not because either side knew they were completely right; in truth, neither of you actually knew what happened the other day. But in this regard, you felt there was no other choice: you believed in Daryl fully.

Because he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Right?

You continue shaking your head, trying to find something to say in retaliation as you feel your sureness withering. Separating you two was the smartest tactic. You now have nothing to hold onto. “He wouldn’t,” you repeat pathetically, “I don’t believe you.” Unfortunately it’s not quite enough, so he continues with a rant you know all too well.

“You don’t believe me?” He cups the ends of the bed more tightly, positioning himself closer to you. “When I’m the one who gave you the safest roof? Secure food, clean water, access to all these pretty dresses, which, I know you’ve become accustomed to—” and here it comes— “I saved you!”

Saviors and their “saving,” you sneered at it. What bullshit. “You didn’t save me.”

“But I gave you someone to talk to… Huh?” He taunts, waiting for your response but nothing comes. He uses it to his advantage, “You’re quiet cause you know it’s true.”

But you know something too. He says it before you can.

“Or fuck, maybe I just gave myself someone to talk to.”

You pretend you can’t hear the earnesty in it. “Stop,” you scoff. “Don’t treat me like I’m special. I was the second choice.”

“I think with my dick sometimes. You’re the only choice.”

You start to shake your head, your face is flushed; scared, hot, and a little bit of something else that you refuse to let out. Then the tears come— the room feels so big and you two are so close and there are so many feelings you’re trying to push down. “It doesn’t matter,” you say wearily, “You took me. And you took him. You hurt him, I saw his face.” Your voice begins to tremble, almost in unison with the tears that peak out on your eyelids. “And that outfit you put him in. He didn’t even look me in the eye.”

“Stop,” he warns.

“You didn’t even let me see him.”

“He doesn’t notice you.”

“You don’t know us.”

“I know you.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know you’re not happy… What about the other night?”

You ignore him, shaking your head: “You hurt my friends.”

“What about the other night?” He persists, his voice slowly growing louder. “What about every time I let you sit in on my meetings? What about how you have your own room? What about how I actually talk to you?”

“You let him get hurt—” the tears start to fall, there is a quiver in your voice but you still match his near shout, “And you almost killed Carl—”

“Shut up.”

“And you killed Abraham—”

He warns you by name.

“And Glenn! Maggie’s husband—”

“SHUT. UP.”

“The baby won’t have a father, Negan!”

His voice is low and grim as he demands you to “Stop. Now.” Negan grabs the sides of your neck as he says his next line, it comes out brisk and harsh and heavy like his touch as his hand wraps around your neck. “I knew you lied to me.”

Your voice is hushed, feeling his lightly pressed thumbs on the front of your throat as you speak shakily, “I’ve never lied to you.”

“Maybe not since you’ve been here, but did you hear yourself right now?” He pauses, allowing you a second to let it sink in. “You just fucking proved it.”

Your eyes widen at the realization. The baby, you had said. Fuck.

“See? Told you, you were smart.”

And he did. Brave Maggie. Clever you. That was his reason number one.

“You have to get why.”

His voice remains eerily calm. “I do.”

Another tear falls and his thumb presses its pad under your eye, spreading a tear on your face as the next one comes down.

“Negan…” you say. It’s a mix of a warning and a plea but you can’t tell for what, both fear and fire mix together because of his proximity. His touch and stare was dangerous, you wouldn’t be surprised if he was pleased he caught your slip up, thrilled to see you cry, but there was also something about it— his touch, his eyes— that was equally intoxicating. There was something more tender there as well, something you didn’t want to turn away from, he wasn’t as rough as you thought. Nonetheless, your answer to these conflicting feelings are ones of neglect, you stay your course. “You’re a bad person,” you tell him.

“Please,” he whispers back, “just stop.”

His eyes glaze over your features with an intent look you’ve only seen once before, it was that other night in fact. It’s almost gentle, but maybe it’s just pity, so you don’t let it stop you. “But you are.”

“Stop,” he pleads, then it’s hushed, “just stop…” he says, “just stop.” Then he starts coming closer. “Tell me to stop.”

And you know you should get up.

You should, you should, you should, you know it but— you don’t.

You breathe into it.

His lips latch onto yours; your heads tilt; you lock perfectly.

Everything after happens fast, the instantaneous mess of it all: he waited and waited, and of course he would. He was waiting for you to see it, to feel it. He thought the other night was the breakthrough, but no, it was tonight, it was how you didn’t back away just now.

His hand goes lower on your leg, nearing your knees so he can get under your dress, trailing up your thigh, reaching the inner side that’s pressed up to the other one.

His hand on your neck brings you in closer, traveling up to under your chin and jaw, holding you so tight, but so sweetly. All you felt was surprise. He slips his tongue in, it's deep and intense. He brings a velvet warmth that you’d never expect from him. It was paradoxical; a fiery heaven of a feeling.

He starts rubbing your clit over your panties, kissing his way up to your ear as he does so to ask, “When’s the last time someone’s fucked you?”

Your lips are parted, but you cannot speak, so he continues.

“Daryl never did, did he?” He asks in a muffle, continuing to kiss and kiss. “Who was before him?”

Again, no verbal response, but your breath does hitch at his touches. He continues to draw circles, your wetness now slowly dampening the material, making it easier for his finger to place itself between your folds, so he dips his hand under the band. That and his whispering makes you feel a kind of spark that shoots all the way down to where his fingers are touching. The first press of his thumb without any material in between forces a sudden heat to rise that instantly causes a flush of liquid to slip down your hole, it feels messier than it actually is until his fingers go lower spreading it everywhere. You were much wetter than you thought, and you can’t help how good it feels, how easily you’re responding to it.

Negan calls your name, holding in every cocky reply he wanted to give about how wet you are— he needed an answer to his question first. So he looks you in the face, making sure he has your full attention, “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?” His words are meant more genuinely than his tone implies. “Not at all during any of this?”

You shake your head small and slowly. No.

He laughs pitifully, he doesn’t mean it rudely, but he just can’t help it. A touch-starved baby at the mercy of his fingertips? “Well, god-damn.”

He felt like a rich man.

He begins to kiss your lips again, now pumping his fingers into you. Your walls tighten. It’s only two, but they’re his. It’s new and exciting. His kiss makes you lean into the bed, the force of his head and tongue going deeper into your mouth guiding you to lay flat as his fingers still play.

“I hope you know how fucking soaked you are,” he finally says. “You need it so bad that it feels this damn good with me only touching you like this?” You can’t help the way your body jerks up and he can’t help but be smug about it. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Your eyes grow vicious at his grin, you almost want to hit him, but you can’t. All you can do is suppress your moan into a quiet whine. He’s so magnetic— his touch feels forbidden but so right; his voice so alluring; and his midas touch pulls you deeper and deeper into a trance, you might as well be turning into gold. Other than the involuntary reactions your body makes as his fingers continue going into your hole, now slowly going in and out as his eye gloss over your body in your favorite dress that you wore the most, you’re left paralyzed; subjected to following his lead. Wherever he wanted to go next, you’d let him.

He takes his fingers from inside of you and you look up quickly. You made sure not to whine at the loss of contact but your eyes couldn’t hide your dismay. All he did was smile and quickly lick away the wetness.

“Just takin’ this off,” he tells you as his hands cross over to the ends of his white t-shirt, slipping it off and onto the ground, one of those small rope chains hitting his chin as he does so.

It was only his shirt but you’re struck by him: to see more of his ever present sun-kissed skin felt almost godly. He was pretty lean, not too lanky like his stature, but not too broad either. Light curves of muscles adorned his chest and shoulders and arms. His chest and abdomen were slightly hairy, a tattoo placed on the upper right side and you finally saw the other tattoos placed on his upper arms more clearly. They looked nice on him. He was so handsome. You felt more wetness peeking out from down below. He looked so big above you.

“Like what you see, beautiful?” That typical snark still laced his voice, but there was a genuinity to it as well. He wanted you to like what you saw; to like him.

His words make your face hot, eyes casting off to the side. It was easier to talk to him when you were mad at him, when it was about home, even just small talk about the Sanctuary; this felt… different. Just like the other night.

You had almost already forgotten that his charm worked this way too; in a kinder way— when his eyes are wide, when his smile is soft, when he calls you sweet names without the irreverent, quip-filled pretenses.

It made you have all the words on the tip your tongue: how handsome and sexy you could say he is, how much you liked his tattoos, even all the greys that littered his hair and beard l, or how, if you had to admit it, you liked that dumb shit-eating grin of his, but all you can do is lightly smile, a quiet laugh escaping your lips at your bashfulness. You finally nod. “Yes,” you say, rolling your eyes, “maybe.”

He starts undoing his belt with a laugh of his own, “Oh I know you’re a fuckin liar if you think I’m a maybe.”

As his pants drop to the floor he takes each hand and places them over your shoulders on the bed to ask, “May I take off the lady’s dress?”

Your eyes widened, your open mouth only letting out a sweet, surprised, and whispered, “Huh?”

“What? Didn’t expect me to be a gentleman?”

You try to compose yourself, calm the fire you feel all throughout your body, and pretend you haven’t already given in completely right when he kissed you. “I just didn’t expect it would be all this slow.”

He laughs inwardly, glad to see the personality he came to know come back after all that happened these past two days. “Just give me a moment,” he jokes back. “You think I’m gonna waste seeing the reaction of you watching my cock spring out just so I can shove it in fast? ” He comes closer, his voice lowers now, “Believe it or not, I don’t think you’re just some doll or a fuck-piece.” The groundedness of his voice is something you’ve never heard before. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already stated that I see you. And truly, I think you’re damn gorgeous.”

Your eyes are stars. How can you even react? He thinks you’re gorgeous and you’re taken aback. “Thank you,” is all you can quietly say.

“You’re welcome.” He responds with eyes that have never looked so honest, so soft. You get lost in them and he has to pull you back, returning to his question, “May I?”

You nod, quick and excitedly, “You can take it off, Negan.”

He grabs your hands and stands you up. You look up at his face and his fingers move to the ends of your dress, pulling it over your head.

The tips of his fingers trace your chest and stomach lightly, delicately touching your skin as if it’s porcelain. He grabs your waist and travels up to take off your bra, then pushes down your wet underwear.

Negan’s cock stirs at the sight, you’re so pretty and so ready for him. “And I didn’t even need to see it to know I was right.” Just like he said, you’re gorgeous.

Negan pushes down his boxers. Cock springing up. Big and veiny with a red tip. He was itching to get inside of you.

And there you were, eyes and mouth open wide, scared and excited all at once. You were intimidated but surprisingly not scared if it would fit or not. You would let him do anything to get himself inside of you, even if it hurt.

“There it is,” he says, pleased with your reaction. He comes closer to your ear now, pushing you down by the hips against the bed once more. “And trust me, if you like that, you won’t fucking believe how I’ll feel inside of you. Just wait.”

“I…” He wanted to make you feel good, you’re almost speechless. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” He says, and then he places himself above you, admiring your glistening folds as he spreads your legs. He already lines himself up, he could look at you forever but he is in no desire to wait any longer. He pushes in. It’s a bit fast, a tight fit, it must have hurt you, but he’s too excited, he can’t help it. He lets out a hum and then a groan at the feeling of your walls enclosing him, and he hears you gasp at his size. He starts to pump into you immediately.

His face hovers over yours. His eyes study your features and he realizes he’s never been this close. Of course he hasn’t, he’s never fucked you, made love to you. He’s just now noticing the way your eyelashes curl, what birthmarks adorn your upper body or not, and how many earrings you may have, but most importantly, he’s noticing the way you react to him: the way your eyebrows might scrunch, or what elicits more pants and squirmings, the way your lips tug tightly against each other or open into ovals and circles depending on what he does, how he thrusts, where he touches, how he moves.

It all makes him slowly speed up. He can’t take it anymore. He kisses your neck and jaw— some kisses sweet, then others that are rough and he begins to pump and pump. Faster and faster.

“Oh,” you choke out before moaning, “ah.”

He continues, loving every facial expression you make until he finally speaks. “Alright. I gave you a break— now tell me how it feels?”

All you can do is whine incoherently.

“Excuse me?” He says more sternly. You know what he wants.

“Negan,” you whine again.

He stops. “Yes?” He asks all too knowingly. “Gonna use your words and tell me how it feels?”

You sigh, taking the hand placed on your hip and moving up toward the ends of your stomach, all the way up to your left breast. You let his hand rest there, feeling the heat and your quickened heartbeat radiating from the area. “You… you feel so good.” Your eyes are watery, “Amazing.”

You got him there, and he almost can’t help but start hammering it in, but then he remembers… he doesn’t have to help it. He could do whatever he wanted, so he does. He squeezes your breast, grinning wildly as he gives you one hard thrust. “Damn right,” he tells you, hearing your yelp before pounding fast.

You had always been quiet but he never quite saw you at a loss for words as you are now. Your mouth is completely open, your eyes threatening to roll back further, making sounds he’s sure you’ve never heard from yourself before. Have you even had it this fast? This big? This great? He knows it couldn’t be. And he’s the one who gets to show you. His eyes gloss over you with pride at the thought.

He grabs your chin to get you to look at him, “Who’s fucking you this good?”

You moan. You weren’t used to this. Your eyes roll back completely as he pounds into you with eye contact.

It makes him groan loudly, his jerks into you, letting out his own moan from the sight. “Oh fuck, baby. Don’t play with me.”

You give in, force yourself to speak, you can’t let this end. “You, Negan!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes!” It’s so hard to speak, it comes out so pathetically.

“Who's making you feel like no one else?”

“You, Negan, it’s you!” Your moan turns into a pant, “It’s you, only you.”

He comes closer, his nose touches yours. His movements slow, but they don’t stop. He’s rocking into you now. “Only me?”

You don’t even think, “Who else? It's only you.”

His teeth sparkle, “Only me.”

“Only you, daddy.”

He laughs cockily, “So Daddy’s making you feel this good?”

“Yes, daddy. So good.”

You feel the groan he makes travel right to your clit, making it throb.

He kisses you, the corners of your lips to your cheek and neck and collarbones and back up again.

He restarts his pumping into you but his head remains close to yours. You decide to wrap one of your arms around his neck, pulling his hair, and the other hand travels down his back, holding him close.

Negan breathes you in, his head near the crux of your neck, hearing every little sweet sound you make that he’s never heard before. It all drives him wild, but then his eyes open. A question comes out that surprises you both: “Am I ruining your life right now?” He quietly asks.

“That doesn’t matter,” you say, breathing heavily from his touches, your eyes are still closed.

“I think it does.”

“You make me feel like no one ever has…” The bliss you feel from his current soft strokes and touches making it hard to speak, your voice is so light. “At least I got to experience it.” You open your eyes now, fingers tracing the cross drawn into his arm, “At least I got to see the real you.”

Your eyes say more than your words do. There’s a yearning and a sadness, an answer to what feels right in this moment, but an insight that there are doubts that could creep up later the more that you think about it.

“Just keep going,” you tell him, “I want to see you.”

You want to see him, you do see him. His head connects with yours again, and you moan into each other's mouths as he keeps pumping. Your legs come up to his hips and you’re not afraid to be loud anymore, to tell him how good it feels, how much you like him.

He takes your hands and places them over your head, crossing his fingers with your. It’s so pure, so lovely even when he’s going so hard down below. You hear your breaths heavy and your bodies slapping and the bed shaking.

You think about his skin, and his scratchy beard against yours, and the way you hate how he can make you smile by making the most ridiculous and raunchy jokes, and the way you love his voice, the way you can’t help but to like the way he cares for you.

“Negan,” you say weakly.

“Yes,” he responds intently.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “I think I can.”

“Come for me,” he encourages, moving one of his hands down to rub your clit. “C’mon.”

“I’m gonna come,” you repeat, edging yourself on. Bucking up at his thrusts and his fingers.

“You can do it. Be a good girl. Do it for me.”

You swear the fireplace blazes louder and bigger, lighting up the whole room as you yell out, moaning once more as you orgasm.

Negan finally breaths out after, holding in for so long, and comes after you. His hands place themselves flat on the bed and he pushes in fast, riding out the high.

He scoops you up immediately, holding you in his arms. He doesn’t want to let go.

You two stay there for a moment until you look up. His hand caresses your face, “What is it?”

“I…” you were embarrassed to admit that you weren’t ready for it to all be over yet. “Can I ride you?”

A wiley smile appears on his face. He has to admit, he’s a little shocked you’re ready to go again, but he’d never turn it down. “Well, of course you can, babygirl.”

He flips you over, completely ready, but instantly, you become hesitant, almost overwhelmed. He was the world, not you, yet you were now above him. All the allowance to touch him anywhere you want at your disposal.

He puts his hands under his head, arms flexing. An ever wide smile present as he waits for you to begin. “You asked for it. Don’t get shy on me now.”

Your eyes grow excited again, deciding not to hold back, and you start to rock against him. You place you hands on his chest, feeling him up, touching his biceps, hands going over his tattoos— you could stare at them, at him, for hours. You honestly think you’d lick his whole body if he’d let you. And of course he probably would. To feel big and proud and irresistible while you look like a little desperate freak? You wouldn’t even have to ask him twice. Thinking about it and about how full his cock is making you feel, stretching and reaching all the right places, makes you moan and whine. You bucked your hips wildly, humming and giving him “mmms” because of how yummy it feels. You could do this forever.

“Ah- uh- Negan,” you moan and your stomach caves as you whine again and you hurl forward, continuing to rock but your pace is faltering. It’s becoming too hard and Negan can tell so he takes you by the hips, helping you move. First continuing to let your grind and then pushing you up and down his shaft so you can bounce on him. You push yourself up again, hand on his chest, pushing against it and you bounce along with his help. This was fun. You try to go faster and faster. It felt like being a kid on a playground.

“Open your eyes,” he demands. “Look at who you’re fucking, sweetheart.”

So you do, and moan at the sight of him, “Ohmygod,” you say. “You’re so handsome, Negan.”

He's so proud of you. Enjoying your actions, enjoying your noises. He groans as he sees your breast bounce and it makes you squeeze against him.

“Good girl,” he coos, “finally listening when you’re spoken to, about to make yourself come on daddy’s cock again.”

He starts to rub your clit again and you continue to bounce. It almost hurts because of how overstimulated you’ve become but you don’t tell him to stop. Your hands come to reach the headboard, helping you bounce harder. He tells you again how much of a good girl you are, how he loves that you’re not stopping, then he tells you how dirty and desperate you are for wanting him again after he already made you come. But he’s obsessed. This is all he’s ever wanted since the day he brought you here. His hands trail up from your hips to your waist and breast and back down again. There is nothing more he wants than to fuck you or for you fuck him.

You look down. You both notice your necklace still wrapped around your neck, almost nearing between your breasts, bouncing along with all of you. It reminds you of why you're here, why he gave it to you. It makes you have the realization he had… Was he ruining your life? Were you ruining your own? But how could you be when it all feels this good? It was completely screwed up, but everything felt so magnificently brilliant. His touch is everything, his voice is everything, his body is everything. It makes your hips stutter, it makes you moan, and at last, it makes you come again. You ride your high, going and going and going until you fall into his chest. His hands come to hold you tight thereafter.

Unthinkable bliss is all that is felt for a long moment… then… your head turns to the window. You remember what is out there and what isn’t in here.

A tear falls down your cheek and he realizes what’s happening when it falls onto his shoulder.

It hurts him now. To see you cry. It’s not fun anymore. You feel it, yes. You see what he saw, it’s true. But you aren’t really his wife. You’re nothing that is his at all. You both know that as well.

It takes you a long time to speak, you have to force yourself, but you do. “You have to let me go now.” You say it sternly but there is a sadness to it; a small part of you wants to not mean it even though you completely do, even though you do wish to stay here, to be enveloped by his embrace— you simply cannot forget.

“Mm,” he shakes his head, remaining leveled, “you know too much.”

“I barely know anything,” you say. “And not that anything I do know matters. Knowing the way around the Sanctuary isn’t going to help anyone when I know there is no way we could actually get in…. And what’s more important anyway is that I’m not changing my mind and you’re not either.”

“I’m not.”

“And I can’t. I wouldn’t. And they’re not going to. Never…. And if some of them die…” A whimper almost leaves you but you manage to swallow it, “I have to be by their side, Negan. I can’t only hear about it. I… I can’t see it next to you.”

His lips are pressed firm, his jaw is fixed and tight, almost like he’s grinding down on his teeth. The breath he takes through his nose could be a heavy sigh if he opened his mouth, but he doesn’t. He keeps it all in.

You words and their weight hang in the air for a moment before he finally speaks: “One of my guys that watches the armory doors has a shift that ends at 6:00 am… but at 5:50 I’m going to come up to him and tell him he gets off 10 minutes early that day, that I’ll wait for the next person to come.” He lets his words hang in the air for a moment, your confusion spirals before he keeps going. “It’ll be fucking weird, but he’ll look dumb as shit if he questions me, so he won’t. Then when he’s out of sight, I’ll leave. The next person is coming right at 6. That’s all you get. 10 minutes. A little less really.”

Your eyes round slowly as the stun continues to sink in. He’s… letting you leave.

“You take one gun and one knife. Just one. Don’t make it noticeable. I’m going to check. Then you go out of the back door that’s inside.” He didn’t have to tell you the way. “It should be easy, I know you’ve tried it before.”

You look down, taking in all he says, but then he turns you face to meet his, “If anyone sees you, I’m gonna have to make a show of it when they bring you back. Not what I want. But if I get there before you get out, maybe 5:58, just cause I’m an asshole, just to see you one last time… And if I do, I’m gonna turn you around and you’re stayin’. Fair?”

You nod. It’s small and light. You don’t question any of it, you can’t. “8 minutes.” You respond.

“8 minutes.” His voice is neutral, but underneath there was a tinge of solemnity to it. “8 minutes,” he says under his breath.

“What about now?”

