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mingi-s-dimples · 5 months ago

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Heart on Loan - Yunho

KINKTOBER DAY 16, REQ. BY anon

~"Hi I'd like to request a Yunho Mafia fic. The reader pisses him off in some way and now she had to pay him back by working for him. At first he's really mean to her but then starts to be attracted and that's when the smut starts. The reader is also a virgin and doesn't have any experience being in a relationship or talking to guys. I hope that's not too much!"

pairing: mafia leader!yunho x fem!reader

genre: 18+, mafia au, filth ish

summary: you piss off the most dangerous person in the city... only to spend the most memorable night with him, after supposedly working for him to pay your debt off.

wc: 2.4k

warnings: mafia au, dom!yunho, virgin!reader, deepthroating, fingering, oral (m), head pushing, hair *pulling/tangling*, teasing slightly, he's a cocky one, making out, mentions of guns, missionary, implied 2nd round, use of pet names, slight possessiveness, unprotected (boo use protection irl), completely consensual, for sure forgot something, unedited.

Author's Note: Mafia Yunho is chef's kiss idc what y'all say and idc that this fic is damn short but omfg... I need this man in my life *sigh* why do I not bump into pretty and tall men that would make me pay off my own sillt debt and fucking them later in my life 😞😞 I'm so sorry words slipped out of my mouth upsi. Anyways, anon, I hope yoh like it !

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and does not represent in any way the reality of the member.

The city had a heartbeat of its own, a relentless pulse of neon lights and shadowed alleyways where secrets and power moved in. You knew it well, though you’d never been bold enough to dip more than a toe into its murky underbelly. That was, until tonight.

You’d been passing through the dimly lit streets, minding your own business, when fate—or rather, an unfortunate case of bad timing and bad attitude—threw you directly in Yunho's path. Yunho was the city’s most notorious Mafia leader, his name spoken in whispers by even the bravest. Some said his fortune was built on power, manipulation, and charm as dangerous as his temper. But none of that registered with you in the moment you bumped into him and, in a flustered reaction, spilled coffee on his impeccable suit.

There was a silence so thick you could feel it pressing against your lungs. You had barely glanced up when you realized the towering figure before you, the dangerous gleam in his eyes, and the ominous smirk pulling at his lips. Your blood ran cold as he inspected his now-ruined clothes, a dark promise flickering behind his expression.

"You’ve got some nerve," he finally muttered, his voice soft but sharp enough to cut through the heavy night air. You felt his gaze drilling into you, appraising, as if deciding your fate. Without another word, he stepped closer, towering over you.

“I’m… really sorry about that. I didn’t mean to—” you stammered, but he cut you off with a smirk that sent chills down your spine.

“Oh, you will be,” he said, his tone dark yet almost amused, and something inside you told you that your apology wouldn’t be enough. “Let’s call this… a debt. And you’re going to work it off.”

That was how it all began. Within days, you found yourself stepping into a new life, a strange, thrilling, and utterly terrifying world at Yunho’s command. The rules were strict, and the punishment for mistakes even stricter. You had no idea what you'd be asked to do next, whether it was tracking contacts, running errands, or, most frequently, dealing with his endless collection of firearms. It was in these moments, whenever you were alone with him, that Yunho’s intensity seemed to turn up a notch.

The rough edges of his demeanor wore on you, his biting sarcasm and occasional harshness drawing out every ounce of your patience and nerves. But gradually, you began to notice something beyond the intimidation. In the way he watched you, sometimes with an intensity that felt heavier than his threats, there was something almost like curiosity.

Days passed, and your debt stretched on, keeping you ensnared in Yunho’s world. But one night, as you were organizing his cache of sleek, dangerous-looking firearms in his private room, the silence between you felt charged, more potent than ever. Yunho was watching you from the doorway, arms crossed, the smallest hint of a smirk dancing on his lips.

“Do you know what you’re holding there?” he asked, his tone softer than usual as he took a step toward you.

Your heart skipped a beat as you tried to focus on the task, feeling his gaze travel from your hands to your face, lingering just a little too long. He was close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint cologne that seemed to fit him all too well. You struggled to keep your attention on the weapon you were packing, but your pulse betrayed you, hammering in your chest like a warning.

Without a word, Yunho reached over, his fingers brushing yours as he adjusted the weapon in your grip. His touch sent a jolt through you, making it hard to ignore the heat creeping up your cheeks. You’d been cautious around him, knowing he was dangerous in more ways than one, but you hadn’t expected the casual, unexpected intimacy he was capable of. He lingered, his fingers tracing over yours with a gentleness that seemed foreign for someone so ruthless. And you couldn’t look away.

“Shy, huh?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble as he leaned closer, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement—and something else. You felt a knot of tension twist in your stomach, unsure if it was fear or something far more dangerous, but Yunho didn’t pull back. If anything, he moved closer, a teasing smile curving his lips as he caught your gaze.

“You make me want to forget every rule I’ve ever made.” your eyed widened at his words, not knowing what he meant.

Oh.. yeah. The rule.. of not having any kind of affair with one another. Did he possibly mean.. that one?

For a split second, the entire world seemed to melt away, leaving just you and him in that small, dimly lit room. It was a line you knew you shouldn't cross, a tension you shouldn’t indulge. But as he stayed close, his fingers lightly grazing yours again, you realized you weren’t sure if you wanted him to stop.

"Your heart is... racing" Yunho smirks, pressing his fingers lightly against your wrist, feeling your pulse quicken under his touch, “You want this too, don’t you?”

Your lips part to respond but words falter, looking away, and he chuckles.

Yunho's hands traveled from your wrist to your hand, then to your shoulder and collarbone, “Don’t go shy on me now. I want to hear you say it.”

"I-" you tried to say.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Getting all silent on me?” he confidently said, as your eyes instantly chose a random spot on a wall to look at, rather to make eye contact with him. His right hand rode up your neck, resting there for a second, then went for your chin and he made you look at him.

“Come on… look at me. I want to see those pretty eyes when you blush like that.”

"I- uh"

"Say it." he said, authority conveyed in his words.

"I haven't done this.. b-before." you stuttered, eyes wandering around.

He looked at you, slightly confused. “So… you’re telling me you’re a virgin?”

“I don’t want you to think… I’m not interested. I’m just… not experienced.” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, embarrassed of your words.

“Trust me, I’d never assume that.” he leans in, voice droping, “But if anything, it makes me want to go slower… yeah. I’ll take my time with you… make sure you feel every second of it. That’s a promise.”

---

The atmosphere suddenly got heavier as his hands rode up and down on your body, feeling you up.

He took a small step back, his gaze softening as he let out a slow breath, as though grounding himself. “You have no idea how much I want this,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if even saying the words too loudly might break the spell between you.

With a tenderness that surprised you, he traced his hands up your arms, letting them settle on your waist as he gently lifted you, your body instinctively wrapping around him. His movements were deliberate yet unhurried, carrying you as if you were something delicate, precious.

The quiet thud of the door closing behind him, the warmth of his touch, and the way his breath lingered near your neck all heightened the sense of intimacy. The room was cast in dim light, shadows dancing along the walls, adding a surreal quality to the moment. Every brush of his fingers, every whispered breath, seemed to amplify the silence between you.

Gently, he lowered you onto the bed, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re incredible, you know that?” he said, a hint of vulnerability in his gaze. His fingers trailed lightly over your cheek, tracing your jaw.

In that moment, you felt safe, even if hr was the most dangerous person in your city.. if not even in the country.

Your hands left his shoulders as he backed off for a second, taking in the view. He then started to slowly undress himself, taking his sweet time.

"L-let me.. help you" you suddenly said, not even expecting your own words to slip out. He giggled at your words and stopped, letting you do it. You slowly unbuttoned his shirt, feeling up his muscles. His shoulders are broad and heavily built, signaling his strength and resilience. His chest muscles are well-defined, showing the dense training that shapes his form, while his biceps and triceps look strong and hardened, giving him an imposing presence. His abs are chiseled, likely from rigorous workouts and possibly some close-call encounters. Every part of him exudes power, from his veined forearms to the taut muscles of his back, showcasing the blend of elegance and intensity fitting for someone who commands respect and fear. Though, his soft skin was tainted by some pretty harsh scars, probably from cuts or bullets he got hit by in combat. You then got to his pants and well.. it went kind of.. downhill from there.

"Let's see what you're capable of, sweetie. Don't worry.. I'll guide you." he said as he unbuckled his pants, letting them fall down to his ankles and pushing them away. He then got rid of his briefs and oh god.. he was *huge*. His hand hovered over your head and urged you down on your knees, right in front of his cock. You innocently looked up at him, like you didn't fucking enjoy every second of it, while being entirely freaked out.

Your hands rode up his thighs and got to his cock, slowly pumping it. As you were looking at him, your eyes widened as he signaled you to... suck. "It won't be that hard, I promise..." he whispered as he guided your head to his cock, your lips parting against the red, leaking tip. You started to softly suck on it, not sure if you could take all of his length. You deepened a bit, leaving sloppy trails of kisses whenever you got to his tip. You liked his length from the base all the way to the shaft, sucking on his tip multiple times before he.. got slightly bored of it. "Sweetie..?"

"Mhm?" you muffle, his cock inches deep in your mouth.

"Let's... try a bit more " he said as he pushed himself slowly deep down your throat, gagging on it while he thrusted forwards in your mouth. He didn't seem like the man to be noisy but.. muffled sounds and whines could be heard from above you. His hand tangled in your hair as he started rapidly fsce-fucking you, catching his high.

"Don't stop.." he said and braced his hands in your hair and on your head and deepthroated you, making you gag multiple times on it. He was not.. the most gentle person, but you also loved it so, no need for him to be gentle. Your hands were holding tightily ok his thighs, and as he fucked your mouth a couple more times, he came right down your throat and in your mouth. When he pulled out, silky white cum dripped off your lips. He kneeled down in front of you and wiped it off, moment to distract you from his hand going under you, lifting you up. He threw you on the bed and undressed you, hastily.

"Let me spoil you, pretty." he said and pushed you on your back, crawling over to you. His lips found yours, and in a matter of time while he was making out with you, his hand found it's way between your legs. He stopped for a moment to look at you. and when you nodded, he didn't hesitate any longer. He inserted one finger in, then the second one. He slowly started pumping them in and out while still kissing you, feeling each and every of your muffled and quiet moans. It was not long before he started fingering your rapidly, helping you catch your high. But.. that wasn't his plan. In fact, his plans was to only.. stretch you out for his length. So that when he felt you'd be prepped enough for him, he pulled back for a moment and guided his cock to your entrance, then slowly pushed himself in. Your hands held thightly onto the linen as he bottomed down, his length and girth stretching you the fuck out.

"Tell me... if you want me to stop" he said but.. he didn't mean it. You also never planned in making him stop so, you nodded, not answering him. That simply was the easiest way of telling him you wanted to be fucked dumb by him, to which he compiled.

His hands found their way to your waist, burying himself deep down in you. His eyes widened as you put your legs over his waist, missionary style. He smirked, going even faster than he was before.

"I- Yunho!" you moaned his name, tears forming in your eyes as he bottomed down every time he thrusted into you.

"I'm close, sweetie... you feel so damn good, I might as well go fucking insane." he said as he let his torso down to yours, his lips finding their way to your collarbones, leaving soft kisses which transformed into harsh marks, where he sucked your skin. He fucked you a couple more times before coming undone right in front of you and in you, feeling yourself getting absolutely filled up by his load. You, too, also came as soon as you felt his cock pulse in you. He whined out when he felt your walls clench tightly on his cock, draining him out. He fucked you through his and your orgasm, then slowly came to a stop.

He pulled out and stepped back for a moment, admiring his work. Your pretty, fucked out, teary face, and your cunt dripping with both of your juices.

"You look so damn hot like this.. might as well go for another round, if you're up for it?" Yunho said, a little bit too excited about it as his cock hardened again.

"P-please.. I need you" you whined out, dirty thoughts flooding in your mind.

"You didn't have a choice anyway.. I gotta show you just how much you pissed me off when you ruined my favourite suit, sweeheart." he said and leaned in for a kiss, to which he lifted you up in his embrace.

The night was just about to start and... ironically, you felt safer and wanted in the nicest way by the most dangerous person in the city.

NETWORKS:

@illusionnet

@blossomnet

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

@mingleshine @musiclovingfairy @crazylittlebisexual @sanhwalvr @gong-fourz @arki-sha @artistic-rendition @hongjoongtime117 @cypher-03 @woolysium @peachy-bell26

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transmechanicus · 2 years ago

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Huge huge fan of anachronistic interactions in my writing ideas. Using modern firearms to fight mythical monsters, using swords and shields to fight killer robots, powering computers with coal or gasoline, using a nuclear reactor to power a clockwork automata, space suits that look like diving apparatus from the 1800s, modern skyscrapers in the middle of stone and straw villages, using MRI machines to determine where you need a hole drilled in your head to let the ghosts out, killer AI being banishable by holy rituals that have unknowingly incorporated override codes, do you understand yet???