“Now?” He asks. He didn’t think about it. He assumed you would want to go after this, after you got what you wanted. “Well,” he turns to his nightstand, “right now it’s half past 10.” He stares at you for a moment, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. This whole moment has felt so quiet, both eerie and gentle. You still weren’t used to the latter from him, even after what just happened. “You can go if you want. Sleep in your bed for one more night, or…” he stops, “You can stay with me, if you’d like.” His sigh is short and whispered but you both hear it, you feel its weight. “It’s your choice.”

You stare at each other for a moment. Your eyes trail all of his face and the arm that is still holding your own, adorned with all the tattoos and skin you had just fallen for. You wanted to study them and hold onto him forever. And his eyes: they said so much— there were so many little inflections, ones that you had finally read, and so many others you’ve yet to decipher. You desired to know him, but you had to go, so all you decided to do was to hold him. For now, you chose to stay, and hoped that your embrace would transfer the fact that the only reason it would be hard to leave is because of him and only him. You would remember this forever. “8 hours till 8.”

“8 hours till 8, kid.”

You close your eyes tight and nuzzle into his chest, A peace you had never known in the Sanctuary finally subsumed you. You feel free to finally tell him, “Thank you. I really do miss home.”

Home. There it is again. There was no malice in the way you said it, but there was still a pang from your melancholy words that made his heart throb. You missed home. And as peaceful as you looked, and as safely as you held onto him, your words reaffirmed that home was not here and it was not with him— no matter how you looked, and no matter the fact that you were allowing him to hold you for the night, to call you his. In the end, you were not.

He had to finally accept it.

“8 hours till 8,” are your last words until you finally drift to sleep. This would be your last and most tranquil night here. To you, it felt right, almost harmonious, albeit sad. This is how it was and how it was meant to be. You needed it.

But to him, it’s shattering. He doesn’t repeat the phrase back this time because, for once, he has nothing to say. The fire glow of the night has now withered into darkness.

You won.

He lost.

But both your hearts broke.

[leclsrc]

do you want it? ✴︎ cs55

genre: summer love!!!, slight age gap, porn w plot basically...

word count: 10.5k  

Whatever preconceived notions you have about your summer at the beach house are all toppled over when your parents announce the arrival of a guest, who happens to be your dad's friend. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by several people! few notes... carlos is aged up a tad, the age gap is 21/33 so not too bad (i aged him up bc the age gap was 7 yrs and i was like. Huh. thats tame). if ur not into that (tho everything is consensual and reader is legal) its ok! anyway im sorry this came so late i had like 6 anons asking ab carlos and lana haha. also big thanks to dani whose work got me thru 4 writing ruts

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, dry humping, oral sex (m and f receiving), deepthroating, semi public sex ish?, praise central, size kink, like a flash of spit kink sorry..., overuse of the term good girl

Half past noon and after a particularly snappy call from his manager, Carlos bites the bullet on summer plans and decides to accept what is arguably the least glamorous offer on his roster. By no means a dazzling standout, the offer to stay at a family friend’s house in Comporta seems to be the most comfortable option—besides, he doesn’t feel himself to be in the glitzy mood for cities like Los Angeles or Monaco.

Lando, beside him, is thus the first to get wind of the news that “grumpy old man” Carlos will not be accompanying him to the ultimate, tequila-flavored “summer extravaganza” in Morocco.

“You’re boring,” Lando moans, pacing the room. Outside, London’s skyline moves passively. Carlos hangs up his phone call with his assistant, receives a picture of his flight details, and looks up amusedly.

“Portugal is not boring.”

“Morocco. DJs, drinks, girls.” Lando raises one hand. “Comporta. Family friends, apple cider, sand in your eyes.” He raises another hand a few inches lower. “See the difference?”

“I appreciate the difference.” Truth is, Carlos has needed this kind of quiet, calm time off for a while now. The season gets heavy and intense and tiring, and sometimes just staying by the beach with a beer is the best kind of reprieve.

“You’re getting old,” Lando says with a sour grimace. “Old.”

“That is,” Carlos says, searching for the word, “defamation.”

Lando shrugs, moves off the subject as he shoves a handful of crisps into his mouth. “Are you meeting family there?”

“No.” Both of his parents are out of the country for the next few weeks; Carlos was invited by his dad’s friend, though the bond they share is more friendly than just the standard uncle-nephew type of relationship, and they often refer to each other as just friends. “Just friends. Gallery owner and a company owner, I think.”

Lando whistles. “Rich.”

In response, Carlos nods. “And their daughter, who’s visiting from university in the States.” The details are fuzzy in his head, but the gist is about right.

“Sounds boring,” his friend snorts. “Come on, mate. You, me, Daniel. One last chance to watch Peggy Gou’s set and take shots and have fuuun.” He says the last part with the suave that would only rival a preteen’s.

Carlos, for a second, lets his resolve waver. Maybe it would be better watching loud DJ sets, dancing, getting all flushed with alcohol. But he blinks and shakes his head anyway. He hopes his decision is the right one, that summer in the beach house ends up being worth it. It’s a few weeks by the beach, anyway—what’s the worst that could happen?

—

Any recollection of your childhood almost instantly connects to the beach house in Comporta, big and wide and right by the coast. You spent fall, winter, and spring in a constant bumbling state of excitement to spend summer there. Your parents owned it, and often offered family friends to take up residence there when summers in the city got unbearable; for the most part, though, it was the three of you and, on rare years, a guest.

Your summers there have since smudged into the same few memories, of your mum and dad’s faces, of swimming and the learning curve of sailing, of bonfires by the beach on cold nights. And they have since become just that: memories. Summers grew sparse with time, and eventually the idea of meeting distant family friends became more embarrassing than exciting; by the time your parents moved you out of Europe for college, you’d lost almost all memory of the house.

So when your parents ask if you want to fly back to Comporta and spend a few “quiet” weeks there, you figure there’s no harm in seeing what the house is like and what summer can offer you beyond the weekly club outings. Instead of the usual quiet and overall lack-of-bustle that comes with summers, however, you open the front door to three housekeepers dusting every surface in your immediate eyesight.

“Are we hosting a wedding?” You ask when you find your parents tending to two sweaty glasses of champagne. You gesture faintly to the cleanfest inside. “What is going on?”

“We have a guest,” your mother says as she gets up to hug you tight. “Staying for the summer.”

“You said this summer would be quiet,��� you deadpan, eyes narrowing underneath your sunglasses.

Your mum pinches your elbow. “I wasn’t lying,” she defends, raising her eyebrows. “Carlos’ son is coming.” She pats your arm. “You know? The race driver! He’s close with your father.” And, leaving no space for you to voice your dissent, she slips back into the house through the screen door, your father kissing your cheek then following suit. Your mouth parts, thoughts beginning to rush with implications of what your mother has just told you.

Carlos—if you’re correct—is Carlos Sainz, Sr., a good friend of your dad’s, and his son is Carlos Sainz, Jr., another good friend of your dad’s, because if there’s one thing rich Europeans do well, it’s the repetition of names. You’ve never met his son, only heard of him and seen a few pictures, but being so far detached from life here, you can’t even shape his face.

All you recall is the fact that he should now be thirty or older, which makes him rather older than you—and therefore effectively incapable of providing any break from any possible summer boredom. For fuck’s sake, he’s close to your dad. You’re at the top of the stairs when you hear the commotion by the front door, peeking at the foyer to catch a glimpse of him.

He’s solo, you observe; upon a glance into the front parking, you notice he’s driven here in a Ferrari, one a bit too modern for your taste but beautiful nevertheless. He carries only two pieces of luggage, and the sun blinds you for a moment before he’s finally at the doorframe, smiling politely, talking to your dad in casual Spanish.

He is, for lack of better word, insanely handsome. He wears a polo that shows off much of his arms, that flex as he puts down his luggage to shake hands with your parents; you follow the movement of his hands to watch one comb through his thick hair, then down to his smile, back up to his brown eyes, deep and so, so pretty.

Maybe this summer deserves a little less begrudge, you decide as you retreat back into your room, still brewing with residual annoyance.

Your parents send him off after a drink and a brief conversation, catch-up, tour of the downstairs area. Carlos knows his room is supposed to be upstairs, but the problem arises in the fact that there are two upstairs rooms and he doesn’t know which one he’s supposed to be staying in. Setting his luggage down for a minute, he knocks on the first door; permissive silence greets him for half a minute, so he turns the knob and prepares to enter.

To his surprise, he finds somebody already inside, a figure by the mirror on the other end of the room. What catches his eye is not the tiny skirt, but the half-tied bikini top currently being wound around two fingers at the centre of your back. You’re basically clothed, but Carlos can’t decide if he’s thankful or not—he doesn’t have time to when you catch him in the mirror and turn around quick, mouth agape.

“Can’t you knock?!” You ask, catty.

“I did—I knocked, but you—there was no answer,” he explains profusely. “I’m Carlos. Sorry, apologies. Truly.”

You introduce yourself. You’re his friend’s daughter, this and that, and you’re visiting from the States to spend summer here. He apologizes again when you finish. 

“Well, seeing as though this is my room,” you shoot back, “that must be yours.” You gesture vaguely to the one down the hall. Amused and a little embarrassed, he mouths apologies as he closes the door.

Carlos exits, departs and doesn’t have time to take in the room before he’s facedown on the bed. Any sleepiness he’d collected from the trip over, from the day drinks, from the headache that’d been blooming at the temples of his head, has dissipated. His mind’s been imprinted with one image only, and it’s down the hall in a tiny skirt.

—

Lunch brings lemonade and pasta, two staples for every summer meal. You, however, find yourself hopelessly distracted by the presence of your guest, and despite your best efforts, the churn in your stomach disables you from fully enjoying the carbonara on the table. The conversation between Carlos and your dad ends up taking your attention instead. “So you’re racing again in a few weeks?”

“Sí,” Carlos nods in-between forkfuls. Then, to add, “Busy, busy times.”

“Well. It’s the worst of our days,” your mum says, a quote she picked up from—of all places—a BBC sitcom she watched to tears last winter. “You are a talented driver, Carlos. Very cultured. I’m sure you’ll enjoy Comporta.”

“I have not been around much,” he says; his gaze flutters over to his glass, which is devoid of water or lemonade. “Any recommendations?”

“A lot, cabrón. Our daughter will be happy to take you around,” your father says on your behalf. He turns to you. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, sure,” you say, allowing a terse smile. “There’s some places around here that aren’t so boring. But that’s being generous.” Carlos laughs at your joke, raucous and goofy, and you would definitely be lying if you told yourself it didn’t get you blushing a little bit, eyes casting themselves to your still-full plate.

“While you’re here, Carlos,” your dad continues, “I have an old car in the garage that could use some looking at. Are you—would you know how to—?”

Carlos nods, accepting the favor—then the conversation naturally slides into one of cars and racing. Carlos chronicles his journey in Formula One, his Toro Rosso days back then when he was younger, his McLaren period, and now, his time representing Ferrari. He talks of pet peeves on the grid, annoyances but also praises for the sport.

“I’d appreciate the downtime, actually,” he explains, “that I’d get from working on a car instead of in one.” He laughs, eyes briefly meeting yours. He looks away, then looks again. He can’t help himself. He wonders if he’s being obvious, if you can tell the way his looks are anything but casual. “Can you pour me a glass?” He adds.

“Yeah,” you mutter, sitting straight to pour lemonade into his waiting glass. You meet his eyes and almost pour it over the pasta. The rest of the lunch is uneventful, a series of adult conversation you can’t seem to engage yourself in fully, and whether that’s because of personal preference or Carlos’ presence, you don’t make an effort to try.

“…ney. Honey.” Your mum’s voice distracts you from your thoughts; when you look up, half the table is clear and Carlos and your dad have ventured inside to deposit plates at the sink. 

“Sorry. Wh—sorry, what?” You blink.

“Your father and I are heading out for the evening. Carlos will be working on the car. That okay, or you want to come along?”

“Um…” You pretend the latter is even an option before shaking your head. “No, I’ll stay.”

“Good.” She strokes your hair. “He could use the company.”

You follow her walking figure inside, where you station your eyes on Carlos. He’s sipping a lemonade. His eyes meet yours for a second and your face is outrageously flushed when you realize you’ve been caught staring, just like his had been earlier when he walked into your room.

—

You’re hellbent on solving a Sudoku puzzle when the dinner bell rings, and you have to finish it on the stairs. Your dad’s always been a stickler for arriving to dinner on time—every meal, but a gargantuan emphasis on the last—and you’ve been victim to scoldings about being five to six minutes late, an instance you don't wish to repeat.

9, you scribble, bare feet moving with speed through the living room, indoor dining room, then to the patio door. 4 comes next, your footsteps following the smell of grilled meat. 8, you write as you turn into the outdoor dining area. You’re halfway through 2 when you stop, look up, and find Carlos preparing dinner.

“Oh—” You pause. “You rang the dinner bell? Are my parents not…?”

“They are at a dinner,” says Carlos, eyes meeting yours briefly. It reminds you of earlier and you clear your throat, looking away. “So I hope my cooking is good enough.”

“It smells great,” you offer, seating yourself down and pouring a glass of wine. He sets the plate down—just-cut steak, a smear of potatoes. “Christ, you cook better than Dad.”

“I take that as a compliment,” he laughs, sitting across you. “Listen, I want to apologize for accidentally walking into your room earlier.”

Your face warms. “No, it’s okay. I was just surprised.”

“It was wrong of me. Let’s start over. I’m Carlos.” He reaches over to shake your hand, still standing. You take it, eyes flitting over his hand, spotting no glinting ring on his finger. With a saccharine smile, you assure him it was an honest mistake, so he segues into a different topic, the corners of his mouth turning up. “So, do you have an itinerary for me tomorrow?”

You hum, passing the wine over to him. “A bookstore, an ice cream parlor, and a bike ride. Anything else is seriously not worth it. You’ll have the next few weeks to explore town. If the house gets that boring.”

“I haven’t been bored so far,” he says, eyes glinting.

“Oh?”

“You know, with the car fixing.” He points vaguely to where the garage is. “But it’s only been a day.”

“Car fixing is boring,” you state matter-of-factly. “You’ll have fun tomorrow.” You cut into the steak and bite into the forkful you stab at, eyes fluttering.

“Good?” Carlos asks, smiling a little.

“I love it,” you mumble. “You’re so good at this, Carlos.”

Carlos retires to his room that night, and finds that today has held a collective motif of losing his shit. He’s anything but sleepy. Restless, wild-eyed, combing hand after hand through his hair. God, if he’d known you were this pretty—this hard to resist, on his first night here, no less—he would’ve been watching some DJ spin out a set with Lando right now.

Instead, he finds he can’t stop himself from thinking about you, the way your eyes had fluttered when he tried saying something on the edge of flirty. Your hair. Your hands, your fingers, lithe around the stem of your wine glass.

I love it, you’d said, you’re so good at this, Carlos. You knew exactly what you were doing, skittish tone putting him on edge. Despite himself, he can’t help but squeeze himself through his pants when he sits down on the edge of the bed, breathing heavy to purge himself of thoughts so low and dirty.

You’re so pretty. You’d be so easy to wreck, make his, goad little moans out of you, get your lips around him, puffy and pink and pretty. He wedges his eyes shut tight and hopes these thoughts will dissipate as the week passes.

Something tells him he’s wrong, though.

—

The tour is delayed because your dad insists he go fishing with Carlos three days in a row, but eventually (likely due to your mum’s insistence) it pushes through. You greet him with a smile, waiting by the door, wearing a sundress. Sundresses will definitely be his demise.

You’re a good tour guide, though, Carlos figures when you’re finished pointing at every turn and sign and dictating what goes where and where the passage to the coast is, when you’ve even quizzed him about where you are and where the house is supposed to be.

After he points in the correct direction, you nod approvingly. “That’s how my dad made sure I wouldn’t get lost,” you explain when he laughs at your choice of tour guidance. 

“And you were what—twelve?” He asks, walking beside you. It’s fairly empty in town, a few tourists mulling about carrying shopping bags and plastic cups of juice.

“Try fourteen,” you argue. 

“Well, quizzing a, uh—a fourteen-year-old is really not the same as quizzing a grown adult.”

“Ha. Call me when you can’t find your way home tonight,” you diss sarcastically, making a turn toward the bookstore down the street. “Okay, here we are. Don’t get too excited. They’re just books.”

For a relatively empty town, the bookstore always has new batches of titles, displayed proudly for natives and tourists alike front and centre. But you’re already going to the right side of the store, busying yourself with looking at the signs. 

“The classics shelf is always my favorite,” you say, already walking ahead of him. Your dress bobs softly with your legs as you pace, short and sweet and white. You turn and his eyes slide back up instantly, and he hopes he was quick enough. “Do you have any authors you like?”

“I am not a big reader. You?”

“Huge,” you say, smiling a little. “Okay, we can browse. Are you into any genre…?”

Carlos proceeds to tell you his track record in the literary field includes: reading half the Harry Potter series, a car manual, and a few other titles in Spanish he cannot recall the name or plot of. But, he adds, he’s always wanted to read, found the activity so quiet and still and perfect, so he allows you to lead him through the titles stacked on each table and condensed on each shelf. He points at, sometimes, or picks up covers he finds appealing.

“How about—?” He reaches for a pink cover that reads It Ends With Us, but your hand loops around his wrist before he can pick it up and you’re pulling him into another aisle.

“…Not that.” You continue perusing the books around you, your hand still wrapped around his. With your free finger, you point at the top shelf, and tiptoe against the bookcase to try and get it. You come close, but not close enough.

Carlos, behind you, is successful, not even needing to tiptoe to reach for the red hardbound you’d been pointing at. It also means he’s pressed up against you, heavy and big, and the sensation dizzies you. When he finally pulls it off, you turn to him and find respite in the proximity—you two are so close, every exhale out of your lips causes a puff of air to blow against his hair.

He steps backward. You smile and gesture toward the book he’s holding. “That’s a good one.”

“Gabriel Garcia Marquez.” He reads out the author’s name in one fluid sentence, his Spanish accent becoming naturally more obvious.

“Okay, colonizer.” He knits his brows. “Trust me,” you insist. “One Hundred Years of Solitude—so good. It was one of the first books I read front to back twice in a row.”

“Wow, what an honor,” he teases sarcastically as you move along the aisle, fingertips brushing against the indents of the books. You turn to narrow your eyes and stick your tongue out. Unfortunately for Carlos, the effect this inflicts upon him is not oh she mocked me, but oh how would it look if—

He needs ice cream. Or to just get out of this aisle.

—

You punctuate the day with two cones of it, melting way too fast in the heat of summer. He’s already half-finished with his vanilla, and you’re taking your time with the lemon sorbet you’d gotten for yourself. Apparently, this is the only other highlight the town has to offer, and judging by the fact that most of the other stores are expensive clothes, souvenir shops, and a Bible bookstore—yeah.

Carlos is also more than sated with the three books in the paper bag he’s holding. Scratch that—six books, you bought a haul for yourself—but it’s not a particularly heavy load, so he’s fine. His phone has been buzzing with Lando’s update requests that he’s been deliberately ignoring.

“They make the best ice cream,” you rave, smiling. You lick over the melt on your lips. “Right?”

He might actually drop his cone now. “It is delicious.”

“Well…” You look around, your hair flying with every turn of your head. Lick over lips again. Again, and again. He has to look away.

“…Do you wanna stop by anywhere else?” You turn to him and ask, licking over the tip of your ice cream cone.

It’s hard for Carlos to pretend he’s looking around your surroundings, at the signs and storefronts, and not at your sticky lips, your pink tongue just peeking out to lap at the quickly melting gelato around your hand. His eyes flit downward, to where the hem of your tiny white dress has flown up in the coastal wind, exposing more of your thighs.

“Carlos?” You repeat, voice sweet and waiting.

He snaps his eyes back up and wills his voice to remain passive. “We can head back.”

So you do, meaning your tour ends around noon, and your parents greet you both with lunch and the round of inevitable questions. Did Comporta live up to your expectations? What books did you get? Was our daughter a good tour guide? The latter, Carlos answers with a smile—very good. You allowed your face to flush, blamed it on the sangria.

Now, though, it’s the brink in-between chilly and hot, sticky traces of the summer afternoon still lingering in the air, mixing with the cool of dusk when you decide to exit your room and fix yourself a glass of something, preferably sweet and alcoholic. An empty driveway save for a Ferrari means your parents are gone, leaving you and—if you’re lucky, which you hope you are—

“Carlos,” you call out from the window you’ve just tugged open with the expertise of somebody who’s lived here for twenty-one summers. “Thirsty?”

He looks up from where he is, outside, continuing his operation on your dad’s car. The hood’s been cranked open, and his long hair is damp with sweat, flying gently in the face of the sunset breeze. He smiles when he sees your figure peeking out.

“For what?”

“Whatever you want,” you respond, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. His white shirt’s stained with oil and dirt, tainting it beige and grey, the tight fit even tighter from his sweat. You can make out the outline of his abs just underneath. 

He squints. “Beer?”

You make an exaggerated eugh face to tease him, but duck back inside to bring your homemade aperol and an open, frosty beer outside. When he sees you, he walks closer, smiles and takes a swig of the drink you offer. He makes a noise of satisfaction and you have to make a real effort to maintain a semblance of normalcy, eyes averting from his lips to gaze instead at his solid shoulders, his build, big and tall.

“What’s the problem with beer, hmm?”

“Tastes like shit.” You raise your aperol. “The sweeter, the better. How’s Dad’s car?” You blink, sidestepping him to try and gauge his progress.

“Casi termino.” You look at him, raising your eyebrows, and he translates. “Almost done. It wasn’t that destroyed, if at all.”

“You think he’ll let you drive it when you’re done?” You ask playfully, swiping your condensation-wet finger over the side of the car. You turn, smiling expectantly; Carlos laughs a bit, shrugs.

“It is just a favor. But if he does, I’ll make sure you get to come along.” He says. “You like that?”

“Mmm,” you nod, sipping on your aperol. You part from your straw, lips stained, and smile up at him. “I do.”