#my stuff #writing

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ltwilliammowett · 14 days ago

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Women at sea

Paul Daniels

'Paul' had the bad luck to be spotted by an eagle-eyed sergeant when he was exercising some soldiers on board a transport ship at Portsmouth in 1761.

He thought young Paul Daniels ‘had a more prominent chest than ordinary'. He sent for him to come to his cabin after the drill, and told him his suspicions. Daniels, to avoid a physical search, ‘confessed her sex’.

Arthur Douglas

Only five feet tall and aged about 19, 'Arthur' worked as a landsman on board the privateer ship the Resolution. Working his passage from London to Liverpool, he went aloft to furl the sails, ‘was frequently mustered among the Marines at the time they exercised’ the small firearms, and generally seemed to be of ‘very modest character, and by his behaviour to have had a genteel education'.

It wasn’t until the ship docked at Liverpool that the truth came out that Arthur was actually a teenage girl. One of the messmates on board discovered her sex and tried to sleep with her. She agreed ‘to prevent a discovery of her sex to the whole ship', but when they landed refused to keep her word, so the Captain was told.

Jane Meace

Jane tried to enlist as a Marine in 1762. In Uttoxeter, a young man ‘came to a recruiting party of Marines’ being held at an alehouse called The Plume and Feathers.

He enlisted as John Meace and asked for all his bounty money, but only got one shilling, as they thought he needed ‘cloathing and other necessaries'. However, the following morning her sex was discovered by ‘one of the men laying hold of her coat over the breast to see how it fitted'.

Hannah Witney

Hannah Witney's story dates from 20 October 1761. A young man who had been impressed (press-ganged) at Plymouth was sent to one Captain Toby. On arrival he was put in prison, but not liking it disclosed that he was in fact a young woman.

The naval report says that she was 'Born in Ireland, had been a Marine on board different ships for upwards five years’, and that she would not have ‘disclosed herself’ if she had been ‘allowed her liberty'. This was duly granted. A naval report included details of a young Lady ‘on board the Fleet in Man’s Apparel, who showed all the signs of most undaunted Valour'.

Several other women, the report continued, ‘are still living and some of them in this Town who have served whole campaigns and fought stroke by stroke by the most manly soldiers'.

They, like so many other valiant women who rallied to the patriotic call to defend their country, will remain unknown. But those now listed will have a place in the military and social history books.

Source

Also in: Cross-dressed to Kill - women who went to war disguised as men, by Vivien Morgan

#naval history #women at sea #18th century #books #age of sail

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absolutedaisy · 6 months ago

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majority hatchetfield im so sorry

#starkid #team starkid #hatchetfield #hatchetfield musicals

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atleastpleasetelephone · 1 month ago

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I have another request!! So I stumbled across these photos a few weeks ago..

And needless to say, it’s made me a little feral to put it simply. For the request, I was thinking that him and reader are at an after party for his friends wedding, which is actually what’s going on in the photo, and he’s showing off the gun and whatnot and reader finds it reallyyy attractive. Things take a turn and well….yeah. Also, I would love if there was spice. Like.. a LOT 🌚. Like borderline depravity…

Anyways, thank you! I absolutely love your writing and I know this will be amazing💗

A/N: Thanks so much for this request! Sidenote: I am going to write the other one but this is much more immediately in my wheelhouse so I'm starting here.

I am not ashamed to say that this man gave me a gun kink, so any excuse to write something filthy with firearms. Thanks to @polksaladava for helping me come up with exactly which filthy thing, and also thanks to my partner for finding out what kind of gun this is and being my gun guru generally lol.

Big man with a gun

Pairing: Hot sexy 1970 Elvis x reader

Word count: 2K

TWs: Gun kink. Also Elvis waving the gun about indoors like a madman, little hint of him being dominant, reader calls him daddy, praise kink, dry humping, smut. Usual stuff.

***

“What d’ya think of the Drilling?” Elvis is holding the gun up, seemingly aiming at the ceiling.

“Careful, E,” Sonny warns, concerned about the plasterwork. “Y’don’t wanna blow another hole in the ceiling.”

Elvis chuckles, racking the gun and looking through the sight at one of the fancy decorations where the wall meets the ceiling.

“E!” Sonny exclaims, instinctively tucking Judy behind him.

Elvis just keeps chuckling, saying something about improving the wedding decorations and aiming at a balloon now instead. Sonny tries telling him again but he just responds that it’s his house and if he wants to blow holes in it he will. Your heart is racing. There have been stories about him firing guns indoors to get people’s attention, but you always thought they were just that, stories. And anyway, when the guys had regaled you with them, they’d always said it was a gun Elvis got out of his boot, or a holster. There’s no way this gun could fit under his arm or in his shoe. You don’t know a lot about guns, but you think it must be able to do more damage than something small enough to fit in his boot. You try to swallow. Your throat has gone a little dry.

“C’mon, E,” Sonny tries for the millionth time as people actively start trying to find places to hide in case he really does start shooting.

There’s a moment of complete silence, and then Elvis lets out a full-on belly laugh, dropping the gun from his shoulder and making it safe.

“Y’didn’t think I’d really start shootin’, did ya? Not at yer wedding reception.”

Sonny isn’t sure what he thought, not really, but he slaps Elvis on the back, telling him of course he knew he was joking. The other man grins, enjoying the effect of waving the firearm around, and then turns towards you, holding it in both hands like it’s a display piece.

“Whaddya think, baby?” He asks.

You’re the designated photographer for the reception, for some reason, so you grin and snap a few pictures.

“It’s um… nice?” You try. You’re not exactly sure how you should describe it. Cool? Dangerous? Well-made?

“Think it’s a little more ‘an nice, baby,” he tells you, obviously a little disappointed by your response. “It’s a shotgun an’ a rifle in one. See?” He comes closer and flicks a finger over the triggers. “Two triggers. One for this bit,” his hand glides over the top two barrels, “and one for this,” sliding his palm against the underneath of the rifle part.

You look down, suddenly fascinated by the way he’s caressing the gun and the way his rings glitter as his hands move.

“What’s this bit?” You ask, gingerly poking a black sort of tube on the top of the shotgun part.

“Telescopic sight. Lets ya see what yer shootin’ at.”

You nod silently, feeling your heart start to race again. “W-what’s it for?”

“Shootin’, baby,” he replies, letting out another roaring laugh that makes everyone else in the room turn around for a moment.

You blush and look down. “I know that,” you whisper, embarrassed. “But why’s it got so many… barrels?”

“Good fer huntin’,” he replies, gently manoeuvring you to the couch so the two of you can sit down. “Shootin’ rabbits an’ deer with the same gun.”

You try not to let your face fall at the idea of shooting cute little animals, but you’re not sure you succeed. “Oh I see,” you mumble.

He lets out another short laugh and then the next thing you know one end of the gun is in your lap.

“Pretty, ain’t she?” He continues, his fingers running over the decorative metalwork at the end of the stock.

His shoulder is pressed up against you and you can feel the heat radiating off him as he takes your hand and rubs your fingers where his have just been.

“Feel the craftsmanship on this.” He continues to guide your hand over the contours of the gun, down the hard smooth stock and then along the barrels as they lay on his lap.

You realise you can hear your own breathing and you quickly close your mouth. Apparently it had just opened of its own accord midway through this guided tour of the gun. You have to get yourself under control. Looking quickly around the room, you try to see if anyone has noticed… what exactly? Elvis talking to you about a firearm? Making you touch it like it’s… well. Something other than an inanimate object. Your head is spinning and it takes you a while to realise you’ve just been absent-mindedly running your fingers back and forth over the smooth wood of the stock without any help from him whatsoever. You look up to see him grinning back at you.

“Ya like her, baby?” He asks.

“Y-yeah. Good… craftsmanship,” you squeak out, face bright red.

He lets out a low chuckle and then puts his lips to your ear. “Ya wanna take her to bed?”

Your eyes go wide and you make a sort of strange noise somewhere in your throat. Do you want to what now? You feel his breath on your ear, as he questions you again, “hm?” his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you against him. Your brain still isn’t really functioning but the warmth that’s spreading between your legs is suggesting you want to do what he’s asking. You finally manage a little whining noise and he pulls back to look at your face.

“That a yes?”

Biting your lip as you find yourself nodding, you finally let out a strangled “yes”, making him smile.

“Alright then. Haveta wait until this is over, mind.”

***

The next few hours are torture. It’s Sonny’s wedding reception after all, so it’s not as if Elvis can throw everyone out of his house on a whim. So you suffer through more speeches and more cake and more tedious conversations. Every so often Elvis comes over and whispers something naughty in your ear and touches you in a way that makes you ache, and more than once you find yourself standing next to the cabinet he’s put the gun on top of, stroking it. You feel like you’re going to go insane, the slickness between your legs is getting so bad you’re worried it’s going to leak through your panties onto your dress, so towards the end you even stop sitting down, just in case. You think about running off to the bathroom to solve your little problem but the combination of fear of what Elvis would do to you if he found out and excitement of what might happen later with the gun stops you. By the time the last guest leaves you actually feel a little dizzy.

“Can we go now?” You ask, pressing yourself up against him.

Chuckling again, he wraps an arm around you. “Eager lil thing, ain’tcha?”

You whine. You’re pretty sure this can’t be classed as being eager. You’ve been waiting for hours. “Please?”

“Well since ya begged…” he gives you a quick kiss and then lets you go, striding over to the gun and picking it up before moving to the stairs. “C’mon, baby.” He holds out his hand and you take it, trotting after him as he takes the stairs two at a time.

Even though you watch him removing the cartridges from the gun and he makes a point of showing you that it’s completely empty and safe, it still looks dangerous in the middle of the bed. Hard and unyielding, dark in colour and purpose, in the middle of a warm soft place for sleeping and lovemaking. You swallow hard and squeeze your thighs together. You must be dripping by now.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he runs his fingers down your cheek. “Why don’tcha straddle her, baby?”

Even though you’re pretty far gone at this point, his words still shock you and all you can do is whine again. He smiles gently, leaning in to kiss you as his hand moves to your jaw.

“Feel how smooth she is,” he continues, pulling away from the kiss, his hand encouraging yours onto the stock again. “Bet that’d feel good, honey.”

His other hand sneaks between your legs, giving a low whistle as he feels just how sodden your panties are. He starts to rub you there and you let out a moan, finally getting some contact on your aching pussy.

“C’mon honey. I know ya wanta.”

He rubs you a little more and then removes his hand, leaving you panting and desperate and then you’re in the middle of the bed, one leg on either side of the stock, sitting down on the gun and trying to rub yourself against it.

“Mmmmm. It doesn’t… I need…” you start to mumble, almost incoherently. The gun sinks down into the bed as soon as you put any pressure on it and you can’t get yourself off. Luckily Elvis figures it out quickly and helps you put a pillow underneath it, holding you carefully so you don’t lose your balance.

Groaning, you start to move your hips back and forth, rubbing your clothed pussy against the smooth wood. Your eyes roll back in your head as the friction builds, one hand gripping the pillow as you explore your body with the other. You’re so lost in pleasure you don’t notice Elvis starting to touch himself, so turned on watching you like this that he can’t help himself.

“Good girl,” he breathes, hand sliding up and down his dick.

You can only whimper in response, grinding against the stock, smearing your arousal all over it as your panties slip to the side and there’s no barrier left between you and the gun. Somewhere in the back of your mind you can’t believe you’re doing this, can’t quite understand how you ended up in this position, you don’t even like guns…

“Is my good girl gonna cum f’me?” His voice cuts through your thoughts and you realise that yes, you are going to, and really soon.

“Yes, Daddy,” you pant.

“Mmmm,” is all he can manage in response, still lost in watching you so out of control.

Both of your hands pull at the pillow, forcing it to stay where you want it as you teeter on the edge of your orgasm, a buzz of incredible pleasure surrounding you before the bubble bursts and you’re there, screaming out his name.

You hear him grunt and open your eyes just in time to see him cum all over himself, still staring at you and the gun, mouth hanging open loosely. He looks so beautiful like that, wanton with his lips red and his eyes wild. You can’t believe you turned him on so much.

His eyes shift to meet yours and you both look at one another for a moment and then you start to giggle. And he starts to giggle. And then you’re both belly laughing as you crawl towards him and into his arms. Right now it seems absolutely absurd how desperate you were to rub yourself all over this goddamn gun and how desperate he was to watch you. He presses his nose against your cheek, body still shaking from laughter.