His gaze is stuck on your lips. You lick over them, and he looks away with a slow blink. You watch as he ruffles his hair, rounds the car and crosses his arms to view it from the back.

God, he’s handsome. You think of the long-winded nights you’ve been spending trailing your fingers over your legs or texting inspired paragraphs to friends back in university about him. Their responses are almost always Send pic now and a cacophony of heart eye emojis when you manage to snag a stolen shot of him doing just about anything.

His gaze is scrutinizing, every little detail of the car, and eventually he closes the hood again. “Should be good by tomorrow.”

“Where’d you learn to fix cars?” You ask sweetly, nearing him. The wind bites at your legs, your flowy skirt bouncing sporadically and held down by your free hand. When your eyes flit to his, waiting for his response, you find them snapping upward. He’d been distracted.

“I work with cars, so it comes natural.” You lean on the hood of the car and he comes to stand in front of you, his eyes pointed downward at you. “That’s not a very good habit,” he adds.

“Drinking?” You pout, raising your half-empty glass. You blink up at him, the corner of your smiling lip caught in your teeth.

“Biting your lip.” His gaze is intense. “You do it a lot, I noticed.”

You smile, leaning backward a little. His resolve is breaking. “Can I borrow one of the books you got earlier?”

“The three ones you bought not enough?” He raises a brow, downing beer again. Some of it dribbles out of the corner of his lip. You’ve never been one to like the taste, but you’d lick it off him if you could.

“I just wanna browse it,” you push. “I’ll return it tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he relents. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

—

He sees you the next day after lunch, which you’d skipped because you “weren’t hungry.” You’re wearing a dress, hair clipped into a bun when you excuse yourself to pick up an earring in front of him. He almost thinks it’s a fib until he sees it, the pink gem on the floor.

“Sorry,” you say, voice mellow, and then you’re bending over to pick it up. You’re wearing pretty lace panties underneath.

Carlos clears his throat and excuses himself, adjusting his shorts as he goes upstairs.

—

He gives you Norweigan Wood after dinner, like he promised earlier in the week. Two raps on your door, and when you open it, he’s already handing it to you with a quiet smile. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice clipped.

“Our tour isn’t over yet,” you tease, tossing the book onto your bed and descending the steps back downstairs. Confused and interested, he follows you, to the back area of the house, past the swinging screen door, down the steps, and onto the sand.

“Tour?” He repeats, for clarification. The only things to tour are sand and twigs.

“Yeah, Carlos. This is the real tour,” you joke, walking backwards. Every step sends your foot sinking into the cold sand, slowing your pace until Carlos catches up, matching your steps once he does. “Comporta—real and unfiltered.” You both laugh at your hyperbolic, MTV-worthy statement, and he waits for more, entertains you further.

“What is so real about this?” Carlos laughs, allowing himself to humor your little schtick.

“Well, mister. This isn’t bookstores and ice cream parlors.” You point to a nearby spot in the sand, just by a rogue stick. “This is where I smoke without getting caught. Near enough that I can run back in seconds, but faraway enough that my parents can’t immediately see what I’m doing. Granted, I don’t need to be sneaking around much, but if you ever want to do something in secret—”

The implication sends Carlos into a spiral of thought.

“—here’s your spot.”

“So you smoke,” he says when he sits himself on the sand, observing the now-dark skyline of the area. You continue pacing around a little, and when you raise your arms up to stretch, he catches a glimpse of your abdomen, the waistband of pink lace underneath the low rise of your denim shorts.

“Occasionally. Don’t play Holy Mary,” you warn, standing in front of him and stretching your hand out to reveal a box of Marlboro Reds. 

“Wasn’t planning to,” he responds, taking a stick and inserting it in between his lips. “Got a light?”

“No,” you tease, taking one for yourself and sliding your lighter out from your pocket in one quick motion. The flame illuminates your face, casts a light on your thin white tee and on the bikini top you have on underneath. You puff out a small cloud of smoke, and Carlos reaches up to take the lighter.

“I said no,” you giggle, your lips knotting into a pout. You hold the lighter just out of his reach, red and bold against the bleak evening. 

“Give it.” He sits up higher, reaches harder; he almost gets it, but you step backward and raise your arm out of reach. Again your shirt rises with the movement. The view he gets, this time, of your hips, the lace that hugs the area there, is much more close.  The laugh you emit sends a cloud of smoke out.

“No, no,” you continue, laughing, a sweet sound.

Carlos gets up, tries again to lunge for the lighter. At this point he doesn’t even care about the cigarette in between his lips, just wants to entertain you. He tries again but you’re quick with it, ducking every lunge just in time.

“Come on,” he goads, laughing himself. You pace backward, smoking, until your ankles hit the shallow shore water, water that goes deeper and deeper until you’re knee-level, still smiling at him mischievously. 

“Fine,” you relent, shrugging. You throw your hands up in surrender, in the process taking the stick out of your mouth to blow smoke out. “Do you want it? C’mere, then.” You beckon him closer, wave the lighter tantalizingly so he steps closer, closer, until you’re holding the flame to the cigarette between his lips.

He’s so tall, he has to bend a little to let you light it, his eyes meeting yours, illuminated by the pale moon and the orange of the flame.

It all goes to plan. Once you light it, you place two hands square on his shoulders, whirl him so he’s behind you and thus even deeper in the water, and with all your might, push him into the sea. 

“Brat—” he manages to gasp out as he goes, the word leaving his lips in the first and last puff of smoke he lets out. He surfaces, every dip and ridge of his abs and chest accentuated, his linen polo near invisible with how saturated it is with water. His long hair, too, sticks to his forehead; he combs it backward, reveals his amused-irritated eyes, the dead cigarette spouting seawater and ash.

He spits it out. You stare and pinch the soggy stick in between two fingers, stuffing the trash into his chest pocket. “That’s bad for the environment.”

“I am freezing,” he says in response, but you’re just stifling a laugh.

He narrows his eyes, and with unsurprising ease given his build, picks you up and carries you over his shoulder. You barely have time to protest, almost dropping your own cigarette into the water, kicking and pounding on his back to please put me down. You can feel the water getting deep, deeper, and when he finally dunks you in, it’s only a second of dryness before you’re submerged in the chilly water.

Your cigarette dies, and you manage to collect it, because you’re not in the interest of leaving your stick floating; you wedge it into your pocket.

“You’re such”—you gasp for air—“a dick!”

You’re smiling, though, flailing your legs to stay afloat. Carlos can’t help but stare, entranced with the way your eyelashes stick together, damp, the droplets of water on your cheeks, your two hands wringing saltwater out of your hair, and when you swim upward, the way your white tee leaves nothing to his imagination.

You can tell. He can tell you can tell—because the next thing you do, with some faux exaggerated sigh of annoyance, is say, “Can’t swim, too heavy,” and you’re taking off your shirt so all he sees is the red of your bikini top underneath. The white tee bobs softly with each passing wave, and you’re smiling up at him. Checkmate, you’re saying. I’ve got you. A skittish, playful smile on your lips.

“I can help you swim,” he offers—retaliates, more like, his height offering him great advantage. He finds your bare ankle underwater, guides it to wrap around his waist. Naturally, your other leg follows until you’re flush against him, held up by him so you don’t need to wag your legs around just to stay above water.

Your hands go on his still-clothed shoulders first, then eventually around them, fingers linking at the nape of his neck. Your smile is wicked. You’re so sinfully pretty. He wades deeper, holds you all the while, two big hands on either side of your waist, thumbs rubbing over your sides so you can shiver.

“‘M so wet,” you say, voice shaky with chill and laughter. His grip tightens and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to try and pretend you didn’t just say that.

He dips you underneath the surface to surprise you, and your shriek is cut off by the water—he pulls you up quick, laughing, but underestimates his strength because as he tugs, you barrel right onto him, forehead bumping his.

Your eyes are closed, and you momentarily detach from him to wipe salt out of them. “Ass.”

“Brat,” he responds.

You open your eyes to find he’s close, so close you could just lean forward an inch—an inch—and you’d be meeting his lips. You wonder how they feel, how he kisses. He’s confident everywhere else, would he kiss you like that, too? You lean closer, a wrecked gasp escaping you.

“You’re so pretty,” you say, and it’s supposed to be teasing, but your breathy voice is genuine, honest. A thumb swipes over his eyelashes, causing him to blink, then the bridge of his nose. He leans upward, tries to catch your lips, but pauses, his eyes fluttering open and closed.

“This is wrong,” he says in a quiet breath, making no move at all you stop either of you from kissing right now.

You want—need—to kiss him, but you can play the long game if he wishes to. Your eyes flit back up to his, dark brown and reflecting the moon.

“Then let’s head back,” you suggest, even if both of you want anything but.

Long game. He guides you back to shore, picks your tee up, uses it as a sieve for any loose ash and cigarette bits in your path back to shore, even finds your red lighter that’s now dispensing water. He apologizes for not having anything to dry you with, and drops you off at your room with a puddle in both of your wakes.

“Thank you again,” he says, his voice a whisper through your ajar door. He observes your room with what little vantage point he has. The posters on the wall, the art, postcards. The laptop on the bed, open. The phone charging on the nightstand. The thong hanging out of the hamper.

“No problem,” you say back, voice saccharine. Your hand wraps around his wrist. “See you tomorrow.”

Even if you’re doused in seawater, he can still smell the traces of your perfume, the summery sweet of it, when you close the door. He stays for a second, blinks, relishes in the hint of floral.

—

You spend three days walking on eggshells around each other, testing the limits of interaction.

Your night at the beach was risky, dangerous, thrilling—but it was fun, sending you both into antsy, restless trains of thought. Carlos self-medicates with coffee, beer in the afternoon, working on your dad’s car, and the first two hundred pages of the Marquez book you insisted he pick up. He spots you sometimes, lounging on the beach with his book in your grip, the waistline of your bikini bottoms leaving a tanline he can’t stop staring at when you walk back into the house.

But he can’t act on it—he was the one who labeled it wrong, the one who suppressed himself, held the urge back. He told you it was wrong. And it is wrong. He’s older, he should be wiser; he’s close with your dad; and a cacophony of other rational reasons he shouldn’t be playing into this skittish summer crush.

“Dad said the boat’s free,” a voice says, and he looks up from his book to find you standing in front of him, wearing nothing but a bikini top and a skirt, loose and riding low on your hips. Your lips stretch into a sweet smile. “Wanna come?”

He really shouldn’t. “Sí.”

So he goes. He’s thirty-five. That’s a grown age. If anything, he’s capable of making sure he stays responsible. He dog-ears his page and picks up his beer to follow you to where the boat is docked. He’d been on your dad’s yacht earlier in his trip here, to go fishing, but it’s quieter today, bobbing softly atop the water. You lie yourself down on the sunny side of the boat, sunglasses over your eyes.

“Stay anywhere you like,” you say charmingly. It’s silent for a while, Carlos seating himself on one of the lounge seats in the shaded area, and then you’re moving around on your towel.

You peer over your lenses, blinking and sitting up, and this is when he knows he can’t do it.

“Carlos,” you call out. “Can you put sunscreen on my back?” You get up again, rifling in your bag for the bottle of sunscreen, dragging a hand through your hair to comb it out. It falls in loose waves, swishing when you turn to hand him the bottle. He pretends he’d been distracted on page 210 when he accepts it, watching as you sit in front of the seat, your back turned to him, your little figure in-between his spread legs. 

A minute passes with no hand at your back. “Go ahead, move even slower,” you joke, and the tension breaks a little; he humors you, laughs and apologizes.

“It’s because hour hair is in the way,” he says, touching it gently, combing it to the side.

“Wait—” You dig through your bag again and pull out a blunt pink ribbon, slipping it into his hand. “Can you braid it for me?”

“Braid?” He doesn’t know jack shit about braiding hair. “I don’t know how.”

“At that age of yours and you don’t know anything about how to please a girl,” you whistle lowly. “Adult virgin?” 

But you guide him through it despite your teasing, teaching him to divide your hair in threes, weaving one strand over the other until “it looks half decent.” He fucks up a few times and your hair looks odd at some point, but in the end, it’s—well, it’s a braid.

“How is it?” You ask, and he can hear your smile.

He does the job well enough for a first-timer, he thinks, finishing it with the ribbon, which he ties loosely lest you’re unhappy with the finished product. It becomes easier to move your hair out of the way, and once your back is saturated with sunscreen, you unfold your legs and get up, turning around and smiling down at his sitting figure.. Loose tendrils of hair frame your face, the braid resting at your back softly, already loosening.

“Your hair can be braided, too,” you comment quietly, knotting a rogue few strands in your fingers. It hasn’t been this tense since that night at the beach, but that ended before the tension rose further—this, now, keeps going. You step closer and he leans back, smiling. “Can I?”

He blinks, nostrils flaring, then nods, his grip on your hips gentle when you sit on his lap, your legs on either side of his. You smile coquettishly, feeling how hard he is underneath you, the denim of his jeans rough against the skin of your bare thighs. Your skirt’s riding up on them with every little shift you make, just to rile him up.

Carlos drinks in the sight of you, sunkissed and on his lap, legs sprawled out, pretty little face framed, bottom lip in your teeth. You’re inviting him closer, your gaze meeting his with sleepy, demure eyes—do something. You look so fucking precious, so pretty. It makes him want to give you everything right now.

You reach forward, make an attempt to try and weave his hair together—but he grinds upward, your breath hitching and a whimper punched out of your mouth.

Your hands are shaking now, barely able to piece his hair together with how good his clothed cock feels pressed against you, where you need it most. 

“Carlos,” you gasp, and all he can really think is—where’d all your fight go? You were so used to being a brat and a half, now you’re whimpering, on the edge of begging.

“Be quiet,” Carlos grunts, digging his fingers into your hips. His other hand lifts your skirt, bunching the fabric around your hips for a better view of your cunt rubbing against the bulge in his pants. The damp fabric of your panties is swallowed between your lips with every grind you make forward and he has to stop himself from cursing out loud at the sight. “Good girl.”

Your hands move from his hair to his shoulders, sturdy and broad; you can feel him squeeze your waist with both hands, then pull you down against him, just once, so your weight presses down on the hard shape of his cock. It makes him shudder and you whine out loud. You resist the urge to grind over it; you’re already so wet you’re making a mess on his jeans.

His praise, mumbled deep and slow in your ear, gets you feeling all warm, almost ditzy. Your hips roll on their own, chasing the delicious drag of rough denim against your clit, slick soaks into and through your panties, making the material cling to the shape your folds. Carlos’ hands are rough when they wander and grope, hiking this godforsaken skirt up so he can press a thumb against the centre of your folds.

“Been so good for you, Carlos,” you whine, circling your hips against him. He can’t stop staring at your pretty, fucked-out eyes, your bitten lips. He shoves two fingers in-between them, imagines how they looked just a few days ago slick with ice cream—now your tongue is laving over his hand. The braid you'd just taught him is quickly unraveling with every nod of your head. “‘M gonna—can I—” The pleas leave you quick, your voice choked.

Euphoric, your mind lifts, foggy and saturated with pleasure, the braid almost completely undone now. His praise is so addictive, gets you worked up and needy. Come on, he says. Make a mess. His accent, his deep voice, the way it rumbles right through you—his voice drops, his touch a little heavier as he presses harder.

You gonna cum for me? His thumb rubs faster until you’re gasping, shuddering, little ahs leaving your lips. He’s got the upper hand now, but you can hear the strain, the suppression in his voice as he rubs over the soaked fabric; you feel his cock growing under you, getting harder. 

P—please—I want to—please let me, you say breathlessly, and you’ve never needed it to the point of begging before, but Carlos is different. He keeps going, doesn’t give you permission, rubbing faster, your heart hammering in your chest.

Feel good?

Y—yeah, you whimper, trying your best not to fall apart here, on your dad’s boat, where anybody could walk on—or maybe see you from afar, humping your dad’s friend in broad daylight. He loves watching you like this; you’ve somehow become even prettier, face flushed and voice shaky.

Come on, he goads. Be a good girl. Cum for me.

It’s the only instruction that matters to you right now, your body seizing with it and cute little moans escaping you as you finish. You catch your breath against his chest, craving warmth even if it’s hot—maybe you’re craving him, his touch, Carlos, just Carlos. You maneuver yourself so legs, exhausted from shaking, are on one side of his body—he holds you close, humming.

He rubs a steady hand across your lower back, gentle and firm and you want him so much more now. “Are you okay?” He asks. “Talk to me.”

“Perfect,” you pant against his polo, fingers playing with the stitching, tugging the collar down so you can mouth at his skin. His hand plays with what’s left of the braid, winds the pink ribbon around his fingers. “Let’s go for a swim.”

—

“And we drove the jet ski around, too,” you say gleefully, your damp hair bobbing with every move of your head. Your face is sunkissed, a little sore from being in the sun for most of the afternoon. Carlos laughs along from where he is at the grill—he’s cooking for dinner, on a quest to make burgers because he’s known for making the best ones back in Madrid, apparently. Your dad, of course, insists on joining, and the two have been asking and answering questions while you and your mum sip rosé at the table.

“Did you have fun?” Your mum asks, her head turning to address Carlos.

“Yeah, tons,” he replies with a smile, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second. You know what he means. It’s been only two days since the afternoon on the boat, and since then you’ve mostly swam and ridden around on the jet ski with Carlos—nothing more.

“See, sweetie,” she adds, placing a hand over yours. “I told you this summer would be fun with him around!”

“Mmm, yeah,” you say, nodding and parting from your glass, “I can really count on him for some excitement.” The statement catches his attention and he almost trails off, eyes returning to yours, before he continues speaking in Spanish to your dad about something or other.

The burgers’ reputation precedes them, and is warranted, you learn later when you’re biting into it for the first time. The remainder of dinner passes by in lively conversation, the sun setting low underneath the Comporta horizon, wine taking the place of rosé. Carlos mentions the racing world again, about how he’ll be back into the thick of it sooner than later, and you pulse with something akin to sadness.

Your parents, apparently so grateful for the blessing that is Carlos’ burgers, offer to clean up and before long, they retreat to their downstairs bedroom. Upstairs, you marinate in your thoughts, blinking up at your ceiling, twining your pink ribbon around your fingers as your hair dries splayed over your bedding. You let your arm down, in the process bumping your elbow against a hard surface.

Upon investigation, you find it’s a copy of Norweigan Wood. 

Carlos is at his desk, taking a timezone-separated call about simulation and season prep, when two soft knocks go at his door and it creaks open. He turns the chair away from the desk to see who it is. An ankle steps in first, then more leg, and then you—in a lovely, pretty pink lace dress, your face illuminated by the moonlight outside. One hand clutches a copy of his book; the other, the ribbon he’d used on your hair earlier.

He’s nursing a bottle of beer, just to help ease the drag of the day, and he watches you approach him, your footsteps quiet against the hardwood of the floor. Wait, he mouths, finishing the call in a hushed tone, and when he hangs up you approach him again.

“I thought you should have this back,” you say, offering him the book. Your eyes rake over him, wearing the same getup he’d worn to dinner—denim jeans, because he’d ducked out to buy food, except he’s ridden himself of his shirt. 

He takes the book, places it on the table, continues staring up at you. “And I thought you should keep this.” The ribbon, pale pink, is now looped around his wrist and tied into a delicate ribbon at the apex of it. You admire your handiwork with a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

You lean down, face just shy of his. “We shouldn’t,” he manages to eke out, his voice strained.

“But you want to,” you respond softly. “No one’s going to know. Our little secret.”

His eyes are shut, contemplating, and then he’s kissing you—the only thing you’ve wanted, craved, touched yourself to the thought of over the course of the summer. You reciprocate immediately, parting your lips to let him kiss you deeper, a whimper leaving your mouth. He kisses like he knows he’s a good kisser, and he really is. His scent is intoxicating, a drug, sending arousal and desire straight through you.

You part, eyes half-lidded as you stand straight again. You cock your head slowly to the side, and with your head’s movement your hair follows, gathering on one side. It exposes much of your shoulder and collarbones, which lay underneath the thin lace dress you wear to sleep, and which is now subject to Carlos' unwavering stare. He has no shame, eyes raking over you, up and down and back up. One hand curled around a bottle of beer, the other coming up to slowly graze the back of your thigh.

Your breath hitches. “Do you like the dress?” You ask softly, teasingly. It’s nothing special, Carlos, you seem to say; it’s just a nightie.

His hand is rough against the thin skin of your leg, traveling upward. He gives you a nod in response; he does like it, the sheer material, the pink color, the loose way it hugs your body. Roughly, he voices his assent. “Come sit on my lap.”

“Wait,” you say, pouting. Your knee rubs softly against the material of his jeans, and you slowly sink onto your knees, hands placing themselves on your thighs. His grip goes from the back of your thigh to your hair, combing it softly, cradling your face. 

“Let me,” you say, letting your silence imply everything unsaid. He’s going crazy, losing his mind.

“So pretty,” he says, nodding. his voice thin. “Go ahead, baby.”

The petname gets you dizzy. You lean forward, resting your face on the hard bulge in his pants, smiling up at him. You’ve got these big, doe eyes, begging him, and he’s not so sure he even has the upper hand anymore—he would do anything you asked, any request that left those pretty bitten lips. He gathers your hair in two hands, forms a messy, unclean braid, crisscross at the back of your head just so he has something to grip while he fucks your throat.

You make quick, deft work of unbuttoning his jeans, and he watches, leaned back on the chair, legs spread wide with bent knees on either side of your body, caging you in. Carlos’ eyes are half-lidded, a hand at your braid, bringing his beer to his lips, swallowing before he sets it onto the adjacent desk.

His cock is big—thick, intimidating—and you can’t help but wonder how you’re going to fit the whole thing in your mouth without choking. It twitches in your palms the longer you stroke him, precum weeping from the head and slicking up your palms. Gruff expletives, in Spanish and English, slip past his gritted teeth and the sounds travel directly to your core, causing you to instinctively press your thighs together to soothe the ache blossoming there.