“D-didn’t know ya l-liked guns s’much, honey.” His voice wobbles with the effort of trying to stay serious.

“I don’t!” You giggle back, turning your head and kissing him on the mouth.

He kisses you back and you can feel him smiling against your lips. Your giggles gradually subside as you burrow into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. Contentment washes over you.

“Why’d ya do it then?” He mumbles in your ear.

“You wanted me to,” you reply, moving so that you can look up at him through your lashes. “And you looked pretty damn sexy with that gun.”

“Honey! Ya kiss yer mama with that mouth?!” He teases.

“Yeah but right now I’d much rather kiss you,” you reply, tugging his head down so his lips meet yours again.

Losing yourself again in the smell of him, the way he tastes, the feeling of him holding you like he never wants to let you go, you don’t think you’ve ever felt so good.

Maybe you do like guns, after all. Or maybe you just like that one gun in particular…

***

Taglist:

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed:

@arg-xoxo @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @blursedblegh @returntopresley @eapep @everythingelvispresley @i-r-i-n-a-a @sissylittlefeather @arrolyn1114 @jhoneybees @polksaladava @lookingforrainbows @jkdaddy01 @epthedream69 @lustnhim @elvisslut @pomtherine @that-hotdog @ladelinee @angschrof @fairybloodsucker @deltafalax @makethemorning @elviswhore69 @ilovequeen978 @wildhorseinkansas @pocketfulofpresley @dkayfixates @iloveelvisss @kxnnxy @presleyhearted @lvrdollep @nebulamorada @iloveelvis2 @18lkpeters @elvisbdoll

#elvis #elvis presley #elvis fanfiction #elvis fic #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presley fic #elvis smut #elvis fanfic #elvis presely smut

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gutsby · 1 year ago

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Mr. Dixon

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: Your efforts to seduce the DILF next door have all failed spectacularly, so you decide a wet hot car wash in front of his house is in order. Mr. Dixon is less than impressed with your antics and plans to teach you a lesson in good manners and ‘neighborliness.’

Warnings: NSFW. Dad's friend Daryl! Drastic age gap!! Daryl's a dirty old pervert in this one :-) Voyeurism. Masturbation. Descriptions of oral sex (m!receiving). Dirty talk. Degradation. Slight misogyny. Daryl may or may not masturbate out a window at some point.

You had an old pair of Daisy Dukes and a dream.

Faded, frayed, and two times too small for your frame, the shorts hiked an inch up your ass every step you took across the room. Made it damn near pointless bending over before the man in front of you—he could see every inch of your butt regardless—but you did it all the same.

This was Mr. Dixon, after all.

Cool blue orbs illumined by candlelight took the sight of you in and flitted away just as fast. His hands busied themselves with the gun he was taking apart, while you reached for the bullet that had just rolled onto the floor.

“Here you go, Mr. Dixon.”

Your voice had a charming lilt as you held the round out to him.

“Over there,” Daryl grumbled, jerking his head toward the end of the table, “An’ what’d I say ‘bout callin’ me tha’?”

“I feel weird calling daddy’s friends by their first names.”

You shrugged and chucked the tiny piece of lead into the pile of ammunition like Daryl had told you to. Then you sat down beside it, crossing your arms.

He could be so cruel sometimes. Just fooling with his pistol and barking orders like a drill sergeant. Never looking at you longer than a second, and if he did, just shooting you a glare or wounding you with a scowl.

He’d been the toughest nut to crack out of all your father’s friends. No matter how straight-laced and upstanding the men around Mr. Grimes had made themselves out to be, you’d always found the fault line—the weak spot that got you access to the filthiest parts of each one. You’d teased and you’d flirted, earned a couple groping touches and open-mouthed caresses from the likes of the late Mr. Walsh and many others. But never Mr. Dixon.

Even now, sitting across from him in your skimpy Wrangler cut offs, wedges, and a skintight, starch white tank top stretched so tight over your tits the fabric was practically see-through, it was like you were invisible to him. You kicked your feet out in front of you as they dangled from the table and actually felt yourself pout at the feeling of frustration bubbling in your chest.

“I wanna help.” Sounding pitiful.

“No use,” Daryl said as he studied the barrel of the gun with an inscrutable expression, “Already told yer dad, ain’ no use for little girls on the range.”

Your nostrils flared as you started back on your feet.

“I am plenty useful, Mr. Dixon. And I— I’m not the little girl you think I am,” you fired back, sounding more miserable and juvenile with every word you spoke.

At the last, Daryl looked you up and down. It was hardly more than a passing glance, but deliberate enough to be expressive. Emotive.

He looked repulsed by you.

And, rather than dignify you with a response, he simply discarded his firearm on the table and left the room. You trailed behind him into the kitchen and watched him swing the refrigerator door wide on its hinges. Blue eyes surveying the shelves for a can of PBR, most likely.

“I can do anything you need me to,” you rejoined in a huff, desperate to be heard, “I’m twice the shot my old man ever was at my age, I can track if I need to— hell, I’m always doin’ stuff, Mr. Dixon. Things.”

You weren’t sure what rattling off your talents to a man who clearly had no interest in hearing them would accomplish, but you tried it anyway. You sounded like your father. When both of Mr. Dixon’s eyebrows raised in mock surprise and he plopped down on a bar stool opposite you, you wanted to melt right into the floor.

“Doin’ stuff, huh? Thangs?” he mocked your twang.

You gripped the door frame so tight your knuckles turned white. Daryl took a couple swigs of beer and stared you down through every swallow. He brought the can back to the counter, near-empty now, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I got a couple thangs for ya ta do,” he started, grinning, “Why don’t ya put those pretty hands ta work, throw a little apron on, and just...bake me a fuckin’ cake?”

“Funny,” you spat. You felt a surge of bile rise in your throat at the sight of his smug expression.

“Wash my car?”

“Fuck you.”

Daryl’s amusement only grew as the forbidden F-bomb flew from your lips—a word he knew Rick would never tolerate if you’d been in his presence. Presently, his eyes raked over your slight, shaking form at the threshold of the room and figured himself pretty lucky to have provoked such a strong reaction from you. He polished off the last of his drink in a single gulp.