You take head of his cock into your mouth, feel it roll over your tongue, heavy and warm. Drool gathers in your mouth and your fingers dig into the muscle of his thighs in anticipation. The hand wound around your braid, pressed against your head, presses heavier slowly, slotting the first few inches of cock into your mouth while avoiding the back of your throat. You relax, letting your lips seal around the length, cheeks hollowing and tongue lulling at the underside. He curses.

You continue bobbing your head, lewd noises leaving your mouth with every move you make; it embarrasses you, but also sends slick gushing out of you.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes when the tip of his cock grazes the back of your throat; you cough, fingers heavy as they dig into the flesh of his still-denim clas thighs; drool trickles onto his balls. The hand remains there, though, pushing you and keeping you pinned in place as he slowly thrusts upward. You haven’t even gotten him all the way.

You gag and sputter, eyes fully watering the harder Carlos bullies his cock into your throat; you’re dizzy with arousal and submission, maybe one, maybe both, you’re too far gone.

“Easy,” he orders, and you will yourself to breathe nasally, relaxing, burying more of him in you. He loves seeing you like this, hair all pretty—his braid, too—and on your knees, trying your best to please him. “Being so good for me, good girl,” he says, losing resolve. You’re so pretty when you cry, eyes rimmed and bloodshot, tear streaks all over your cheekbones.

He ruts shallowly into your throat, every move punctuated by a guttural gag from your end—once, twice, a third time, before finally he releases you. You let out a cough, and a gasp, breathy, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. He doesn’t want to cum yet—not like this. You gaze up at him, big eyes anticipating, and he guides you upward, on the bed.

He kicks his jeans off and readjusts his briefs, watches you scramble to position yourself on the bed, sitting down properly. “Will you fuck me now?” You ask, your sweet voice raspy. He likes knowing he’s the reason why.

You inch yourself backward so you’re fully on his bed, a hand traveling to stop your tiny dress from riding up any further. He steps closer, one knee on the bed, caging you in again, and stops you. His gaze flickers down to your legs, forces your knees apart so he can see in between them. Your pretty cunt’s soaked through your panties. “Don’t hide from me,” he says, voice rough as he steps back off the bed and kneels beside it.

“Carlos,” you breathe, letting him have his way with you. Your mind’s all fuzzy, but it’s okay—he takes care of you. 

Strong arms snake around your thighs and pull you toward him until your cunt is level with his face. His breath, warm, fans against you, muted by the thin fabric of your panties and it does nothing to help the unadulterated, dirty arousal throbbing in your cunt. He bites at the flesh of your inner thigh, then hooks two fingers into your panties and pulls them aside.

The taste of you is so good; it goes straight to Carlos’ head. And all of your embarrassed, whiny whimpers, the way your fingers knot helplessly into his hair as he drags his tongue up your cunt — that drives him absolutely crazy. He licks at your pussy, sticks his tongue in, nudges your clit with his nose, ekes whimpers and debauched moans out of your lips.

He pushes two fingers into you, doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s fucking them in and out, moans spilling out of you involuntarily. It’s lewd, it’s dirty, getting his friend’s daughter all spread out for him like this, but Carlos loves it. More, you sob, more, please, I need—yeah—

His skilled tongue doesn’t let up, continues toying with you, licking up all the arousal oozing out of your cunt. He eats you, fucks you with his fingers, until your eyes are welling up with overwhelm and the need to release, your hands pulling at his long hair—your pussy dripping, quivering, right at the edge of your orgasm.

Any of the reservations you had are now out the window. Your grip on Carlos’ hair is tight, pushing his head deeper into your pussy and grinding against his mouth mindlessly.

I’m cumming—!

Your voice is so dirty, so lewd, so needy, when you finally finish around him, slick dripping out and your pussy twitching, clenching and unclenching around nothing as you release. Panting, you hoist yourself on your elbows, your braid surprisingly intact, and pout down at him.

“I said fuck me.”

“So you complain,” he responds with a coy smile, his lips shiny with your slick. You want him to fuck you stupid.

He does eventually, gets you all calm and lying down on the bed, knees to your chest. Your feet cross and uncross with anticipation. He lets his cock rest first on your stomach, where it twitches, smearing precum under your belly button.

“That’s where you’ll be,” you say, stroking him. When he finally does begin thrusting into you, he wishes he could save the image of your pretty eyes fluttering closed, puffy lips open in a whimper.

Your legs tremble with the size you’re taking, his hand gentle as it is firm on your hips, forcing you to take him, take him good, take him better. Good girl, he’s saying, good fucking girl. Inch by inch, you struggle to take all of him, his girth thicker than what your cunt is willing to take. You’re positive you’ll feel him in your stomach.

“Carlos,” you whimper, voice aching.

“Fuck,” is all he can muster, watching your pussy swallow him. “So tight.”

He’s drunk on the feeling of you, wet and clenching around him, so tight. He can tell you’re high on it too, on the stretch of him, the way you keep trying to meet every thrust, legs already beginning to tremble with pleasure and deep arousal. He bottoms out, an expletive leaving him in Spanish, and then slowly begins to fuck in and out of you.

He watches your face, the way your brows knit as you take him, take his cock, eyelides fluttering. “So good,” you moan, mouth open. He drops a glob of spit onto your tongue, tells you to swallow—you do, presenting your empty tongue to him. Good girl, prettiest girl—any and all praise leaves him in dizzy, heady breaths.

“Teasing me for so long,” he pants, his dick splitting you in half. “This what you wanted? Hmm?”

But even in your cloudy mind, you find the grit to retaliate, teasingly, a cloy smile on your lips. “You said it was wrong,” you gasp out with every thrust. “Fucking your friend’s daughter.”

“But you love it,” Carlos goads. “Do you?”

You nod, cockdrunk, but it’s not enough. “Use your words, pretty. You can do it.”

“I do, I love it. I need more,” you whine, getting off on his teasing, on the implication that this is all wrong, that neither of you should be doing this. “Needed this so much, Carlos.” You crack your eyes open to watch the bulge in your abdomen, the shape of his girth splitting you open. He slams into you harder and you try to squirm away, but he keeps you pinned in place.

“And if your dad walked in?”

You gush slick all over him. “Carlos,” you plead.

“Saw his daughter taking his friend’s dick?” He says it low into your ear, bending to make sure you hear all of it. “Taking it like a good girl, too.” He pulls out, slaps your ruined hole with his dick, then shoves it in deep again, groaning when you cry out—getting off on you whining about how sensitive you are, the way you tremble under him and around him. Your pretty little face, all sweaty and ruined.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m, Carlos—I’m gonna cum,” you say, nodding. You’ve probably cum twice already, little bursts of pleasure causing your cunt to twitch around him, sensitive. “Can I—?” 

“That’s it,” he praises. “Come on, cum for me. Been so good for me.” You tremble around him as you finish, broken moans fucked out of you with every surge of his hips forward.

He’s close, too, having held off fucking you for the past how many days, and you can tell; his thrusts get shallower, faster, until his hips are stuttering and he’s panting your name out, long hair framing his flushed, pretty face. You reach up to comb a hand through it. “Cum inside me,” you beg, watching him go crazy, his nostrils flaring and eyes blinking quick. 

He pumps his cum into you, thrusting several times as he rides it out, fucking you full of him, of his cum. You relish in the feeling, of being his girl, his good girl. “You’re a mess,” he comments, his face buried into your neck. He pulls out, both of you sighing at the sight and feeling of his cum dribbling out of you, onto the bed.

You unfold your legs, sitting up despite how sore you feel. Your dress is damp with sweat, and slick, and cum. “I feel a mess.” You pout.

“You look pretty.”

“Can I sleep here tonight?” You ask, voice meek. He nods, holds you tight as you both drift off, like he knows that you won’t be his to call his by the time the summer wanes and Comporta is left empty again.

—

“It’s the post-race interview,” Ali calls. “Hurry!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” You hop into the living room, tossing her the bag of popcorn she’d requested you to cook. Fall has officially dawned upon the city, adorning it with orange and red leaves, jazz music and cold nights—and weekends watching races.

Around you, all your university friends watch with intense gazes at the winner of the latest Formula One grand prix—something none of you had been remotely interested in just months prior.

You watch, eyes glittering, at the winner. Tan skin, long hair, jogging over to the journalist. Sainz, what a stellar drive! She sounds awestruck, genuinely taken aback by his dominance on the track today. She asks for a message in Spanish, as always; a few words of inspiration, and then, just as a fun little tidbit—did you have a good luck charm today?

He smiles to himself, like he’s just heard an inside joke and seems to think for a minute. “No, not really.” Then he combs a hand through his hair. There, looped around his wrist, is a pretty, pale pink ribbon.

[aluciahaz]

One bed trope with Adam except we wake up in the middle of night feeling him unconsciously grinding his hard-on against us and we take it into our hands (literally) to help him🫣

( he wakes up before we actually do anything so it’s all consensual ofc.. )

🦅🦅LETS FUCKIBG GOO🦅🦅 i love (babying) this dumb bitch!!! this is kinda more ooc adam but i hope you still like it !

truth prevails

—adam x gn!reader

—tags : handjob, bottom adam, dom!reader, absolute overuse of the nickname baby and baby boy 😭

what a fucking wake up call.

you really should’ve just made adam sleep on the couch.

honestly, you aren’t even that surprised that he was grinding against you while asleep, murmuring your name in a soft voice. it was quite nice actually, compared to his usually brash one.

especially his whimpers.

“lemme cum...please-fuck….” his head would nuzzle further into your neck, his breath hot against your skin as his hips kept bucking up. so he was in that type of mood, huh?

well… then maybe it wouldn’t hurt to indulge in his fantasies for a just little bit. after all, it was hard to get him to bottom without him throwing a tantrum. which, of course would just lead him to get wrecked, just the way he liked it.

“adam.”

“mm…mhm?” his eyes slowly open, his arms still around your waist as you turn around to look at him. his confused expression is almost cute in a way, although a bit disheveled with his hair falling in front of his face.

“what were you dreaming about, baby?” you ask, a smirk forming on your lips as you stroke his hair, running your fingers through his coarse strands. your other hand snakes around to his hip, teasing his waistband just slightly.

adam, now shocked, looks at you with an almost abashed expression before clearing his throat, going back to his egotistical persona.

“uh, psh, fucking you, duh,”

well, at least he was honest. somewhat.

“and begging for me to let you cum?” you ask bluntly, raising your eyebrow at him as you chuckle. his mien was what you could on describe as flabbergasted. it was clear he had no idea what he was doing to you just a few minutes ago.

clueless, cute, baby.

you coo at him, the hand on his hair moving down underneath his chin as you cup it gently. still sleepy, instead of pulling away with a scoff like usual, he leans into it, letting his instincts take over.

“how would you know?” he says with a grin, clearly doubtful, yet the anxious twitch of his smile shows that he was less relaxed than he portrayed himself to be.

“you talk in your sleep.”

“…” he stares at you for a few seconds before laughing nervously.

“nooooo…?”

the deadpan expression on your face says it all. so much so it makes him feel way too awkward, forcing him to retract his statement.

“…sorry.”

“i don’t know why you try even and lie when you’re so bad at it.”

he frowns at you, furrowing his eyebrows.

“whatever! are you gonna do something about my hard-on or keep making digs at me?”

“i could always do both.”

the smirk on your face widens as your hand slips past his waistband, your hands tracing his v-line ever so delicately, your touch light as an angel’s feather.

“you just have to say please.”

“fuck you.”

“not today, honey,”

adam just rolls his eyes, grumbling as he ponders on what to do. that’s not good, he isn’t made to think.

quickly, your hand under his chin places a finger on his bottom lip, just barely tipping over to make its way inside of his mouth to distract him.

“come on, baby. don’t you want to be a good boy for me?” you kiss his neck, gentle and sweet like a divine’s touch. “just think about how nice it would be to let everything go, let me take care of you. my perfect, little angel.”

he stifles a moan, but with how close the two of you were, you could hear it clear as day. usually, it would take way longer to get him in such a state, but apparently the tedious process was 2 times faster when he was sleepy.

clearly this means you should do this more often.

"...please-ah!"

he can't even finish his sentence before your hand wraps around his cock, stroking it in nice, slow movements as you whisper in his ear. "good boy!" you praise, your fingers leaving his lips and slipping underneath his light shirt. with the tips of your fingers, you pull and twist at his sensitive buds, reveling in his sweet whimpers and cries as his chest jerks up into your hand.

"tell me what you really dreamt of, baby. were you all pliant underneath my hand? maybe even getting fucked by me? tell me truth."

all he can do is whine as his legs quiver, digging his head further into the crook of your neck as he pants. his wings start to flap a little against the bed, and only from a few touches.

"okay okay! i—yeah," he tried gulped away his embarrassment, but the heat on his face was a clear indicator of his nervousness. "you—you fucked me and told me all these-these stupid little compliments-yes, oh—!"

you laugh as you he bucks his hips into your grip, trying to chase more pleasure before pulling away, deaf to the groan of annoyance coming from the man.

"don't get greedy, baby boy." you chide, shaking your head in disapproval. "take what you get, nothing more, and maybe you'll get a reward!" you say, kissing his cheek sweetly in contrast to your cruel command.

"oh—oh, okay! oka—ayy!" he mewls shakily, clawing at your waist as he tries to stop his hips from moving. surprisingly, he does quite well, letting you take control of the pace with only a few jerks up into your fist. but, you decide to let it go, after all, adam was being sweeter than usual.

"alright, alright, you can move now, baby. you did so good for me."

"yes! finally—ngh! fuck—thank you...!" he cries, moving his hips quickly into your grasp as he finds himself getting lost in his own pleasure.

you didn't even need to remind him to be grateful, how polite! he's learning!

he wails your name like a weeping sinner, hoping that you'd grace him with your love and mercy.

which, of course you would. for once, he's earned it without much push at all! perhaps this would set as an example on what he should do next time instead of being a brat all the time.

"cum for me, my love. you deserve it," you croon, moving your fist faster and faster with his pace. the hand on his chest presses harder onto his nipple, twisting the way you know he loves—as much as he denies he's a masochist, you know by the way he keens that he's just being proud—and let him keep babbling about anything that comes to his muddled little mind. yeah, you'll bless him just this once.

"i love you, love—love you, i love—ah—ah!"

adam sobs shamelessly as he reaches his climax, his hips stuttering as he slowly returns from his high. his whole body goes limp as he shuts his eyes, his hands falling from your waist as he steadies his breathing.

you wipe the tears away from his eyes, peppering his face with kisses.

“see? this is what you get for being good.”

“mm..mmmhm,” adam hums mindlessly before falling into silence. strange, he was usually big on pillow talk—

you hear a soft snore coming from beneath you, slow breaths loud amongst the quietude of your shared bedroom.

…seems like your baby boy fell asleep.

a/n - please someone request like a mommy/daddy kink for any of the goobers i write for i am INSPIRED rn im opening my reqs rn 😭

tags : @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx

[melodic-haze]

I have kind of Ruan Mei brainrot rn… imagine Ruan Mei running a test on you but reader is a girl w penis I hope you know what you mean and well, the reader gets hard from the little touches Ruan Mei gives… okie I’m leaving the rest of the job for you 🫡

-🐿️

☆ — DEMO TRACK: sub!Ruan Mei x dom!gp!Reader

☆ — TYPE: NSFW

☆ — CONTENT WARNINGS: Fem reader with a dick ☺️, consensual use of aphrodisiacs, semi-public sex

☆ — NOTES: Oh my god a post?!?!? From ME?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? Anyway may this bless my rolls please HALLELUJAH

So really it probably would've started off as 🤷‍♀️ a favour 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ yk, just some harmless (lied) tests she wanted to do and you just happened to be in the right (wrong) place at the right (wrong) time. She wanted to test how one would react to certain stimuli, especially when it comes to more........"medicated" states

For the sake of my peace of mind you've probably both already talked about it before in the past anyway at one point, with her getting curious about chemicals and what it could do to one's libido ever since she started dating you 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ though she doesn't necessarily say when she'd ever do it lol

"Y/N, there you are."

You hear familiar heels click amidst the station floor, the sound now distinct enough to separate from all the ambience in the Station—the pace was languid yet decisive, soft yet forceful.. and so very her.

"Ruan Mei," you tore your gaze from the vast sea of stars to smile at her, "you need something?"

She shakes her head, stepping into place right next to you, "No, I do not. I simply thought to.. find you, is all."

"Taking a break from your research just to see me? Wow, did Herta do something or..?"

"No, she hasn't. Though I do admit that I had an ulterior motive for my actions," she says before holding out a small plate that you hadn't realised were there until now. "I had a new recipe I wanted you to try."

You picked one of the two lotus cakes up to inspect it in all its golden brown glory, "Trying to change up your recipes? They're already good enough, though."

"I had a new ingredient or two that I wanted to try using for such delicacies. It makes for a nice experiment."

"That so?" You raise it to your mouth, "Well, I trust that whatever you make is--"

Wait.

"--did you say 'experiment'?"

"Yes, I did. Why do you ask?"

You lightly furrowed your eyebrows in suspicion as you lowered the pastry from your lips, "Ruan Mei."

"Hm?"

"..I'm not going to ask what, exactly, you used. But could you at least tell me if this is gonna hurt me one way or another? Maybe have another moment of 'unexplained' amnesia?"

The scientist shook her head, though her expression doesn't slip from that ever-so-present mask of indifference, "I made sure that the effects don't harm you in any way."

"So there are side-effects to this."

"I never had the intention of lying to you."

"I love you, I really do, but you're very evasive with very important details like that."

"Because you simply don't ask."

"Yeah, well, I'm not your labrat," you say as you take a bite of the pastry anyway, "I'm your girlfriend. ..Though whatever you put in this, it's really sweet. Could you maybe make a drug-free version of whatever this is?"

The smallest of smiles graced her lips as you chewed and savoured her creation, and you just can't help but melt on the inside at the sight as she swipes off some stray crumbs from the corner of your lips with a thumb. She licks said crumbs off her digit (and your eyes widened the slightest bit) before responding, "I'll be sure to look for such an alternative."

"You better. You know I like whatever you create."

"I do."

"Even if it involves getting spiked for your own curiosity."

She leans in to press a gentle kiss on your cheek, "I appreciate the constant indulgence. Truly."

And as she ghosts her fingers down your arm before they snake over to hold your hand, you can't help but notice that you're just a touch bit more sensitive than you were a few moments ago.

Or maybe it's because it was your lover doing the touching.

Yeah. Maybe that's it.

...

"Hey, babe."

"Hm?"

"Why did you make two of them? Usually it'd only take one for it to hit me."

"In case we need another one."

"..Uh huh."

She doesn't just leave you, which is a wonder but also kinda not? Cuz she's observing you, not because she's affectionate 🤷‍♀️ sorry gangalicious she needs her baby steps towards understanding love in her own way 🫶🫶🫶 personally I'd be patient with her always (she's so me)

So the both of you are just chatting about whatever, like she asks you about how your day's been and then you ask her about how hers was. With you, while still a bit cryptic, she's much more of an open book to you than to anyone else, so you can just freely ask her whatever as you both take a stroll around Herta's Space Station and enjoy each other's company (I'd ask about the cats personally they're my babies :()

But then you start getting a bit......feverish, let's say. Just a tad bit hot under the collar 😊😊 which gets you to wonder like. Did Herta turn up the heat??? Like it was fine before, and why would she ever even need to mess with the temp settings when all that's here are her dolls?????? And why didn't your beloved seem unaffected??????¿????????

It's when she starts to give you touches here and there—her 'casual' handholding, naturally drifting close to you, clinging onto your arm—and noticing details you'd never have ever thought about in usual times that you think that Perhaps There Is Something Going On Here. And THEN you realise What Exactly Is Wrong when you feel that tension (and tent) centred at the bottom half of your body 😜

She's WELL-AWARE of it too, with the way her eyes drift down and her free hand going from resting on your stomach to moving to your lower abdomen.......before stopping 🫶 which gets on your Nerves to the point where all caution's thrown in the wind, your mind nothing more than a lustful haze (lol) and your only priority being to beat this heat......and your meat too, but really that's kinda obvious

It's as if she knew too!!! The moment you find some empty spare room, propriety be damned, she locks you both in IMMEDIATELY before putting the small dish to the table on the side (and you could've sworn you heard her breathe out "finally", though your braincells lost their way amongst the stars or something so you didn't know OR care) and walking back to you. At least until, yk, you grip the fabric of her clothes and slam her to the wall before THEN slamming your lips to hers 🤷‍♀️

She's surprised at your brazen forcefulness at first (who the heck wouldn't be ngl even you'd be surprised somewhere in your basically melted brain) but then she immediately relaxes. Hell, maybe there were remnants of whatever chemicals she put into the cake and she's having a taste for herself, bc she gets more daring by the second as her hands roam around your body and squeeze at your tits and her nails cling onto your biceps as she pulls you in deeper

Coincinentally just like how her nails dig deep into your back as you plow into her senselessly 😄 technique be DAMNED man bouta call yourself a carnivore bc GOD you're hungry for that meat HAHAHAHA (if not you then me I'm hungry for her thanks)

You could just barely register your lover's whines and pleas for you to slow down, but you couldn't care less as you hammered your length into her hot cunt over and over again.

And really, why would you slow down? This is what she wanted, isn't it? Having you fuck her like some simple-minded animal in heat with your only instinct being to fill your lovely little scientist up with your cum until its dripping out of her abused hole... This was her end-goal, so who was she to tell you to slow down?

It was better to lose yourselves in the moment.

..Even when you could hear quiet murmurs on the other side of the door. You could just barely make out what the voices are discussing—they had wondered why there were faint sounds of impact beyond the walls.