“No need ta get all foul-mouthed, Ms. Grimes, I only—”

“Fuck. You.” Your reply came slower and a touch more measured than he’d expected. Even punctuated with a hint of a smile, making sure to stretch that Southern drawl when you added, “Dar-yl.”

It was the first time you’d ever used his first name.

You weren’t sure you liked it.

Daryl, on the other hand, felt quite certain the sound of his name suited your mouth just fine. A subsequent stir in his jeans wiped the smirk clean off his face, and he began to shift in his seat.

Before he could speak, you were already turning on your heels to leave. Formalities escaped quicker than your anger, and your fingers seemed to move of their own accord to flip Daryl off over your shoulder as you strode out the door, far out of his sight.

Meanwhile, and much to his chagrin, Mr. Dixon was already growing ill with the sounds of your parting wishes bouncing loud off the walls of his skull. Before the front door had even closed, his fingers, too, seemed to move involuntarily and do a thing they probably shouldn’t have done: touch the mound in his jeans.

He rubbed his clothed erection and groaned.

You were such a fucking brat.

Daryl had always thought with a father as eagle-eyed and attentive as Rick, you’d never reach this level of naughty, haughty, and straight up cunt-like, but here you were. Doing Lori proud the way you’d gotten another one of Rick’s best friends wrapped around your little finger.

You were good like that, and still too dense to understand a fraction of the effect you had on him while you did it. The way you’d been looking at him earlier, Daryl was sure you’d convinced yourself he hated you.

If you could only see him now, spitting in one hand and unzipping his fly with the other, freeing his cock, and finally, finally getting his fingers wrapped fast around his shaft with the sole thought of you on his mind as he did. If you could watch him shudder, close his eyes, draw a deep, jagged breath through his nose to scour the air for the faintest trace of your scent lingering there—maybe you’d get it.

Daryl slid his hand down his cock and exhaled a shaky breath. You would simply never “get it,” because he’d already promised himself he wouldn’t let that happen.

As his thumb grazed the head of his red-hot, leaking cock and imagined it was your tongue doing all the work, he had to remind himself this was nothing but a fantasy for him. There was just no way in hell he’d sink to Shane’s level and actually lay his hands on you, no—he was better than that.

He was a man of principle, furiously jerking his cock in his kitchen with the thought of his best friend’s daughter on his mind. He just couldn’t touch you.

Damn if those tits didn’t sit nice under that top, no bra to hold ‘em in. And those shorts…

Daryl felt his head drop back as a wave of pleasure coursed up his spine. In his mind, you were sucking him now, hollowing those soft, sweet cheeks around his member and bobbing your head up and down, again and again, eyes never leaving his. Maybe you’d know to cup his balls, use your tongue to draw a couple lazy shapes down his cock. Any way you wanted it done was exactly how Mr. Dixon needed it, he’d decided.

He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter and fucked his hand like a man half his age.

Someone like you.

Scarcely nineteen and so oversexed they might burst.

The difference was Daryl would explode any second now; he had only to hunch over, pump himself a few more times, and finally shoot his load, pretending it was spraying your insides and not the floor of his kitchen.

He’d intended to do just that, clenching his jaw at the filthiest thoughts of you yet, when suddenly, a sound shook the house.

Daryl dropped his cock and looked right out the window.

Down below, outside, you’d laid heavy on your car horn. Let the noise blare a couple seconds before Daryl came bounding over to the window.

When he did, the man thought his legs might buckle.

You were standing beside his truck in the driveway, sponge in hand, soaked head-to-toe in water and soap and smiling brighter than he’d ever seen you. The fabric above your tits was translucent now, clinging like a second skin and affording his lustful gaze every inch of your torso. Your free hand was waving up at him.

Daryl inched the window open with trembling hands.

“Mr. Dixon, this truck is filthy!” you shouted from down below.

Swallowing and blinking was all he knew how to do, it seemed. Finally, Daryl managed, deadpan:

“I know.”

You placed your hands on your hips and narrowed your eyes up at him.

“Have you always been such a dirty old man?”

Fuck. It was like you knew what he’d been doing, crouched over in the privacy of his home while he drooled and dreamed of fucking you stupid. He watched you cross the front of the car.

And lean down to start rubbing your sponge across the hood.

Daryl sincerely feared you might hear his loud groan the second it rose to his throat. He gritted his teeth, tried to fight the sound, but came up short with nothing to show for his efforts but a whimper slipping past his lips.

You started swirling your sponge in circles, tits shaking with every movement you made.

“Too bad little girls ain’t good for nothin’,” you sighed.

When you leaned flat across the metal surface below you, Daryl pictured himself standing behind you, taking his dick and shoving it deep between your folds. Stretching you out and making you scream into the space in front of you.

Slowly, discreetly, Daryl’s hand drifted back to his cock.

“Yeah. Too bad,” he mumbled as you bent over to soak your sponge once more. When you straightened up, you made sure to squeeze the thing over your chest so the water would douse your front. Daryl took the window frame in one hand and his cock in the other, leaning out just slightly to ask, “This the ‘stuff’ ye’s talkin’ ‘bout?”

“Thangs, really,” you answered dryly.

The two of you exchanged a brief smile, and Daryl’s hand started stroking his length.

Lucky for him, and unlucky for you, the size of the window wasn’t primed to make you privy to the sight of him pleasuring himself. At most, you saw a forearm moving gently back and forth. You bit your lower lip and kept your sponge moving in loops.

“Well these ‘thangs’ are gonna get ya in a whole heap of trouble with yer daddy if ya keep this up, girl,” Daryl warned, nodding toward your house with a wary look.

“It’s empty, Mr. Dixon. Whole place is mine for the weekend,” you replied with a sly intonation.

Finally, you stopped long enough to get a hand back down to your shorts. Facing Daryl still, you popped a button on your denim cut-offs and looked up at him with a glossy, innocent stare. You pretended to feel for something that wasn’t there, snagged the band of your light pink thong, and lifted it up to Daryl’s hungry gaze. You saw his bicep visibly strain as he jerked his cock even faster.

Back inside, Daryl was panting, groaning, reeling at the thought of you all alone in your house next door, splayed out across your bed in a baby pink panty set. He soaked in the sight of you and curled his toes into the floor as a new jolt of pleasure broke out through his body.

He was closer than he’d ever been. He rested his head against the window and watched you run your hands over your body, down your front, in your shorts. He imagined your fingers grazing your cunt and how wet you must’ve been then, imagining him right back and fucking him steady with your eyes.