You've never seen Ruan Mei in such a state of panic before, with her eyes widening in concern as she pushes through her breathless state and keeps telling you to "stop" and that "it's too much" and "they'll hear of our experiment" (is that what we're calling it now?). Unfortunately for her, however, such words fall on deaf ears; especially when her body language says otherwise, with her limbs refusing to let go of you and her left heel dropping to the floor with a clack that is easily drowned out by the sounds of your explicit duet.

"W-We need to be qui-- mmnf..!"

One of your hands had reached out to the remaining cake before stuffing it in your lover's mouth, "If you wanna be.. ahhh.. quiet so-- ffffucking badly, then have something to c-chew on-- ohmygods, A-Ruan, you feel so good..!"

Her hips buck up in response to you using her true name, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she lets out a particularly loud yet muffled moan. You actually slow down this time, though you make up for the speed by plunging in as deep as you can as she eats her own creation—even you were able to recognise that her choking on something other than your dick would be one hell of a bad idea, and whatever effects that cake had on you was going to hit her rather quickly anyway.

You don't help the rising heat beneath you either, even when you've slowed down; your head bends down to play with her soft tits, tongue licking and mouth sucking as if something was going to ever miraculously come from it. You are a woman-- no, a bitch starved.

And from the feel of your partner's desperate grinding movements on your hard cock, from the looks of your pretty little scientist's pupils being blown, from the fact that her, from the fact that you've managed to reduce your Genius' brain to some sort of needy mush—the same state that you're in—you're pretty sure that she is the same state as you are right now.

Really, who cares about the people outside?

Let them know of your shared depravity with each other.

It stands to reason that neither of you finish for. A long time. Who knew that sharing the effects of two potently-crafted aphrodisiacs would make you two fuck like rabbits? 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ you're there for HOURS, doing whatever you two can manage to do—every position, whatever kinks you two have managed to discover yourselves (plus some new ones you hadn't even realised you were interested in until now, go figure)......hell, even when you sit there to catch your breath, you're still inside her 😭

You Are both at least Slightly aware that you're making a huge mess and you're probably gonna be so fucked AND fucked out by like idk tomorrow. Did you have the capacity to care? No not really, but Herta's possible wrath about dirtying up her Station like this was more than enough to have you both think that MAYBE you should take this to one of yous' quarters (though really it's a 50/50 but either way she'll still ridicule you somehow tbh)

So she cleans you up, crouching down and shamelessly sucks you off like a cheap whore—her enthusiasm and fervency is a CLEAR contrast to her usual lethargy and stoicism. Your shared cum drips to the floor as she did so, though not for long when she stands up and puts her panties back in place. Are they ruined to all hell???? Well yes but she won't really need it at your place so it's not like it matters

Once you've got yourself and the room cleaned up (that's a stretch I'm ngl but you get ⭐️ a gold star for trying), you quickly leave as soon as possible. It's both bc neither of you are far from done with your 'experiment' AND bc you two are such messes. Like you could be a mess on the daily, who knows, but Ruan Mei NEVER has a hair out of place and now she looks So Very Dishevelled My God

But again, none of that matters once you both get into your room and continue for round........who knows

But after you both inevitably end up passing out and the effects wear off? Lol she wasn't joking about how it won't do anything negative to you—the both of you remember precisely Everything you've done

"So."

"Mm?"

"At the end of the day," you spoke, voice raspy from the sleep and the overexhertion from the day before, "what was that research even for?"

She snuggles into your embrace—a rare moment of tenderness between the two of you—as she thinks on her words, "..Sexual potential?"

"..Could you elaborate?"

"..Not right now, my apologies," her voice is in the same state as yours, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"I figured."

Whatever research it was, it turned out to be Very Good Research 🫶

It also helps that she kept the recipe AND found a non-drugged alternative. Win win!!!!!

[terry-perry]

Hi there! I saw you were looking to do Alastor requests, and I have a…spicier one in mind.

So the scenario I was hoping for, if you are comfortable with it is consensual cannibalism. The Reader (female) has an advanced regenerative and healing ability and is also a masochist.

So after the Extermination, Reader helps Alastor heal and also offers her flesh to him. Things go from there. Maybe some aftercare at the end, too?

It's not exactly smut, but some crazy, kinky, bloody stuff is involved!

TRIGGER WARNING!

Y/N was the one who found him in his radio tower, muttering and wincing to himself. She'd been the only one who searched for him after the battle. His disappearance from it was so sudden that she had her suspicions. Finding her friend in such a state was heartwrenching, especially since he always seemed so composed. Now he appeared so broken, fragile, wounded.

She approached him with caution. He was her friend, but an infamous demon, forced into a corner by the First Man too. Like dealing with many beasts, it was best to proceed with caution.

"Alastor?" She called out to him slowly.

His head snapped up upon hearing her. His dark eyes narrowed to get a better look at her. After doing so, his strained smile came with a snarl. "I do not want you to see me in such a state..."

"We've all taken a beating today Alastor," she said, walking over to him in a still careful manner. Slowly she knelt before his curled up figure on the floor. "You were smart to leave when you did. Gave you time to heal."

"Well, as you can see..." he took his hand away from his chest, which spewed out some blood that darkened his already red attire. "I may need a little more time."

She saw the way the blood covered his chest like splattered paint. He certainly took a beating after fighting hard. She was at least happy the wound was wide yet shallow. What she hated was noticing the way he attempted to reach out to her but grimaced in pain while doing so. She found it so awful to see him like this that it made her act on impulse.

Alastor didn't have time to protest as she already had her hand over his injury. He watched how she concentrated on it, how her hand suddenly had a golden light under it as his chest felt very warm then cool. Once she let go, he saw he was as good as new! No blood or anything!

"You're welcome!" She chirped, making an effort to break the tense silence.

It didn't help since before she knew it, he was throwing himself on top of her. He looked down at her, pinning her to the floor. He looked wild and savage as his eyes changed into those notorious radio dials and his sardonic grin had blood leaking out from its corners.

"I don't recall asking for your help, my dear," he growled. "You know better than to make the Radio Demon owe you his life!"

She never thought she'd be on the receiving end of Alastor's threats. They'd always been rather close and respected one another. Yet she forgot two important things about him:

He despised being on someone's hook.

And he always needed to be in control.

He already lost his sense of control in the battle when fighting Adam. His microphone was split in two, and he'd been no better. Now that she saw him in bad shape and offered him assistance in healing, he needed to find a way to regain power - to show he still could intimidate.

She was terrified...but also excited.

She doesn't know why it excited her. It might've had something to do with the fact she was hell-born and had no real experience with pain or death. It didn't help that she was born with regenerative healing abilities that helped her survive every scuffle she'd find herself in. Whatever the reason, the way Alastor bent over her gave her pleasant tingles.

She knew he didn't desire sexual depravity the way others down there did, but he did have other carnal urges that could benefit them both.

"Hurt me then Alastor," she said, growing bold with a coy smirk. "Give me all the anger you have. Take it out on my flesh."

There are some things people just don't expect. Even in Hell, surprises can come. For a demon like Alastor, he took pride in how little can shock him, humble him. Yet he's recently realized he's not in as much control as he claimed to be. He's been beaten, insulted, taken hold of. A new sense of purpose was required. A way to show power again.

But this?

"I know you want to," she hissed up at him. "You want to devour me. Go ahead! At least you'll be good at that!"

She knew that did the trick since he returned to his malicious state. His large, sharp-tooth grin opened into a gaping maw that attacked her. She let out a cry as he bit down hard on her shoulder. She wrapped her legs around his waist while his teeth pierced her so fiercely that she could practically feel his gums on her skin. She pushed him further by grabbing a hold of his hair as she moaned so desperately. He held her so tightly that her cries grew strenuous.

She loved every second of it, especially when he managed to tear off some of her flesh.

----

With a snap of his finger, Alastor conjured up a small flame that helped her with her cigarette. She inhaled, released a puff of smoke, and relaxed after their little escapade. They remained on the floor of his radio tower, now snuggled up together. He looked over her body, his claws tracing the marks he left behind before they disappeared.

It was just what he needed for the time being to satiate his hunger. Full freedom was still far from his grasp, but he at least found a way to play with his needs. Thanks to her, his burning yearnings were temporarily fulfilled.

[hazelcephalopod]

Matron seems to be on team ‘the gods are holding mortals back’. She’s sick of the other gods and sick of this job.

some relavant points-

She did not know what would happen to Vax as she couldn’t “see his thread” after he became her champion. Also he’s rash and therefore hard to prefect. But doesn’t derserve his current state.

When asked about the Archearts plan. Says They wish to destroy the divine gate and deal with Predathos directly. Consensus amongst those who designed it has not been made.

Says she wants fate to decide the gods destiny, specifies she wants Exandrians to decide the fate of the gods.

She will not flee and excited by new possibility and trusts in her abilities.

When asked what happens to the souls in the afterlife currently. Says there were spirits before her brethren came and she assumes Exandria’s natural cycle will reestablish itself. “The substance of the soul is forever it will find its way”.

Why did she become the god of death? Admits there is some truth in her just having ambition, and also she wanted to see if she could. Additionally she did so with the help of the one who came before. She first tried to take the secrets of divinity from him. They became teacher/student(?), friends and ultimately she thinks she loved him. He asked her to become a god, helped her craft the rite lf ascension.

What became of him? Peace. “Wherever gods go when they come undone”.

Dows she still feel him? She feels echoes of him in is domains and her work. Maybe she still feels for him, but she feels for many including BH.

Is it worth it? For her in the end? She doesn’t know. Which is perhaps why she’s so curious.

What do you know of Predathos? It was before her time, and the family has kept the knowledge from her until they couldn’t. Whatever Predathos is it is bound to where they came from.

Asking someone who became a god. How do they contain what Predathos is? The same thing that allowed her to survive despite it being unlikely, what she is. Love.

We don’t share the love for Predathos, but we love each other? Love for each other might be enough.

The Archeart is bold and impulsive and wants them to do something, she just wants empower mortals to do as they wilt. She has no interest in breaking down the wall and doing another Calamity and refuses to be part of it.

Are you two willing to become new Betrayers? She is.

We’ve been told to embrace Predathos by some, but do you believe we can undo it? Anything is possible. “Anything is possible for you.”

Could you lend us any kind of help to tip the scales? Predathos undoes and unravels the power the gods rely on and she is uncertain what she could provide that wouldn’t also unravel in its presence but is willing to try.

She offers them her mask, Braius reaches for it. She tells him he’s at a crossroads and asks if he knows what that is and he says that a choice is ahead. She lets him take it, and says I’m a moment of need one of them may wear it and call for her aid. Aid might come.

Says she’ll see them all eventually but first one more question at least: are they to replicate the rite of ascension? That is not possible, she made sure of it.

oh and another! If you go what happens to your champion? I don’t know. I like not knowing.

and more. When was the last time you were surprised? Vax, three decades ago. The sacrifice/s he made.

Mortals are great because they keep defying the gods. And that is a sign the gods should stop forging the future of mortals.

If mortals let them stay they should damn well let the gods know why and renegotiate the terms.

Is there anyway we could help your champion? Destroy the key but make sure to remove the beacon first. As the (Luxon) beacon -in the bloody bridge machine- can change the universe in ways almost as terrifying as Predathos.

Can’t you just cut his thread now? His thread is beyond any of our grasp. (Edit: this refers to Ludinus)

Why are the gods afraid of these? Bc they don’t understand them. And they don’t like to admit they aren’t all knowing or all powerful.

If they should trust the people they fight? That choice is up to them she just wanted to see if they could do what it takes.

Laudna’s fate thread is silver and her fate is between realms, or did but now is connected to other fully living people, turning hers gold. The Matron considers her a victim not anathema. Could Laudna be whole if she continues the path of connections to her friends? Anything is possible.

Matron thinks she “deserves little but remembers what it means to fight for her survival and has her ways.”

[expia]

i want you in my mouth :( … | (rated.E)

taboos w my fav anime men ! toji , iwai, , eren , armin , reiner osamu.

there are tw right next to each person so pls do look at those b4 you read a section bc there are really triggering kinks ex cnc for reiner oki ily !!! (this is not proof read sorry!)

osamu: boss x employee , power imbalance

• osamu was a prev and he knew it and you should knew too

• so ofc when you walk yo happy ass up in his office asking if he could get a rise or extra hours he knew this was his opportunity

“there you go pretty girl , go head take it deeper for me ma” samu groans out your lips wrapped around his tip trying to take more but he’s so thick must be so hard for a princess like you :(

all types of “ fuckk” and “ shit, right there sweetheart” spill out his mouth as he has the back of your head bobbing you up n down pushing you all the way down to feel you gag around him before letting you go

but once you start going down to suck on his balls while jerking him off he can’t help it but to cum all over your pretty hands, a pathetic whimper falling from his lips, arching as he throbs in your hands .

“do that again, sweetheart you can get as much money you want outta me”

iwaizumi: consensual somno , control kink? , daddy kink, cubby reader!!

• zumi’s always told you how he has a really big thing for control

• he loves the feeling of being able to take you when ever he wanted how ever he want

• (with your consent ofc)

• so when you told him it was all go to do anything sexual to you in your sleep he was alll for it

[]

coming home from the gym to see you napping on the couch laying on your stomach your ass looking so fucking perfect i mean what else could he do but peal off your cute red undies and runt against your cubby cunt and my god the sleepie little “mhm daddy” gots his dick so hard you look so pretty like this , taking whatever he gives you

“yeah baby you like when daddy just uses your body like you’re his fuck toy , mm?”

eren: monster fuckin , painful sex , tummy bulge , cum overflow, oral (f! getting) , size kink

•erens been talking about this forever

•the second hange told him there’s a way for her to give titans genitalia but only for 30 minutes

•he’s been begggging for y’all to try it out

•and for his birthday you finally said yes

[]

so here you are in erens hand cunt leaking after he’s tongue fucked you till you had at least 4 orgasms even then you till don’t think your tiny count can take .. that

in titan form eren is 49’2 inches tall with a fat cock of 15 inches but ten doesn’t care you said you’d take it like a good girl so a good girl you’ll be

the hectic panting and broken moans that left your throat as the tip of its cock breached your sopping cunt the pain of the stretch bought all your focus, blocking out the strange noise from the titan in front of you.

"rennie, it hurts" Your whining made his cock twitch and only push in harder tears running down your face as the ‘man?’ bottoms out giving you the biggest bulge in your tummy you’ve ever seen “ren ‘m so full i can’t”

but some how the pain was balanced by a pleasure you had never experienced before. You felt so dizzy, so full it’s like you could feel your blood getting hot . The Titan was basically using you as a pocket pussy and you couldn't do anything but accept it. Each thrust felt like it flipped your insides, and one particularly strong thrust flipped a switch in your mind. Painful moans turned into pleasurable screams as the hard thick cock inside you pulled against the walls. The large arms around your waist tightened against you and your eyes rolled back into your head as you came with Eren.

so much cum running out of your pussy you feel like you can’t breathe with how packed you feel but with a quietest roar he could mutter you knew he was ready for round two

armin: identity porn/ dub con ( false consent) , daddy kink , pussy slapping, drunk reader , oral(f!getting)

•you’ve been armins best friend since you both were kids

•and he’s always had a crush on you but it’s like you never see him

•walking around dating all these guys knowing his the one for you

•but he can’t be to mad this time you decided to date a man with blonde hair and good things for him when your drunk you think everyone looks the same

armin walks into the room your laying in the fairest away from any other room at this house party “alex is that you?” you pop your head up from the bed you thought you were texting your boyfriend but you were texting him saying how much you missed and loved him, yeah armin knew this was wrong but it’s your fault you pressed the wrong a in your contacts.

“yeah baby it’s me” armin cooed leaning over your body kissing your neck “hey!” you giggle running your finger through his hair tugging it as he continues kissing down your body, past your tummy till he gets to the button of your shorts kissing your stomach one last time before slowing pulling them off

leaving no moment to waste he moves your panties to the side and instantly puts his mouth to your clit “fuck alex please i need your fingers” you babbled alex? armin thought , he can’t give you what ‘min can you’ve told him all about how your boyfriend can’t even find the clit let alone can make you cum

coming off you with a he rises his brows “no baby that’s not my name, what’s my name honey?

“noooo lex” bucking your hips up pouting from the lost of pleasure

“are you to much of a brain dead slut to comprehend i said that’s not my name” slapping your cunt till you scream out “daddy , daddy please i’m sorry”

likening the answer, buried nose-deep in your pussy, hands gripping your hips praying to god it leaves bruises ‘min didn’t stop until you release on his tongue. , the knot in your abdomen begins to coil , “Ah, daddy!” You sob as he watches you fall apart on his tongue. He is the only one who has ever made you feel this way- all for him. You feel your orgasm build and before long, gush all over his mouth. armin slides up your body and compliments you after pulling away from your pussy.

toji: barley legal / father’s friend , ngl predatory toji, daddy kink , choking, finger gagging

•tojis a odd man

•he knows it’s “against the law” to fine little ol’ 17 yr you attractive

•so that’s why he watched and waited

•till he favorite day of the year yet! your birthday

•toji knows for the fact you wanna fuck him and it’s ok cause he wants to do the exact same

[]

“how would your dad feel if he hears you calling me daddy, mhm?” he asks with three fingers gagging you while you bend over on all fours getting pounded into like tomorrow isn’t promised “ or how would megumi feel about this aww you know he’s had a crush on you for the longest” he fake pouts pulling out to flip you over so he can look you in the eye one thump on clit other hand gripping your neck “but here you are fucking his dad like dick drunk bitch you are”

reiner: cnc , roleplay, size kink , choking

•you and reiner have a very .. interesting sex life

•you both are into pretty extreme kinks bc of trauma in yalls past

•one the both of you particularly love is cnc

•you love the feeling of being helpless and losing all control to him

•you both have safe words you can say that anytime

•and after is almost instant after the scene

[]

hey, mister, i think you missed my turn , my house is the other way" the man driving the uber stares at you, “i’m sorry did you hear me we’re going the wrong way." the man shrugs. i know i quicker way

After a few, he takes a detour into an empty basically middle of nowhere soccer field parks the car and you both stare at each other till he breaks the silence

“aww you scared? dont be scared i know how to please whores like you!” he smiles climbing over the seat as you try to get out the car but oh no :(( he’s got child locks on

no one can even hear your screams begging him stop as he forces his cock in your tight little cunt

reiners so big n strong you feel like it hard to breathe the way he has his hands wrapped around your neck pounding into you oh so deeply you feel like your being ripped open

you can tell him “no stop!” or “you’re a monster!” but reiner can feel you the way you squeeze around him when he tells you this is your fault for being a slut but it’s ok! you’re just shy he think, as he rubs your clit and in no time you cream all over him.

ahhh , i hope y’all enjoyed! my first dark content post i wanna do a part 2 with more taboos so pls lmk if you want !!

[jerreeeeeee]

*"understanding" meaning they know they disagree but also understand the other can't be stopped/thinks they're doing the right thing, whether that manifests as avoiding the topic altogether when they meet, or just weary acceptance and frank conversation; and "antagonistic" meaning at least one of them is actively trying to interfere/stop the other/convince the other to stop, in the interaction itself

i see a lot of different interpretations of barry & lucretia's relationship after the voidfish and i've gone back and forth over what i think so i wanted to see what the general consensus is

my thoughts under the cut

i can't imagine barry realizes what's happened and doesn't try to 'reason with' lucretia for a little while, before eventually somewhat accepting that she won't listen to him, because after a certain amount of time, it just gets exhausting to hope he can still sway her. like i don't think he gives up, he still tries sometimes, because he has to, that's his whole life at this point, hoping and trying and not giving up in the face of isolation and despair and impossible odds, but he knows he has to pick his battles. and sometimes they catch each other on bad days and he’s just really fucking glad to see her and really fucking disappointed in her and really fucking tired, unable to muster the conviction or energy to fight with her.

and lucretia doesn't do much trying to convince barry, because she knows she couldn't get him on board with her shield beforehand, and he definitely doesn't approve of what she did to taako and himself, not to mention davenport (if he even knows about davenport, cause that’s gotta be really distressing for him, right? do you think barry ever tries to kidnap davenport).

i think after that initial period, and certainly after the BOB is created, they're both afraid of what the other is up to, afraid the other will disrupt their own plans, and try to avoid the other detecting them altogether. but, they're also both incredibly lonely and know the other is the only person in the world who understands what's at stake and the burdens they're both carrying, so even though they don't seek each other out often, they both want to, and maybe sometimes do. a conversation after lucretia gets out of wonderland is especially compelling.

i don't think they interact between here there be gerblins and reunion tour, though, mostly because i think lucretia just doesn't really leave the moonbase now that the bureau has some wins and is getting closer to its goal, and as soon as she knows barry's messing with the boys, she's too paranoid at whatever barry's plans are that are completely unknown to her and wants to avoid him in case he's come up with a way to really stop her. and barry is equally paranoid about her discovering his information gathering and keeping him from his plans to infiltrate the moon base, so he doesn't want to show back up on her radar. i don't think lucretia confronted barry when he possessed pringles, because barry still puts the instructions on his coin for the old puzzle, but if he'd been caught, i think he would've anticipated it changing, so i think she discovered it after the fact.

i don't know if i even think they've spoken since lucretia created the bureau, because that's when they start to become, like, "enemies," officially, as lucretia genuinely starts to villainize barry, however reluctantly. although, depending on how much contact they'd had before that, depending on if she's aware of him out in the world working against her or if from her pov he just sorta disappeared somewhere mysterious, maybe she's not even really thinking of barry as 'the red robe,' and more thinking of herself. because she does tell thb originally that the red robes are all dead and gone, and if she'd truly anticipated them coming into contact with barry, wouldn't she have said, there's still one out there, he's dangerous, don't talk to him, etc, like she does later? maybe the red robes story was originally just an easy way to explain away why the relics existed, and privately, to hate herself for her role in it. maybe she doesn't even realize she's villainized her old friend until that consequence makes itself clear by accident, and then there's nothing for her to do but lean into it and turn the remnants of their family against him for real.

[quinloki]

Birthday Request Event v2024

"It's my birthday and I'll write what I want to \o/"

Gift Details ♥ Reader Style: cisfem Character: Rob Lucci Vibe: NSFW Consensual AU: Soul Mates Prompt: Erotically Charged Fight Gift Giver: @jintaka-hane

Summary: You've experienced the worst side of Soul Mates being a reality - your long term relationship had found their soul mate and left you. So you dove into martial arts as a means of distraction.

Lucky (?) for you, it's what causes you to finally meet your soul mate.

Content Notes: canon levels of violence, oral, rough sex, mentions of blood, cream pie,

This birthday party is 18+, consensual unless explicitly stated otherwise, and BYOB

There wasn’t a protocol for this, but even if there was, Lucci wasn’t certain that it would do him any good.

His initial attack failed. Whether by dumb luck, or your own skill, he’d missed. That had become a problem. In this world, with its rules, and his job, he had to eliminate his target with the first strike. Anything less invited a terrible risk, and of all the statistical possibilities, that risk came true with you.

Your eyes were wide with fear as you tumbled away. The way you got back to your feet left him with the distinct and sudden impression that you hadn’t been merely lucky.

Realization marred your beautiful face, as he was sure it was twisting his.

Soul mates.

Lucci hadn’t given the concept much thought. With his job, with his skills, with the blood on his hands, what right did he have to consider something as pure as love? And beyond even that was the very laughable idea of soul mates.

He’d never loved anything save himself, and even that love was cruel.

All of his arrogance, all of his sureness - everything was used for the government. There was nothing of him to be concerned with. Nothing to stop him from doing the tasks required of him, whether it was years under cover, or a few days spent stalking some poor hapless fool.

Looking at the man who had invited himself into your home, you feel a powerful conflict of emotions. How dare he come in uninvited! How dare he mean to kill you!

HOW DARE HE BE YOUR SOUL MATE!

Everyone had one. The curse of this world, as far as you were concerned. Because while everyone had at least one, no one was promised to find theirs. There were no red strings of fate to guide people, no services provided by the government to help you find yours. Nothing but the cold hard truth of it, and nothing to protect you from simply falling in love.

It was your broken heart that had distracted itself by learning how to fight. It was sorrow of a love lost to the very concept of soul mates that you had honed your skills with all the fervor of a desperate monk. That you could dedicate yourself to a love that would never find another damnable soul mate.

That love had saved your life when the chill of death ran up your spine moments earlier and bade you move.

And it saved you for this? For your soul mate?

“You bastard!” You growl, charging at the stunned assassin. You knew he was reeling just like you should be. Whatever state he was in, he didn’t have your rage, and it shook off the powerful desires threatening to crack your bones.

He dodges the strike, but barely. You feel strands of his hair slip through your fingers as you pivot. Shock twists to something akin to confusion on his face, and he bats away another swing. He seems ready to attack you, but his body stutters, and the confusion on his face turns to anger as you lash out again, forcing him to take another step back.

“How?!” He growls, grabbing your wrist at the end of a series of punches. His grip is locked like iron, and you can’t escape it, but somehow it’s still gentle. You understand he could break it easily, but he’s not even trying.

“Why now!” You roar. “Why years too late?! Bastard!” You repeat, stepping in and driving your free hand into his stomach. Whether the words, or the bold movement, something caught him off guard enough to force the air from him.

His grip on your wrist loosens and you pull it free. “You asshole!”

You hear him growl, more like a beast than a man, and as he straightens there’s no more confusion in his eyes. He matches your strikes, knocking your blows aside and dodging your attacks with a fluidity he hadn’t shown in his shocked state. Irritation is written plainly on his handsome face, and anger swells in you again as you start to realize you can’t best him.

Anger, but no fear. You’re not sure why. He tried to kill you - he can kill you! You should be afraid.

Once he sorts out the rhythm of your fighting style, he draws you in. Lucci’s too experienced to be concerned about someone with just a couple years of fighting under their belt, but there’s a strange feeling of pride in his gut. You’re not bad. At the very least your instincts make up for what you lack in skill, and that’s what put you both in this predicament.

Getting both your wrists this time he turns you, folding them behind your back and pinning you roughly against the wall. You try to kick yourself away from it, but he forces your leg to the side and puts his knee right between your thighs, using his height to nearly lift you off the floor.

“Ahhhhnngh ❤️!” Your euphoric cry causes both of you to freeze.

“…”

“The hell was - nnnnnnngh!!” He pressed his knee into your crotch again and you couldn’t supress the jolt that went through you.

“What a pleasant sound.” He leans against you, cheek pressed against your head as he holds you in place. His breath is hot against your ear. “Far better than before.”

He pulls you up enough to tease his lips against your neck, making you shiver and moan softly. Letting go of your wrists he puts his hands on the wall on either side of you, keeping you effectively pinned.

You have enough space to turn and face him, and maybe it’s a mistake to do so.

Grabbing the collar of his shirt you pull him in, or he allows you to, or you will him to allow you. Who cares, his lips against yours are a flood of pleasure and heat. You don’t let yourself think about it, about everything leading up to this. The rollercoaster of emotions was too much and you let your desires guide you.

He pulls his shirt off when your hands tug it up. The shift of his muscles, the lines of scars, the deep ink of tattoos, everything was known to you, and everything left you wanting more. You pulled at his belt as he tossed the shirt aside. He interrupts your attempts, pulling your shirt off and tossing it aside.

Your clothing is barely shed enough to be out of the way. He pulls you into another kiss, unhooking your bra and leaving you to take it off as he yanks his troublesome belt free.

The metallic clatter barely registers. Heavy, heated kisses are trailing down your stomach as he crouches down in front of you. You weave your fingers through his hair while he tugs your pants down and away. One leg, and then the other, he hooks your thighs with his arms and lifts you easily, pressing your back into wall as his mouth dives into your pussy.

Your fingers tighten in his hair and you cry out into the air. Trapped between him and the wall there’s no escaping the demanding man between your thighs. Heavy searching licks note every sound and twitch and it only takes him a couple minutes to have you shivering from his actions.

His tongue’s buried in your pussy and you don’t even know his name yet.

Holding onto his hair you push yourself into his face as your pleasure crests. There’s no reason to hold back, and he laps up every second of your messy pleasure. Sharp eyes cut through your hazy gaze and he brings you down slowly, keeping your ankles at his shoulders as the tip of his hard, thick cock pushes against your dripping hole.

“Say it,” he commands, pressing against you. He’s desperate and half mad, but he seems to be holding back as much as he can.

You shift, looking at the beast between your thighs before looking back up at him. “Please.”

He pushes in, just the tip, and you moan, hands against the back of his neck. “Lucci,” he says, and you gasp, groaning as he pulls back out.

You don’t have to be soul mates to know what he wants.

“Please, Lucci,” you mean to say more, but apparently all he wanted on your lips was his name. Pushing into you he devours your gasp of pleasure, kissing you deeply. Hands gripping your ass, he holds you steady as he  takes you, barely giving you time to breathe or think.

Heavy thrusts, rough husky gasps falling from his lips that crash into your skin, hot and deep as the cock threatening to split you in half. There’s little more than pleasure in the harsh treatment, the pressure of the wall against your skin is a dull, useless ache you can’t be bothered to recognize. The sting of sharp nails digging into your ass as he fucks you against the wall are ticklish compared to the dizzying heat of his hungry and demanding kisses.

Lucci nearly bites into your neck when he finally releases your lips. You’re sure the frantic hold you have on him is trickling blood down his back, as the second orgasm slams into you. Every brush of his skin against yours feels amazing, every brush of his breath against your sweaty skin has you nearly crying for relief. Your orgasm causes his, and you can feel him twitching deep inside you, pressing you shakily against the wall as a few final, wet thrusts leak your combined pleasure down the curve of your ass and onto the floor.

Soul mates.

You collapse into a pile of bones and exhaustion on the floor when he pulls out of you and eases you down. You regard one another in the haze of the sweetest afterglow you’ve ever known, and you wonder idly which is stronger.

This new bond?

Or his devotion to the government?

[bardic-inspo]

Midnight Chimes

Chapter Eight: Creature Comforts

Pairing: Astarion x Cursed! Tav

Next Chapter (Coming Soon!) ✨Full Chapter List ✨BG3 Fic Masterlist ✨

Series Summary:

It’s easier for Astarion to believe Naomi tastes so sweet because she was his first. Easier to ignore the fact that every undead in vague proximity yearns for the same blood that’s sated him night after night. Easier to pretend her music is arcane as any other bard’s, and not divine enough to wake corpses from the dirt. Easier to pretend Naomi is simply a bard, and not something more akin to a siren. One that's slowly realized she's not just another sailor, after all. Easier to bury the fact that he's already stupidly in love with her. Like she wouldn't just raise that out of the ground, too. A curse rears its head. A devil comes calling. Astarion fights for his freedom from Cazador. He and the rest of their merry little band fight to save Tav from the doom she feels she's fated for.

Chapter Preview:

“All I want is a bit of fun,” he huffs, exasperated. “Is that so hard to ask?” Good, she thinks. It wouldn’t do her any good to go believing otherwise. To believe that drivel he pours could’ve come from somewhere earnest, instead of some purple-prosed paperback with the spine bent as often as a whore’s. But it could feel good, to be broken in by him like a tome left too-long untouched. To yield to someone else’s touch again. Better to ache with it after, having been opened and known again, than to ache alone. “You mean sex.”

Chapter CW: SMUTTY SMUT SMUT. NO LONGER EVENTUAL. 100% CONSENSUAL.

✨ Click here if you prefer to read on AO3 ✨

Naomi wakes from a sleep without dreams to find her feet without shoes.

Stiffness lances through her shoulder blades. Gingerly, she shifts from her propped seat against the tree trunk, frowning at the threadbare blanket she finds tucked around her bare toes. She shivers with the chill that nips her neck, shrugging the blanket closer.

Serves her right for falling asleep in a place so stupid. In such sparse clothing, no less. Her nightgown seems far too sheer in the sunlight.

But then, whoever thought to leave her a blanket should’ve thought more about what one measly bit of cloth would do. Absolutely nothing, in these elements. She’d need a half-dozen more layers, at least, to stave off the cold that creeps in on autumn nights.

Sure, the days are warm enough. But only by the grace of a sun that burns as much as it comforts the cold away. The Underdark has its own volatile elementals and fitful lava fields. But not weather beyond ‘dry’ or ‘damp’. Certain reaches of her homeland are said to be cold, but Naomi’s never known them. For most of her life, she’s only known consistent warmth and heady humidity.

Up here, the air’s thinner. Flexible. Ever changing. 

It’s a change, to be so immersed in it. In her prior travels, any inn she came to would offer room to a bard who would work to earn her keep. They hadn’t heard of her, sure. But then, they heard her with a fiddle and forgot whatever qualms they had about welcoming in a strange drow.

In the company of a snapping hearth, from the safety of a window, Naomi had seen the sky heave and sob. Every time a storm rolled through, the heavens stomped their feet like a wailing babe. Water leaked from the clouds like a wrung sponge. Such a messy, miserable ordeal. Snow, at least, sparkles on the way down. But all in all, she’d rather not be soaked in any such nonsense.

Perhaps her companions would think her sheltered. Pampered. Soft.

But none of them know how to weave through bibberbang without breathing it in. Probably, none of them can tell the difference between torchstalk and timmask. Well, maybe Gale can. But no way can he gut a bulette without wasting any of it. He’d probably still make a halfway decent stew out of it, though.

Naomi never knew the comfort of her own room with a featherbed before she’d known the surface. Astarion isn’t so cushy, and not nearly so warm. But his company was comfort enough, it seems, for Naomi to stumble into sleep.

She clears her throat, glancing sideways, but already knowing the elf must be long gone. She must have him to blame for the blanket. And, apparently, the boots.

Tentatively, Naomi reaches for the shoes left in Astarion’s stead. Her fingertips follow the bright blue stitching on the sides, curling into leather that’s been carefully polished free from age and wear. He didn’t find them like this, she’s sure. 

She’s also sure he’s flighty. Dangerous, when the mood strikes him. More because of his tongue than his teeth. He’d sell her to save his own hide if he had to. If they stood in each other’s shoes, and the Gur had come for her, perhaps she’d be in chains right now.

Maybe Astarion’s never known the comfort of having someone watch his back. That, at least, was something Naomi always had back home. Maybe that’s why she finds herself taking her tentative alliance with the vampire to heart. Or why she’ll indulge in his flirtations, even as he plucks the lowest hanging fruit she’s ever heard. 

She feels sorry for him. The notion squirms in her gut. Oh, he’d loathe that. But he’d love that it’s only half the truth.

The other part is that he’s funny. She laughs at him as much as with him. But, still. When he giggles like a fountain, it’s hard to down the sound with a straight face. 

And he’s beautiful. His lips are sly and snide and smirking, but they’re plush, too. And there’s something about the too-perfect set of his snow-white curls that curls her knuckles here and now. She leans her head back against the tree with a soft sigh. Her mind mills with thoughts of raking her fingers in his hair, while that wicked mouth of his melts against her own.

Perhaps all he’s really out for is blood, and her body is just a consolation prize. But it’s nice to feel wanted. Even in some shallow sense.

Naomi slips into her new shoes with a fleeting smile, flexing to feel they fit just right. A little comfort could go a long way. For her and the vampire both.

Wrapping the blanket tightly around her for some semblance of modesty, if not pride, Naomi tiptoes back into the cave where they’ve made camp. The scent of broth swells to her nose, setting her mouth watering. Gale tends to breakfast. Shadowheart, Wyll, and Karlach talk in warm tones that blend with the crackle of the cookfire. Naomi ducks behind the tents, keeping to the fringes until she can safely tuck inside her own. If anyone catches a glimpse of her, they have the decency to keep quiet about it.

Naomi keeps her tent neat and orderly; even while staying in the inns, any urge to sprawl recoiled to the memory of her temple matrons scolding her for not keeping tidy enough in her youth. She’d shared a room with so many others, then. It took some time to be able to trance on her own without their soft chorus of breath swimming in her ears. She’d never known, before, that quiet could be so deafening.

And lonely.

Her pack rests near her tousled bedroll. Naomi eyes the tent’s other occupant warily as she rifles for a change of clothes. Alfira’s lute lurks in the corner where the tent’s drapes of blue-gray canvas loop around the pole holding them aloft.

Gale concluded Alfira’s instrument isn’t cursed after all. After that valiant effort, Naomi hadn’t had the heart to tell him she never learned to play the lute even a little. She can return it to the tieflings today, at least.

Cursed. The notion rolls in her mind, restless like a stormcloud. Restless, like the purpling shadows beneath her eyes. Naomi scowls into her tarnished pocket mirror and stuffs it back into her pack. 

She can’t keep on with so little rest. She needs to trance again, properly. Even if it means another meeting with the devil. Devils deal in contracts more than curses. It makes little difference; they’re all C-words, anyways.

Including that hag.

Dirge singer. Death bringer. Though, the hag could’ve called her ‘sunflower’ and made it sound like she murdered a puppy.

“Ouch!”

Naomi flinches sharply. Her hands retract from her pack on instinct. She turns her palms over, but finds no sign of what stung her. And the crawling necromancy stains that darkened her arms the day before have almost faded entirely. 

Thrrrum.

A sudden chord snaps like a rubberband, strummed harsh and fast and then gone. Naomi hisses, ears aching even as she rubs them.

Thrrrrum. THRRRRUM. 

The sound skewers through her skull. Naomi cowers. 

THRUM, thrum-THRUM, THRR--- 

Swallowing hard, heart hammering, Naomi whips her head towards the lute.

It’s just as lifeless as the girl who used to play it.

Birdsong filters through the camp alongside the crackling fire. The sounds are just as smoky sweet as they were before. As if nothing sour interrupted them at all.

Naomi lets out a tight sigh, massaging the fresh lines forming on her forehead. Those few discordant notes, they sounded familiar. For a split second, she thought she could make something of them. A melody, maybe. She can’t think of how it goes. Her jaw clenches as she braids the loose hair around her face back into her bun.

She trades her tunic for her leather armor, even though it still needs tending, and even though their travels today will take them back to the safety of the Grove. They’ve a habit of stumbling into monsters at every turn, after all. She gathers up the borrowed blanket and sets off to return Astarion’s brief affliction with kindness. 

Well, part of it. She’s keeping the shoes.

She finds him pouring over some moldering text. Even squinting, she can’t make out the title on the cracked leather binding. Astarion doesn’t even lift his head as she hovers. She clears her throat pointedly.

“Good morning, darling,” he murmurs, distant. Reluctantly, he peels his eyes from the fresh page he turns to, wearing a practiced smile that grows smug as he soaks in the sight of her. “You’ve gotten your beauty sleep, I see.”

“Thank you,” she says, holding out the blanket to him. “For this.”

Metal clangs behind her. Naomi stiffens. Gale spews curses as he fumbles with the lid of the stew pot. “Oh, for the love of--”

Astarion scowls at the blanket, and then at her, one elegant eyebrow arched.

“And for these,” she adds, shifting her heel so he can admire his own handiwork. The blue stitching arches bright against the dark leather. She finds herself staring, too. And babbling like a brook to fill the weighty silence. “You picked a nice color. Almost makes me think of--”

She stops short, mouth suddenly dry, eyes flitting back to his face to find him surveying her with a sly smile.

“--home,” she finishes quietly.

He wanted it to, she realizes. Astarion knows how to get what he wants. And he wanted her to think of him and home in the same blink, every morning, as she takes her first step into daylight. 

The sun suits you as well as the stars do, darling. 

He wants to be threaded through her head, inextricable, like the steaming waters she waded into as a child, the songs drifting from the temple, the warmth and wet of the Underdark itself. He means to sink teeth into her memories and add his fangs to the ones she treasures.

Naomi swallows thickly. She wouldn’t mind offering her neck for another night. With the dirt rough beneath her. His body pressing, taut, against her own. She wouldn’t mind it at all, now that she knows where all that blood goes.

Raw heat sweeps her skin, just like the kind that furled from the lake she showed him in her memories. Astarion’s gaze slinks over her, sheer and silky. She feels bare beneath it.

Until he utters some chiding, knowing sound, low in the back of his throat. Then, she feels sweaty. Balmy. Grimy. And sheepish. She shifts her weight between her feet.

It’s more likely, maybe, that he just doesn’t want to owe her anything. She’s helping him flourish, after all. Astarion’s not the sort to be dirtied with debts.

“But of course,” the vampire croons. “We need our fearless leader in tip-top shape, after all.”

“Your leader?” She repeats incredulously.

Astarion turns his head one way, then the other, making a show of looking about. It’s all dramatic effect; his pout of confusion easily reverts to his signature smirk a second later. “Do you see anyone else stepping up, darling? When you open those lovely lips, lovely things seem to happen. Either our enemies fall, or they fall in line.  We’re all inclined to let you keep doing it. Besides, it’s been so much fun to watch.”

She’s fully aware her slack-jawed expression only feeds the gleam in his eye. It’s not the lewdness of his implication that catches her off guard, but the pragmatism of it. The faith in her that he and the others apparently share. 

The goblins were easy to bring to heel; they nearly bent over backwards at the mere sight of a drow, anyway. But even after the incident with Alfira, and her escapade with the hag…her companions still want her to take the reins.

Naomi’s stomach knots. They’ve seen her use her tongue like a whip or a chain, and somewhere along the way, without her even bidding them too, they decided to fall in line as well.

Dimly, she hears Gale falling over his own feet somewhere behind them. Or, maybe he’s choking. Hard to make heads or tails of that strangled, scuffling sound. When she half-turns her cheek, the wizard’s face is ripened red, but he seems no worse for wear. Astarion takes her attention again. 

“And if the shoes fit,” Astarion hums merrily, “well, it’s really all decided then. I do have more of that thread. But it would be better suited if you dyed those leathers we took from that dead drow, first. I imagine they’ll fit you perfectly.”

There wouldn’t be much left to the imagination at all, if she wore what little clothing he spoke of. Much as she might loathe everything else to come from Menzoberranzan, begrudgingly, she knows the garb would look good on her. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says evenly, forcing the blanket firmly into his grip.

His lips twitch, but he takes it, cradling his book carefully in one hand, while holding the blanket at arm’s length in the other. He stalks off with it pinched between his fingers, held at bay from his body as if it were sopping. Gale lets out another strained noise that sounds suspiciously like a screaming kettle.

“Are you…all right?” She asks him, eying his unkempt hair. His knuckles must’ve worried it into disarray. The stew bubbles fitfully beneath the wizard’s furrowed brow.

“I am simply stupendous,” he promises, but it sounds pitchy. “Never better!”

The grove opens to them readily, with praise and thanks heaped like confetti upon their heads as they pass the tieflings’ caravan. Wyll and Karlach drink in the accolades, doling out kindness in equal measure, as if serving up helpings of Gale’s nightly stew. The wizard himself struts a little taller as he basks in their gratitude. Even Shadowheart seems moved to the slightest smile -- one she might actually admit to, if pressed.

Astarion’s mouth morphs between a smirk and a sneer. One moment, he hovers near Naomi’s shoulder. The next, she turns to find he’s tucked tail, lurking near the rear of the party like a cat that keeps circling but won’t quite settle.

Naomi finds a stature fitting of a hero-by-happenstance, accepting Zevlor’s coin and offer of camaraderie with the right words and the right thanks. The kind a good person might give, with the kind of performance that a good person might believe. It earns her a sideways glance from Shadowheart and Astarion both.

Naomi doesn’t shy from their scrutiny. They’re the same in this, she’s sure. At least, she’s not so sure she would have spared the effort on the tieflings’ behalf, if the search for a cure steered them elsewhere.

The real prize is a spoiled fruit; Halsin doesn’t have the cure they’d dared to hope for. But he has information. And he makes good on his promise to share it. The burly elf waves a hand in greeting as they approach him at the heart of the Grove.