For a moment, your eyelids fluttered, and a blissful look crossed your features. Daryl rutted his hips at the thought of you finding your clit in front of him—desperately wanting to be the source of that pleasure himself—and pumped himself even faster.

“Darlin’, I…I need ya. In such a bad fuckin’ way.” He couldn’t keep the tender term of endearment from dancing on his tongue. The sight of you alone had his brain on the fritz.

You slipped your hand out of your shorts and brought a couple honeyed fingertips to the edge of your lips.

“How bad, Mr. Dixon?” you asked, eyeing him intently.

Daryl whined and felt his insides churn with the threat of release. He knew he couldn’t hold on much longer.

“So— so bad. Need to fuck ya so bad.”

That satisfied your affirmation-hungry itch well enough. You pushed two digits between your lips and started to suck.

From that point on, you didn’t need to see him or hear him or be there waiting patiently on your knees to get a mouthful of his cum—you knew it was coming. Daryl’s face contorted with a blissful, fucked-out expression, and suddenly he was pumping that space below the window full of his load, likely spraying the whole damn thing on the wall.

You stood back and admired your work. Daryl had all but collapsed with both hands planted on the windowsill, wet, brown locks hanging low in his face as the aftershocks of his arousal washed over him.

He was panting and barely able to meet your gaze. You couldn’t quite read the expression.

At any rate, you knew your job here was done.

With a hand waving sweetly back up at him once more, you eyed the mess of a man—your father’s best friend—and started to reach for your bucket and sponge. You buttoned your shorts back up and took a step from his truck. When it seemed Daryl was just then starting to open his mouth to speak, you beat him to it and called out, cheerfully,

“See ya around, Mr. Dixon!”

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon one shot #daryl dixon imagine #daryl x reader #the walking dead #twd daryl #twd fanfiction #twd imagine #smut

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infoglitch · 22 days ago

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....YOUR GOD IS HERE-

*WHAM*

OW FUCK! the hell ergo?!

Stop acting like your all that. You've been on hiatus in writing Rwby fics for A YEAR get your ass to work!

Make me bird brains!

*pulls out that item*

...AAAAAAAAAAAÆAAAAAÆAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Lancaster skit: weapons

Jaune found himself in his dorm alongside Ruby as there was a variety of tools and weapon parts on the floor

Jaune: hey uh, rubes?

Ruby: yep?

Jaune: why do I need to make my firearm?

Ruby: because one who doesn't understand the ins and outs of their weapons are more prone to accidents. That's what my dad and uncle Qrow practically drilled into mine and Yang's heads.

Jaune: ah... So wait, I can make my firearm however I want?

Ruby: mhm.

Jaune:... Ruby.

Ruby: yes?

Jaune: have you ever played ultrakill?

Ruby:... Oh my oum your actually-

Later~

Yang was training with Weiss on the bridge, or was until there was a gun shot. As she and Weiss saw Jaune flying through the air wielding some kind of shotgun that he pumped four times before pointing behind him and firing again, propelling himself through the air.

Jaune: THIS IS SO MUCH FUUUUUUUUN!

Weiss:. Is arc-

Yang: yep.

Weiss:.. I assume he and Ruby collaborated on it.

Yang: probably. But I wouldn't expect anything less from my baby sister.

Weiss: the same baby sister who when you saw, first kiss that dolt sent you into a coma?

Yang: says the one who got rejected by pyrrha.

Weiss: YOU SAID YOUD NEVER BRING UP MY CONFESSION AGAIN!

Yang: when I'm around others. Never said anything about not bringing it up around only you.

Weiss:.. I hate you, do you understand that?

Ruby: JAUNE WAIT DONT PUMP IT MORE THAN 4 OTHERWISE IT'LL-

BOOOOOOOM

Jaune: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Oh god I feel violated ;-;

Grow a pair, I didn't shove it up your ass this time

I STILL FEEL VIOLATED YOU DICK!

#rwby #lancaster rwby #rwby lancaster #lancaster #ruby rose x jaune arc #rwby ruby rose #rwby jaune arc #ruby x jaune #jaune x ruby

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electricneonvalkyrie · 2 months ago

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This chapter sits around 8k words. It deals with heavy themes of violence and death, based in TLOU universe. I can't stress enough that my works are 𝟙𝟠+ 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪.

Smut.

So, there is a third part. Otherwise, this would've been a very, very long second.

It's much like this one, dealing with the aftermath of Isaac and the WLF, Abby's journey as a mother, partner and leader. I personally like exploring Abby taking on a parental role, but I realize it's not for everyone.

If you guys enjoy the first two parts, I'll happily upload it. Otherwise, thanks so much for being here.

I'll catch you on the next one.

Happy nerding.

𝓞𝓾𝓻 𝓢𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓡𝓾𝓲𝓷

𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝐼𝐼

You've seen this before.

This is where everything burns.

Fractures.

You felt it coming, a slow, grinding pressure like drilling a well, the earth groaning and cracking until finally, you hit bottom—not a fresh spring, but a cold, heavy dread.

The stadium lights blind you, burning like artificial suns against a menacing, inky black sky. You know the generators are on borrowed time, their shuddering hums barely masking the screams below. It doesn't scare you anymore. The threat of being shrouded in darkness is a comfort.

You squint, eyes straining, trying to make sense of the undulating graveyard below.

Soldiers—proud, disciplined, the very backbone of the WLF—start breaking. One by one. It happens fast. Orders dissolve into frightened shouts, and the people who once carried themselves with unwavering purpose now scramble, break ranks, deserting their people beneath the weight of it all.

The rest of them turn, one after the other, beyond your worst nightmare. People you once knew, rapidly morphing into vile, diseased monsters, and all you can do is watch it play out.

This place once flourished. Sun baked laundry, and the sizzle of frying vegetables. The low, lazy bleat of contented livestock. Baskets brimming with plump, ruby red berries and crisp, green apples.

Life.

Now, it's no more than a rotting, writhing thing.

The air stinks of churned-up earth and something worse. Shadows twitch, scatter. Bodies crawl where they shouldn't. Your stomach knots. You want to squeeze your eyes shut, force it all away.

Searing pain tears through your forearms as you haul yourself up, the rusted rungs of a dilapidated ladder biting deep into your palms, turning them raw. Every muscle in your body aches, but there's no time to hang back.