“I hear there’s to be a celebration this evening,” Halsin says. “Well-deserved, after all your efforts. I hope you relish the chance at revelry. It may be some time before you’re afforded another such night. There is much to be done. And I promised I would help you however I could.”

“You did,” Naomi replies, leaning back to survey the rather sturdy length of him. “We'll make our plans now so we can make merry later.”

“I’m certain a cure for you can be found at Moonrise Towers,” the druid asserts, “but it’s…complicated. The journey, specifically -- it’s extremely perilous. Though, it seems you’re well-accustomed to navigating danger. To get to the Towers, you’ll need to pass through a terrible place -- a cursed place.”

Naomi stifles a sigh. There’s that ‘C’ word again. Cropping up like a stubborn weed. What else did she expect, really?

Halsin tells them of the shadow curse shrouding Moonrise and the surrounding region in darkness and decay. When Naomi wonders aloud how the Absolute’s forces could withstand such conditions, the druid doesn’t have an answer.

“Perhaps it’s the tadpoles,” Astarion muses airily. “Our wriggling friends might shield us from the curse entirely.”

“Only the Absolute’s elites have them,” Gale says with a shake of his head. “Their foot soldiers don’t. They’d need another method to move en masse.”

“You could go overland, along the Risen Road or through the mountains,” Halsin suggests. “But you’ll run into the shadow curse eventually. You could also go under. There is a tunnel in the ruined temple of Selune. It leads to Moonrise Towers through the Underdark.”

Naomi doesn’t meet any of the eyes that snap, at once, to her. She fixes her gaze, instead, to the scenery just past Halsin’s broad shoulders. Even without the tadpole, she knows they all share the same thought.

Wyll gives voice to the question hanging over them. “Is there any chance such a route might carry us near your home? Would you know the way?”

“No,” Naomi answers flatly.

“That’s a shame,” Astarion murmurs beneath his breath, the sound teasing like a breeze near her ear. “Truly. I would’ve liked to have seen it in person.”

Naomi stiffens. She feels his presence prickle along her neck again, even though he’s feet away. A memory of his bite. One bite out of her memories, and he thinks he has her story figured.

“You would’ve seen a pile of rubble,” she says without inflection. “That’s all that’s left of it, now. Boulders and bones.”

“A shame,” he says again, gently enough, her jaw softens slightly.

“But I do know the Underdark,” she says, rolling her shoulders back. “I know what we might find down there. How to navigate underground.”

“And if what we’ve heard from some of the tieflings is true,” Shadowheart adds grimly, “there’s Githyanki along the other route. Strong odds they would’ve had our heads even with Lae’zel in tow. Without her, it’s not a wager I’d like to take.”

One unanimous nod of assent from the others, and it’s decided, even before Halsin tells them further of Ketheric Thorm’s fabled fortress. The mention of her goddess lights Shadowheart like a candle. Before their eyes, the devotee of darkness positively glows.

Naomi wonders, ruefully, if the Sharran will have the same demeanor a few weeks into a moss-and-mushroom diet. Perhaps she’ll need to teach them how to gut a bulette, after all.

“Well, go on! Get in there with them!” Karlach blurts, swaying in time to the lively tune brightening the hollow. Her mug of beer sloshes, spilling over with the overzealous shimmy of her hips.

Naomi winces, back turned to the band as the crowd claps to their rhythm. “I was never good at being that sort of bard,” she shouts above the crescendo.

“What, fun at parties?” Karlach scoffs. “What other kind is there?”

“I’m a riot at a funeral.”

Karlach’s back bows as she glugs, streams seeping from her lips. Naomi watches, briefly fascinated, as the beer sizzles on the surface of Karlach’s broiling skin. It steams off of her in a sweet, wheaty aroma.

“It wassss sssbeautiful,” Karlach murmurs, sobering even as she slurs. “What you did for Lae’zel. Even though she despised you. You sing too pretty to stand around and pout about it!”

Naomi smiles, in spite of herself. “And your mug is too empty for you to still be standing around, talking to me.”

“Fine. Fine,” Karlach heaves an overdrawn sigh, stumbling off reluctantly. “But you’d better break out that fiddle they gave you in our next fight. I wanna hear this riot of yours!”

Flickering silhouettes stutter across the orange glow bathing the clearing. Naomi’s left alone again among so many of Zevlor’s caravan, those they saved from certain death at the goblins’ hands. Song rakes the air alongside fluttering flakes of ash and buffeting laughter. 

Naomi watches the festivities like she would a sunrise; they’re a gorgeous spectacle, to be sure. Something she can see, that can wash over her, but she isn’t part of it, even standing here, adrift in the middle of it. 

Alfira should be. 

She hadn’t wanted to accept the fiddle Zevlor had handed to her in exchange for Alfira’s lute. Well, she’d wanted to accept it. Whether she should have is a moot point now. It stays stowed in her tent for tonight. Still, she thinks of it wistfully.

It’s a beautiful, breakable thing. But it fit like a glove, in her grasp, beneath her chin. In a way that so little has.

“Do you ever tire of denying yourself?”

Naomi offers Astarion a sideways glance. The vampire offers her wine, straight from the bottle. Tentatively, Naomi reaches for it. Their knuckles brush against each other on the neck. The touch is gentle, and yet it feels like flint to steel the way it lingers, sparking, in her fingertips.

Astarion’s eyes shine like the glass in the firelight as she lifts it to her lips for a swig. 

The wine is sharp at first, and then it smooths to velvet on her tongue. Rich. Red. And--

“Awful, isn’t it?” Astarion mutters critically while she hands it back. “Vinegar for wine is hardly a fair consolation prize for all of our blood, sweat, and carnage. I think you deserve something sweeter, hm? A taste of what you’ve been staring at. Perhaps we both do.”

Astarion’s gaze drops, heavy-lidded, to her neck. She’s sure he can see the flush of it, even in the darkness, even by firelight.

 “A little…levity,” he whispers, and it sounds like a promise. “I was right, of course. Those leathers do suit you.”

Naomi swallows, abruptly warm even in such sparse clothing. Astarion’s eyes cut the angle the leather does, down between her breasts, to the lacing at her navel. It would only be one step to close the distance between them, yet, that space weighs her ankles; the notion of moving even an inch feels like wading through waist-high water.

“Yes, I’m tired of it,” she says, eyes peeling back to the party around them. Wistfully, she watches the sway of the bards, their fingers flitting over flute and fiddle. “No, I’m not sure I deserve any different.” She takes a shallow breath, forehead creased, discordant worry whittling in the back of her mind. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten something very important.”

“You have, haven’t you?” He says, head tilted. Naomi blinks up at him wordlessly.

“Pleasure, sweet thing,” he shakes his head, pitying. “I could feel it when I was lost in your neck, you know. You’re positively starved for it? Aren’t you?”

Yes, she thinks at once, an ache panging in her chest. Of course I am. She doesn’t--

“You don’t need to say anything. I already know how you feel,” Astarion rasps, daring the inch closer she couldn’t take herself. His slender hand darts out swift as a dagger. 

Naomi tenses for the touch that doesn't come. His fingertips only ghost over the hairline scar slashed across her nose, tracing its path, but never once grazing it. 

“I know what your last lover left you with,” he says. “And I know better, darling.”

The back of his hand curves down with the column of her neck in a could-be caress. Naomi’s throat bobs, and Astarion’s gaze flits to the motion, fixated. All at once, the fireside is sweltering. 

Intoxicating. The scent of him floods her, crisp and spiced even above the smell of the smoking flames. She hadn’t noticed before, even with her head against his shoulder. But one breath closer, one breath away, and it takes her mind away from anything else.

“I feel it too, you know. This…connection between us,” he says beneath the snap of kindling. 

It feels just as frail, this tentative thread winding them closer. So close, she thinks. He’s so close that, for the first time, she can see his chest is perfectly still without a breath pulled through it.

What might it feel like, to be still for a moment? To lay her ear to his ribs and hear nothing at all? Silence without solitude. Sanctuary without…history.

Pleasure, instead of pain.

He’s so close. He’s so hungry, with the wolfish gleam in his eye, and the edge of fangs in his smirk. But it can’t be a tether he longs for. 

“What do you want Astarion?”

His brow twitches before it settles again. “You know,” he purrs, “I’ve been very good, too. Playing the hero of all things. Hmph.”

“That’s not an answer.” Her snicker sours his expression to a scowl.

“All I want is a bit of fun,” he huffs, exasperated. “Is that so hard to ask?”

Good, she thinks. It wouldn’t do her any good to go believing otherwise. To believe that drivel he pours could’ve come from somewhere earnest, instead of some purple-prosed paperback with the spine bent as often as a whore’s.

But it could feel good, to be broken in by him like a tome left too-long untouched. To yield to someone else’s touch again. Better to ache with it after, having been opened and known again, than to ache alone.

“You mean sex,” she says, his slow-spreading smile a mirror of her own.

“The kind you’ll never forget,” Astarion drawls, voice gaining gravel again. “We could steal away once the others are asleep. Take the night for ourselves and forget all this madness. I know where we can find our own little piece of nowhere.”

Astarion’s eyes are crimson as the wine he hands her. His fingers curl cool, around hers, as she takes his offering a second time. The sip tingles on her tongue, brimming with promise.

The vampire wets his lips. “So what do you say, lover?”

Damp grass tamps down beneath her feet. Naomi shivers, free of the fireside’s warmth, and -- she confirms with one last glance over her shoulder -- free from prying eyes. The night’s crisp, cool, and quiet but for the dull croak of creatures who call the brush their home.

Between the bottle brush pines, she glimpses a sky alive with simmering stars. It’s beautiful. Resplendent. She could stare at those heavens for hours, neck craned upward, her chin in her hands.

Naomi comes to the crest of a small incline. The forest thins. There, across tall grasses, leaned lithe against a tree, she sees him. When she blinks again, the moon, the stars, and the faint blush of the astral sea seeping from beyond are all dull, faded things.

“There you are,” Astarion’s whisper is coarse. He presses from the tree. Naomi can’t quell the hitch in her breath. Moonlight slinks with him, liquid silver cloaked over his bare shoulders.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says, closing their distance with long, lazy strides as her own steps cease. “Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you. Waiting to have you.”

Pristine, moon-bleached curls frame his face. She knew she’d find that knowing smirk on his lips. But the heady lust in his eyes is tempered with a softness so different from the silky way he speaks and stares. Like sand through her fingers, it feels so fleeting.

“You've been waiting to use that line,” she says, but the barb lacks any sting. “And besides, I know it was murder on your mind that first time we met. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Briefly, his eyes narrow before his expression smooths to match his tone. “Oh darling, all I wanted to do that night was taste you.”

The spiced scent of him swells with her hammering heartbeat. Naomi’s eyes wander, unbidden, to the curve of his lower lip. The barest tips of his fangs dig into the plush of it.

“I think you want to be tasted,” he says with certainty. “I think one bite wasn’t enough.”

“You could be right,” she whispers back, eyes half-lidded.

Gently, he lifts her chin with a pair of his fingers. “I think the night we met could’ve gone something like this.”

The crush of his lips is velvet; his mouth is soft as it catches hers, rougher as he keeps it. She drifts into the kiss, weightless, lost to the slow, deliberate, inevitable way he coaxes her open.

His hand on her hip is a sudden anchor, his fingertips pressing imprints of sweet pressure. She parts for him readily; her legs shift to accommodate the nimble fingers working her free of her laces, her lips allowing his tongue to soothe the ache he made. 

She thinks of those same skilled hands, working open a lock with an expertise that would have earned anyone else calluses. He always pinches the pick so precisely in his grip, the blue veins in his pale wrists flexing with instinct but only the barest effort. With just as much ease, the leathers crumple at her heels and he bears her to the night. 

Abruptly, he parts from her. Naomi pants, chest heaving. As he steps back, she steps forward out of her clothing piled in the dirt. 

Red eyes rake down her body, burning from her neck to her navel like wine down her throat. He dips with fluid motion, doing away with his trousers before he straightens. Her own gaze flits low as anticipation clenches between her legs. Her teeth catch the inside of her cheek, muffling the noise she knows would only grow the girth of his ego.

There’s so very much of him to anticipate.

Strong arms loop around her waist, ending any distance between them with firm pull. She gives to his grip, catching her breath as the chill panes of his chest press cool against her breasts. When his lips have hers again, and his hands weave reckless though her hair, he casts the cold away entirely. At least, she forgets all about it while he’s tugging her hair loose from its bun, and tugging her lower lip between his teeth.

For a moment, she sways dizzy, eyes shut to the world. He’s her gravity. Astarion hitches her legs over his hips, hard grip buried in her ass, and lifts her, spinning her round. 

Her back scrapes rough against the tree bark. It’ll sting in the morning. But his tongue teases at the roof of her mouth and all she can think now is more, more, more.

More of that pleased sound rumbling low in the back of his throat as her hands clutch the nape of his neck. More of that blissful mouth she gasps against. More of his skin smoothing like satin over hers. More of the taste of him taking her mind and emptying it of all else.

Naomi’s fingernails drag tender against his scalp, silver curls threading through her fingers. Astarion tilts his head back into the touch. She takes the opportunity to graze them down the delicate edges of his ears, too, satisfaction stoked by the sound of his ragged snicker.

“Good girl.”

He mutters the praise feather-faint on the heat of her tongue. Any purchase she had falters to the needy, tightening coil of want drawn suddenly taut inside her. As if he said the words to the lips between her thighs instead of those he claims with his own.

Her legs quiver when her feet find the dirt again. Astarion cups her breasts, rolling a pebbled nipple between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. Naomi groans into his open-mouthed kisses, into the exquisite, electric pleasure he plies from her tits. Her heels drag back into the soil, but it's her own needy noises that ground her.

Until the rigid length of him, the only warmth he has, grinds against the meat of her thigh, and her mind blanks but for the answering ache inside her cunt. 

Her footing wavers. She stumbles forward, shoving firm against his hips. Abruptly, Astarion’s eyes fly wide. She smears a kiss and a stifled breath against his collarbone. Then, his grip tightens, and they’re falling together, down into the dirt.

Astarion breaks her landing with a dull huff. Her own snickering snaps the quiet like twigs underfoot. It can’t be helped. And she can’t help but bask in that dazed look he wears as he watches her, laughter and moonlight gleaming in his eyes without a trace of reproach. 

She’s got a perfect view of that gorgeous face, so she can see what it does to that self-assured smirk of his when her trailing hand reaches its destination. Naomi shifts, straddling his thighs, one palm painting over the lean spread of his chest. The other smooths up the side of his leg until she comes to the crux of what she longs for, the inspiration for all the slickness she has waiting for him. Her fingers wrap lithe around his shaft and stroke.

Astarion shudders out a breathy, contented sigh.“I was right about you,” he pants, head lolling back against the ground while his hungry eyes roam her body.

“What’s that?” Naomi asks, her voice saccharine as she tilts her head, the twist of her wrist anything but innocent.

“You are stunning in silver.”

She follows his gaze, turning her attention downward to the curve of her tits, rising with the shape of her own breath in her lungs. Past her collarbone, her dense freckles thin out over the pale twilight shade of her skin, like stars dissolving in daylight. Her lilac-gray pigment fades, too, into ethereal blue by the light of the moon. Every inch of her is alive with it. Even her hair, falling loose and tousled over her shoulders, takes on the shimmer of fresh snowfall.

She swallows, the motion rippling through the flat of her stomach. Last night, Astarion said the daylight suited her. She replied in kind. But tonight, she said to him, you don’t have to pretend with me, and she meant it. He didn’t say it back. Maybe he meant it, anyway. He watches her so intently, now.

Tonight, he says she’s stunning. Tonight, beneath her, he tells the truth. If only for a little while. The daylight suits them fine enough, but they're creatures of the night, the pair of them.

Her breath snags as he sits suddenly upright. The motion shifts her, too. She’s still spread over his lap, but her grip is gone. A cunning smile curls on his mouth. Firm hands press against the small of her back, pulling her flush against the hard ridge of his cock. Every slow rock of his hips sends pleasure stuttering through her stomach. Every thrust across her cunt has him more and more slicked with her.

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. He draws a hand through her hair, tugging back with a gentle hold. Nonsensical noise tumbles from her mouth. Her pulse pangs in her throat, bared to his lips.

“And you’re so very eager,” he says, the words tingling against her neck. “Aren’t you?”

She braces for the bite, for the piercing pain that will yield to delectable numbness in a moment’s time. But there’s no trace of his teeth. Instead, his mouth merely drags delicately along the path of his favorite vein, throbbing just beneath the surface of her skin.

“I’m not the only eager one, it seems,” she says in a husk of what her voice used to be.

“Mm,” Astarion rumbles in reply, “we’ve both waited long enough.”

He pushes hard against her shoulders. Naomi’s back thumps against the gritty dirt. Astarion is smooth marble as he crawls across her, knees bracketing her own. On instinct, her hips lift, straining towards his hardened cock looming, glistening, above her cunt. 

He chides her with a click of his tongue. A forceful palm pins her back down beneath him. But her punishment is short-lived. He threads a hand between them, licks his lips, and dips just one finger between her slick folds.

Breath stammers from her lungs. Astarion circles her clit like circling prey. The black look in his eyes is calculated, distant, and pierces straight through her. Like he hardly sees her at all --  only the dirt beneath her body, the ground he could fuck her into, the little deaths he could bury her with. His wrist flexes with the arch in her back. He buries his soaked finger inside her heat. 

And just like that, he has her curled around it. Naomi’s not sure what language keeps leaving her tongue. It’s known to no one but the two of them. It’s filthy as the wet, clicking rhythm of him playing with her cunt. 

He blinks, brow knitting briefly, and the set of his jaw seems to ease. She catches the flash of his fanged smirk behind her slitted lids before he leans forward and laps at her trembling tits. Naomi’s eyes shut tight as the whole of her squeezes with touch of his tongue against her pert nipple. Her cunt clings, needy, around his finger, but she doesn’t have to beg; he slips in a second, granting her that perfect stretch she so desperately seeks.

“Gods--”

The seal of his mouth breaks abruptly with a lewd pop. Naomi jerks from the ground, bucking to the sharp but fleeting reproach of his fangs against her swollen nipple. He leans higher, nosing at the crook of her neck. His breath sends a shiver across her skin as a low growl seeps between his teeth. 

“The gods aren’t the ones giving you this.”

His knuckles crook inside her cunt, and like she’s any other lock, Naomi’s lips open at his whim.

“Ah--Astar--star--”

“Better,” he snickers darkly, “as in ‘surely you can do better’.”

Somewhere in the feverish flurry of her thoughts, she feels a swell of victory, knowing her critique of his charms left such an imprint on him. A second later, he kills her breathless laughter, swiping his tongue against the slanted edge of her ear. Naomi chokes around the sweetest shudder. It’s his name she mangles in her mouth as she comes hard and sudden, spasming around the pair of fingers he used to turn her to putty in his hands.

Astarion eases back, sitting up on his knees and giving her room to prop her chest with her arms. The look in his eyes is a predatory one as he rubs his cunt-slicked fingers across his lips. A long, steaming sigh leaks out of him.

“My bittersweet treat,”  he drawls, “you’re so very flushed for me.”

“Can’t I treat you, too?” Naomi asks, lashes low as she leans her head to the side, an open invitation to her open neck. Her fingertips trail over the stretch of it, skimming the flare of her collarbone down to the swell of her breast and teasing at the nipple he’d toyed with before.

Surprise floods his face, stoking the grin on hers. It’s too perfect. He’s too perfect. His carefully coiffed hair is riled into picturesque disarray, his eyes rounded wide. He recovers in a blink, grasping her thigh, angling her ankle over his shoulder, and pulling her tightly to him.

“You generous little thing,” he croons, his mouth descending down her leg. He drops to his forearms, sucking a path of fervent kisses along the tender flesh of her inner thigh. “But I’ve only just started, darling,” he pants, his breath furling across her cunt. 

His tongue dips through her folds, mapping the heat of her with languid, deliberate strokes. Like he means to take the spread of her in his mind as much as his mouth. Commit her to muscle memory in the same manner his long, elegant fingers can nock a new arrow without a glance at his hands.

And she thinks, with a cry breaking like glass in her throat, he could have her in pieces just as easily.

The vampire’s yet to let his teeth sink in. Every drop of blood Naomi came to the woods with stays within her veins. But Astarion doesn’t need his fangs to have her in a boneless puddle beneath him; his lips alone have that managed. 

He devours her all the same, drinking in her writhing whimpers as he slips a finger inside again, groaning his approval as she takes another and clenches tightly around him. Sweat flares across her forehead with the forceful fit of her orgasm thrumming through her cunt. 

She chases after her breath, awash in Astarion’s embrace, in the sprinting thunder of her own heartbeat slamming his ribs while he climbs back over her. He strokes away the hair plastered to her cheek, and a lightweight, dizzy feeling flutters in her chest.

Realization snaps with her pulse, the back of her mouth growing suddenly dry. There’s no answering echo pounding back beneath his skin. His heart is silent, his chest cool and soothing to the touch. 

He’s quiet. Not the lonely kind of silence. But a deeper, richer shade of it. The kind of quiet that eases whatever wayward, nuisance of a noise that lurked in the back of her head. She hadn’t even known it was there until she’d known its absence. Until Astarion laid bare against her body, and she heard nothing at all inside his chest.

 It’s…nice.

“Are you still with me, darling?” The vampire searches her face, eyes narrowed by the barest hair, his curls aglow in a moonlit halo.

“Y-yes.”

“But don’t you look dazed,” he muses, putting on a pout that’s all for show. “If you still want me inside of you, you’ll have to say so, lover.”

“I do. Want it,” she answers at once, sparking a keen glint in his eye. She swallows, downing the hoarseness in her throat.

“Then say the words,” he coaxes, hovering taut above her.

Naomi tilts her head back, a sultry smile hanging slack from her swollen lips. “I want you inside me, Astarion. And I want you to have your fill of me while you’re filling me.”

His gaze dulls over, drifting down to her throat, his pupils blown wide. His voice is rich and dark as he whispers roughly, “So be it, my sweet.”

He seals the vow with a chaste kiss and the slow roll of his hips. The head of his cock nudges, warm and thick against her entrance. Instinct and anticipation have her cunt gripping around a panging nothingness. His fangs graze the pattering pulse-point in her neck. 

Naomi doesn’t know she’s held her breath until Astarion sinks into her with cock and fangs both. The exhale bleeds from her body in a heady rush.

“Isn’t that better?” He growls against her ear, the tang of her blood and sex mingling on his breath and in her nose.

Dimly, she’s aware of the prickling punctures in her neck. But then, his mouth soothes them again, sucking with a hard fervor, and she melts into the blend of his cock smacking wet against her cunt. 

Into the blend of blood and sex and sweat that takes her like a tide. Into the crash of lips and hips that has her writhing, riding on a climbing crest of pleasure. Every prod of his cock against that perfect place deep within her cunt drowns her in permeating bliss.

She could fade into that feeling entirely; dissolve into nothing but the crash of her own breath and the length of him wrapped within her. Just when she thinks she might, Astarion peels from her throat. He kisses her with groaned urgency, pulling a moan from her mouth into his. 

She comes apart that way, sealed with him, with a hard, lightning tremor shooting from her cunt through her chest. Astarion grunts, his teeth catching her lip with a sting that sends sparks simmering down through her toes. Her cunt convulses, wringing his cock through his frantic, shuddering thrusts.

Astarion parts from her mouth, face scrunched. He pours into her with a ragged groan. Absently, she strokes the dangling curls from his face, watching, rapt, as his brow trembles with the rest of him.

And then he pours from her, his body spilling into the dirt beside her, his cum seeping from her throbbing cunt. 

Cool, lonely air licks the sweat from her skin. Naomi shivers. 

Then she flinches; a flurry of fabric drops over her in a dark shadow. Gingerly, she takes the blanket, eying the swirling, pristine pattern of the stitching. It’s not the same as the one she woke up with this morning.

Astarion lies on his back next to her, still and silver as a statue.

“We can’t have you cold,” he murmurs faintly, as if miles away, “now, can we?”

A/N: THEY FINALLY FUCKED!! WOO HOO! Naomi: He's not even that good at flirting lol but it is entertaining.

Naomi five minutes later: It would be real stupid of me to think he means any of this lol we're totally just having fun it's casual

Naomi ten minutes later: Where's the cuddles though 🫠 Super excited to share Underdark happenings, lots more Naomi lore, and some Astarion POV about what just happened here next chapter! Divider credit for before and immediately after story text to @firefly-graphics. Divider credit for scene breaks and banner below to @saradika-graphics. *Tag List: @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate, @mancsunite, @marlowethebard,

@ayselluna, @wingsy-keeper-of-songs, @vixstarria

*I'm sorry if I missed you, I'm new this tag list thing! Lmk if you want to be added!

[sunshineneedsaplacetokeephernsfw]

Curse Week - William

Day 13 | Queen of Hearts's curse (mind control)

Kinktober masterlist

Gender-neutral reader (genitals not specified)

Word count: 500

18+, PWP, established relationship, consensual mind control, oral (giving), minimal editing

“Pardon me?” William’s eyebrow quirked up.

“I want you to use your cursed ability on me tonight.” Your eyes lit up. Maybe he would like some reassurance. “I… honestly find the thought of you being able to make me do anything hot. So I wanted to try it out during sex. Please.”

He watched you for a moment before smiling. “If that’s what you desire.”

A wide smile spread across your face, and a warmth spread through your body. You were already in the privacy of his room. The thought that this could start at any moment excited you.

“You can start anytime you want. You can do anything you want.” At least within the boundaries you already established with him.

He chuckled. His red eyes trained on your smile. “Okay. If you want me to use my curse on you, take off your clothes slowly”.

You gasp and feel tingly as your body moves on its own. Slowly stripping you. Each layer was taken off until you stood completely bare in front of him. His eyes drank you in, making you feel small and your skin heat up.

“Walk to the bed.”

You could feel your sex reacting. Your mind raced as your legs took you to his bed. You stood, awaiting his next command. Unable to keep the smile off of your face. He smiled.

“You seem to be enjoying this. Take off my clothes and give into whatever desires you have as you do so. If you feel uncomfortable at any point, stop.”

Oh, that sneaky bastard. Your smile quirked up as you met his gaze and started to peel his jacket. Your fingers unbuttoned his clothes and peeled off each layer, making him gradually look more and more vulnerable. At least as vulnerable as William Rex could look.

Your hands flattened on his chest and felt it. Your face tinged with a blush. William simply seemed happy to see you give into every desire you could have held back.

An image flashed in your mind and your hands and body slid down before you could finish taking off his undershirt. You pulled down his pants and underwear in a fluid motion. With the command still in effect, you took him into your mouth with zero ceremony and began sucking. 

He took a deep breath and his fingers went in your hair. Petting you as if praising you for giving into your desires. Heat pooled between your legs. You bobbed your head. Any sort of etiquette about prioritizing his pleasure out the window as you sucked and licked however you wanted.

Regardless,  he came into your mouth. You lapped up the salty semen. Running your tongue over him to make sure you didn’t miss a single drop. You sucked once or twice more.

“I love how insatiable you are,” he said.

You licked your lips and stood up. Your fingers going up to finish removing his shirt. Finally it fell to the floor. 

His hands wrapped around your waist and laid you back onto the bed.

“Shall we find what else you desire?”

[jbaileyfansite]

Interview with Evan Ross Katz (2024)

Whether he’s carrying Kylie Minogue to the Hyde Park Festival stage with his pal Andrew Scott, making the Internet go collectively feral for merely running a half marathon, chasing dinosaurs (in the upcoming Jurassic World reboot), romancing Matt Bomer (in Fellow Travelers) or Simone Ashley (in Bridgerton) or Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo (in Wicked) or, with his most recent venture, launching an LGBTQ+-focused charity, it seems Jonathan Bailey is always up to something. And yet, he still makes time, from his hotel room in Thailand (where he’s shooting Jurassic World 4), to hop on a Zoom with me to catch up.

We discuss everything from chafed nipples to queer shame to who he’d like to see in the “Drink Your Milk” T-shirt to if we’ll see him on Broadway any time soon, which is to say it’s a brief but wide-ranging chat.

I haven't seen you since the Met Gala! When we last spoke, you were prepping for your first half marathon. I obviously saw the viral photos that went around of you at the finish line, but how did it go?

You know, I should have put those nipple stickers on. That's my main takeaway. 

[Laughs] Did you bleed?

I did a bit, yeah. Did you? I know you've done a couple of marathons. 

I did bleed, and I didn't know about the bleeding beforehand. It's not something you really hear about but it's painful and uncomfortable.

Totally! And not even just beforehand: It took ‘til 4 hours later when my best friend told me there was evidence [of the bleeding]. But anyways… it was euphoric!

At least there was no photo evidence of that element!

Exactly! So thankfully, it's done. But it's just the most amazing thing, isn't it? And the community as well. Hackney Moves is amazing and they raised loads of money. It was the Bridgerton [Season 3 release] week so I feel like you could sort of harness that.

I do have to ask you a pressing question: Days ago, it was announced that Wicked had moved up its release date and will now be released the same day as Ridley Scott's Gladiator 2. Many online were affectionately calling this Barbenheimer 2.0, which led many to try and speculate about a proper portmanteau. Jon Chu wrote on Instagram that the consensus seems to be “Glicked,” which you reposted on Instagram, signaling a cosign. But I have to ask you, Johnny: Are you not considering“Wickediator”?

I love it. Whatever Jon Chu has ever said to me, I’ve taken as gospel, so I actually hadn't explored all the other options. The one that I've now heard since then which is making me reconsider everything is “Gladicked.” [Laughs] It's quite good, isn’t it? 

Yes! To me, “Glicked” feels too Wicked-skewed and then “Wickediator” is just clunky AF, so I like where you're at. 

We want it to be equal footing for sure. Another thing that I love that went viral is someone going: “Oh, brilliant. A film for the ladies and a film for the ladies.” [Laughs] 

I am both ladies! 

Oh, yes. Me too! 

Let’s talk The Shameless Fund, the charity you founded to raise money for LGBTQ+ nonprofit organizations. Can you tell me about the formation of this project?

It's been a labor of love over the last three or four years. It's been quite an organic experience, mainly inspired by Fellow Travelers, hence why I started with a collaboration which references a very specific scene and a performance by Matt Bomer.

I think through Covid and Bridgerton coming out, I found that there’s a real sense in the queer community about awareness of people who came before you and other experiences. And then obviously in Fellow Travelers, which explicitly explores that, the character I played was sort of on the front all the way through a very complicated experience for gay men at that time.

He experienced real moments of blooming liberation and quite insane amounts of oppression as well, and he was always fighting. He ends up becoming an activist, essentially, and I think it was in playing that part — which was kind of spiritual for me and for everyone who's involved in it — that I was like: Right, okay. I know that I've got this idea in my head and having experienced how much love there is for things like Bridgerton and how much money there is in collaboration, I felt that there's so many things I had said “no” to because it didn't feel quite right for me but if there was a world in which I could marry all of it in a creative sort of cocktail, then why not? And to give back to the community that I so love, and also, I'm a massive beneficiary of the work that the people that came before us did, so that's where it came to fruition from. 

You collaborated with our dear friend Jonathan Anderson, the creative director of Loewe, on a T-shirt with a memorable quote from Fellow Travelers to promote the launch of The Shameless Fund. How did this collaboration come to be?

During the strikes during the filming of Wicked, I went on a run one day and this idea of a T-shirt came into my head in full form. Then I sat next to Jonathan [at a Studio Voltaire fundraiser], and he’s lovely and brilliant and naughty and has a foundation, so it was all kind of organic.

Then I went over to DC to present Matt Bomer with an award for the Human Rights Campaign and it was really galvanizing to experience the American fervor. It was a gala, and the energy in the room was absolutely wild and there were amazing stories on stage. I texted Jonathan and I said: “Look, I have an idea and it involves milk and a T-shirt. What do you think?” and he said: “Call me tomorrow,” and then he said yes within the same phone call. I just felt tentative because it’s the sort of thing where you ask and you don't know, but then it went from there. 

I do recall first seeing a photo of you in the shirt several months ago during a night out with the Loewe team in China…

I went to the Loewe exhibition in Shanghai, which was incredible, and that night, we had quite a big night out and I wore the T-shirt because I’d been given the first prototype.

I was having a little boogie and [Anderson] uploaded it whilst I had no access to the Western World — my phone was off the whole time. So by the time I came home, you could see that people were gonna go wild for the T-shirt. Now, it's sold out and we're gonna get some more and it'll be a first step for The Shameless Fund to raise some money. 

Jonathan Anderson did my and my husband's wedding looks and I had to send him that same initial text to be like: “Can one even ask this?”

That's what's so brilliant in life: People who have the ability to collaborate, and that's just what Jonathan does.

One thing that you said just now that struck me is: “Why not?” I interview a lot of people in your profession and they're not asking that question all the time. A lot of people say:

“Oh, there's lots of money I can make. I can have more money. I can have more things for myself.”

Why are you a “why not?” person rather than a “why”? Is that something that was imbued in you by your family and your upbringing or is it how you've always been?

I don't know. I just feel quite strongly emotionally. I sense injustice in certain places, and I think what comes with success — especially being a gay actor — is that you think: “Hang on a minute. Are there limitations? Are there glass ceilings?”

When you experience success that you never thought you would and you grew up thinking that you're limited because of your identity and who you are, I think about the people that have supported me and the people that were really pioneering, but also, the actual heroes who do the real work; the people who work for these nonprofits and these charities where the majority of their energy is spent trying to raise money. When Bridgerton came out, I was inundated with requests to help draw attention to [these organizations] or raise money or donate things that they could sell, so that's where the kernel of this idea came from. All my life, I’ve been thinking about how I can give back.

It's not for nothing that you call this The Shameless Fund. We grew up at a time when, and I don't know if this is the same for you, but I didn't know that gay people existed. I thought I was the only one because I didn't have access to the kind of media kids do today where you can go on Instagram and see that gay is not only acceptable; it's cool. There's this very significant paradigm shift. I feel like a lot of gay men of our generation felt this shame as young people and often spend a lot of our adult lives working to rid ourselves of it. What is it for you about this idea of shame? 

I totally agree in terms of generations. I think the queer experience changes every five years. Even with some of my friends who are 10 years older than me — it's just so specific to cultural moments and representation as well, as you're saying. But I think my understanding of shame, especially having experienced Fellow Travelers, is that it permeates. It's not just a community that experiences the shame; it's the people around them. It's the parents who don't understand it and kick their kids out of their house. It's the sisters, it’s the cousins, it's the nephews, it's the children that are in broken families because of it. It's actually so toxic, that sense of self-hatred. That’s why The Shameless Fund is actually something that I hope is going to benefit everyone, even beyond the community itself.

Also, the older we get and because of the world we live in now, you can read The Velvet Rage and you can read Matthew Todd’s Straight Jacket and you can explore and have conversations with your friends that are really enlightening and you can have therapy, if you're lucky enough that you can afford to do that. As a 36-year-old now, I look back and I just go: “My God, I had such a loving family and yet I was still so isolated and so crippled.”

Shame can stop people from having a proper education and from being able to structure proper emotional relationships, like fundamental relationships with their family, which is the one place you're supposed to feel safe. It's flawed if the family is not aware of what you're going through. 

How did you come up with the name?

I did have other names [in mind for The Shameless Fund], but we won't go into them. One was so aggressive! [Laughs] But “The Shameless Fund” felt punk enough and fundamental enough. To me, I think that to be without shame is to be able to be joyful and to be able to thrive and to be able to learn and have a bloody good time whilst doing all those things, so it just felt right that it should be targeting shame because then hopefully it benefits the whole community in every color on the pride flag and, in turn, will also help so many people around them. 

So what can people expect next?

There's going to be some really fun things coming with The Shameless Fund and there's different ways in which it can grow, but I have people who really know what they're doing who are helping lead it. By the end of the year, we'll hopefully have worked with three different charities, starting small and helping people understand the work they're doing because that's the most important thing. If you think about Instagram, other than chatting with Evan Ross Katz [laughs], that's the platform through which you can really draw attention to things. Literally anyone in our community who's thriving at the moment — in a community that's obviously under threat going forward — knows what it's like to receive support. We know what we missed growing up.

I, too, grew up with an accepting family, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t still feel ostracized. I appreciate you recognizing that nuance, one I think many of us experience in some form but don’t always discuss.

Now, on The Shameless Fund’s website, it does say that more collaborations are coming. As you said, there’s going to be a restock of the Loewe shirts, but are there other brands in the mix?

There are other brands, and it'll be really exciting because the scope is endless, but I definitely had a couple of other ideas. After Fellow Travelers, the next thing will be a Wicked garment, so you might have to keep your eyes out for that. Maybe jumpers and sexy boots?

That’s perfect for my fantasy! So we've seen Kylie Minogue wearing the shirt — who I was lucky enough to be introduced to by you on the dance floor at the Met Gala after-party, thanks again — and we've seen Kit Connor, Scarlett Johansson and your Bridgerton co-star Luke Newton sporting it as well. I'm wondering who else is on your wishlist of celebrities that you'd like to see in the Drink Your Milk T-shirt?

Oh, God. What a question! Great shout. I would love to see Jerrod Carmichael in it right now. Very specifically Jerrod Carmichael. 

I feel that.

I would also love to see Hanson in it. Their three-part harmonies are a knockout at the moment.

At the moment?

[Laughs] We were just talking about this today. I’ve literally just come away from a field where I was running towards or away from dinosaurs, and we were talking about Hanson for about four hours today and listening to their three-part harmonies. 

That is not what I was expecting.

Who else? I can only think of people who are going to be wearing it over the next few weeks, which is quite exciting. Is there anyone you want to see in it? 

I have quite a few people. First of all, Jamie Dornan. I would love to see him in it. Paul Mescal, for obvious reasons. And the fans are waiting for Matt Bomer!

Don’t you worry. They’ll be satiated! They’ll be quenched. And Andrew Scott had a good time at Glastonbury is what I’ll say. [Laughs]

I bet he did! Last but not least: Richard II is bringing you back to the stage. Wicked is giving us the musical theater moment we've been craving. Is there a musical theater moment that’ll be live on stage in Jonathan Bailey's future?

Potentially, actually. Maybe in 2026. 

On Broadway?

I would! I had the best time recently in New York and I watched as many things as I could. I saw Stereophonic, which, to me, was like a religious experience. That, and Oh, Mary! And Cole Escola.

That is what it's about. I would come back to watch that; I was so inspired by it. Obviously, I'd love to [be on Broadway] at some point and you just have to wait and see what pops up. 

Source

[the-irken-pony]

Compilation of disorganized facts (and derived headcanons) about The Henry Stickmin Collection's "narrator"

First thing’s first, since I typed more than I should’ve for a single bullet point.

Who is this “narrator” anyways?

In this post I’m talking about the implied source of the fail screens, bios, and certain other interactions in the game (which I’ll get into as we go. It’s implied that this character is the same across these different sources of meta interactions.

It is possible that this character is a self-insert of PuffballsUnited, but for the sake of this post we'll assume that this isn't Actually Puff. I feel weird tying my blorbo detail-plucking thoughts to an actual person and don’t want anyone making assumptions about Puff based on anything listed here, plus certain things may be added, exaggerated, omitted, etc. to the character for comedic effect in a way that further delineates the two. (tl;dr narrator ≠ author)

The wiki (derogatory) notes a theory that this character could be Wilson Stone. Granted, it’s not an entirely groundless theory: there is no message on the fail screen for D.E.B., which could be seen as a result of Wilson dying. I disagree with this for a couple of reasons: Wilson is referred to in the third person in his bio, the narrator makes a disdainful comment about the CCC having a surplus of nukes in CtM (there’s little reason for Wilson to be opposed to nukes but not a dark energy bomb), and Wilson’s voice is different from the narrator’s (I’ll get to that later).

The general fandom consensus that I've seen uses "the narrator", but this character/being/whatever isn't known by any name officially, nor any pronouns. For simplicity's sake, I'll refer to this character as "the meta" or “the meta voice” and use they/them and it/its interchangeably for them (partly to distinguish from the large surplus of male characters). I prefer “meta” over “narrator” and “commentator” because it doesn’t really narrate anything, it gives more than just commentary, and just because it rolls off the tongue better.

More on the meta

It comments frequently on Henry’s stupidity, but it’s hard to truly baffle them. Not that Henry hasn’t managed to before in fails such as Cheese and Distract.

Getting the obvious out of the way, they’re known to crack jokes of all sorts, including memes, wordplay, references, & callbacks.

Lots of these jokes are at the expense of Henry, the player, or someone else. It frequently makes disparaging comments about the player or Henry in general; more common jabs include fatphobic comments toward Henry or making fun of the player’s poor skill.

Speaking of Henry and the player, it typically uses “you” for both you (the player) and Henry himself, but it does also differentiate between us and Henry, such as in the Duplicatorange fail and Toppy fails, even noting you to not be a stick figure

Not only are they aware of the player and Henry as separate, but they’re also aware that you’re playing a game.

The meta seems to have the most control over the timeline, including what counts as a “fail” and when a fail cuts off, as shown in the duplicatorange and invisibility pill fails.

It has a certain amount of control over the nature of the game itself. The slingshot fail in FtC has them creating various popups that the player must click through to get an achievement. This power isn’t limitless though: the CorrupTick fail in particular shows that things can fall out of their control.

They’re capable of summoning objects (this is implied in Dance Off v4 and outright confirmed in the Lockpick fail).

The free transform option also shows that it has the ability to directly alter people in-universe. The mind control fail implies that it may also be able to outright control people to an extent, but finds this difficult and thus avoids doing so.

They seem to exist in a flux state between being “the game master” and simply being a bystander. It knows at least a little bit about nearly every character in the game and has some control over the environment, but it also reacts to events as though it’s just a spectator and seeing things for the first time.

On a related note, they seem to be in a state between being “in” the game and existing outside of it. Things that would wipe out everyone in the vicinity have no effect on it, but things that alter things on a meta level (such as the corrupted disk, Goodball, and CorrupTick fails) do affect them in various ways.

They aren’t omniscient. They have info on nearly everyone, but they don’t know everything. A lot of their comments in fails seem to be guesswork, and their bios for some people, notably Ellie, are very lacking.

It can feel pain. They complain about their ears hurting from the high pitched sound of the sonic pulse. At the same time, it isn’t nearly as sensitive as Henry or other stick figures and can survive the subsonic wave with little consequence.

It can, supposedly, use the bathroom.

The duplicatorange and invisibility pill both imply that the meta voice has some sentimental attachment to Henry, triggering a fail screen whenever they lose track of Henry.

Related to the above, it seems to have a vested interest in keeping Henry alive, despite having killed Henry themself. Revenged is notable as an ending for the fact that Henry dies in every outcome, and The Betrayed isn’t much better in this regard.

It also shows mild concern for Henry’s wellbeing in RPE/RBH, asking him if his head is okay.

While it’s unknown if they know all languages, they do at least seem to know German, specifically commenting on Friedrich Spielen’s nonsensical German.

They can sleep and even dream; in the G-inverter fail they comment that they “had a nightmare like this”. It’s unknown whether they need sleep or if sleep is simply recreational for them.

I don’t know if the above indicates that they used to be affected by gravity or if they simply had a dream about being affected by gravity, but given their ability to simply hover at a point in the air or even outer space, they probably aren’t affected by gravity at any point that we know them.

The meta is aware of other timelines, making a reference to Charles during the helicopter fail in Toppat King.

While it doesn’t have a known physical appearance, it does occasionally emote with hand-drawn “emoticons”, some of which are even animated.

On rare occasions, it can conjure Twitch emotes or even a full animation of a stick figure.

Feel free to add if you think of anything!