Clammy hands lock around your ankle, the weight of their terror dragging at you, but you wrench your leg free, heart hammering between your ribs. Bodies thrash, stampede, disappear under the panicked flood of footsteps pounding against cracked concrete. The stench of sweat, blood, and fear thickens the breeze, suffocating you, but you don't look down.

You climb.

Every gulp of air splinters your lungs and the madness is everywhere, closing in fast.

You climb higher.

It's all you can do—keep climbing, keep pushing, because if you stop, even for a breath, the relentless tide of despairing souls will sweep you away and it's a fate worse than death.

By the time you drop onto the rattling steel platform, the cold has already wormed its way in, gnawing at your bones. Your numb fingers, stiff with cold, fumble uselessly with your firearm. You slam the mag home, but the ghost of Abby's presence whispers against the shell of your ear.

"I need a number, baby. Don't make me guess."

The metal beneath you is unforgiving. It digs into your knees, sharp and merciless, pain blooming like hot coals pressed into the ice of your skin, but you take inventory.

You count your bullets.

"If you have two bullets left, you have none, yeah?"

The memory of her mantra crashes into you so hard you nearly flinch. Abby's voice, a calm and commanding rumble, drilling the lesson into you over and over.

"Not until we can't get out."

It's a one-for-you, one-for-me pact that scrambles your guts, shatters your heart. The horrifying prospect of facing such a choice makes you sick to your stomach.

Abby's always been the one to make the tough calls.

She's always been the one to plan ahead, preparing for the unpleasant situations that others refuse to face. The memories of all your training sessions fade as you swallow hard and lick your dry lips.

You glance down.

A terrible mistake.

They're coming.

Hands, slick with filth, claw at the rungs, splitting their nails down to rotting, pulpy beds. Torn clothes hang off their bodies in damp, weeping shreds. Their flesh, once warm and freckled, is bloated, peeling apart. Some of them move with frantic, snapping hunger.

Others shouldn't be moving at all.

One looks up at you, its jaw hanging loose, unhinged, teeth bared in something too wide, too wrong.

Your heart pounds so loudly that you can't hear anything else.

By the time the helicopter's deafening chop-chop-chop reaches your ears, its blinding spotlights are already cutting through the darkness, illuminating the gruesome scene below in stark bursts of white and gold.

You can't see Abby.

But you know she's there.

The infected twist in the field below, a seething, mindless mass drawn to the light. Lured by the sound, they flow into the arena from every corner.

You force yourself to look down again. The ladder, shiny with fresh blood, offers no other trace of the infected who left it behind. Before you can even begin to stand and wave your arms, the chopper lurches like a wounded bird, tail whipping sideways, rotors making ribbons of the grey fog.

Your vision swims as the helicopter dips, unstable but righting itself. Even with the skill of Jordan's piloting, the aircraft is fighting for altitude. The wind pushes against it and the chopper banks hard, pulling away from the stadium at a punishing angle.

You expect it to loop back.

It doesn't.

You don't blink. You can't get a full breath.

They left you.

The despair is a deep, murky pit, a choking darkness that swallows you whole. You're going to die here—a forgotten casualty. No hero's sendoff, no blaze of glory, just a whimper lost in the chaos. You resent it all—the wasted years, Isaac's pointless war. The nights you lost with Abby, for a cause that ultimately meant fucking nothing.

Then—

The air shudders.

A tremor, deep and resonant, snakes through the steel beneath your feet until the vibrations make your teeth chatter. The chopper returns with fury, its rotors a deafening blur, kicking up an odour of hot metal and exhaust fumes that sting your nostrils.

The moment the wheels slam down on cold earth, the doors explode open, and the squad spills out into the storm. Their reckless intrusion causes the horde to shift and press in, and you fight to keep track of them from above.

The sight of Abby, her weapon at the ready as she surveys the calamity in horror, nearly forces a scream from you. You yearn for her gaze, to see those ethereal blue eyes meet yours again, even if only for a moment, even if it's the last time.

Even if you both perish fighting for the cause.

Abby and her squad, a lethal wall of muscle and firepower, move with precision through the commotion. Bullet-riddled infected crumple like limp marionettes, their strings snapped. Abby takes point, jaw tight, eyes set with relentless focus as she clears the path ahead. Manny flanks her, every pop from his rifle a kill-shot. Jordan and the others hold formation, moving as one through the writhing sea of decay.

No wasted movement. No hesitation.

Until suddenly, Jordan freezes, hitting an invisible wall.

His shoulders tremble, like some unseeable force has cleaved through his ribcage and taken hold of his lungs. You can't see his face, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his body nearly collapses, is enough to make your mouth go dry.

Your eyes follow his, squinting through the flickering emergency lights. Beyond the smoke curling against the rafters. You fight to discern the shifting, stumbling shapes among the pandemonium.

And then you see her.

A figure near the bleachers.

The way she's standing isn't right. She sways, her arms hanging limply at her sides, like they don't quite belong to her anymore. A slow, unnatural tilt of her head makes your stomach drop.

Leah.

"No," you breathe, and the sound of your own voice barely registers under the riot.

Time stretches and warps and the tower is too high. Everything blurs at the edges of your sight, ears ringing hellishly. You can't think, you can't catch your breath. Leah's wide eyes, scrappy emerald, the same ones you've seen soften at Jordan's voice, crinkle at his teasing, are clouded and vacant.

You can’t see it now, but you've seen it so much—too many times to count. The milky white gaze that turns everything numb, forcing bones to forget how they fit inside the body.

Jordan breathes like he's drowning, hemorrhaging in all the places a widower only bleeds in the shadows, and he doesn't move.

Even when she does.

The infected are everywhere. They pour over the field, climb the scaffolding. You have no ammo, not until there's no way out.

And then you see it.

Leah's backpack strapped haphazardly to her shoulders. A bulging bag wrapped in fabric. She's tried to conceal what's inside, but it moves, a nearly indiscernible shift. When the cloth loosens, and a tiny, socked foot slides out, your brain refuses to believe it.

Jordan's fucking baby.

Still alive, still breathing, but Jordan doesn't see it.

He only sees Leah. The one who used to roll her eyes when he fixed her scope. The girl who, with a shameless grin, stole his damn rations.

He doesn't see the life Leah still carries.

Your voice, shredded from shouting, from fighting, comes out in a squeak. You inhale again, dragging in every ounce of air you have left, and scream.

"Abby!"

She whips her head up, and your eyes meet in the madness.

Jordan doesn't look away from Leah and Abby doesn't look at any of it.

She's locked onto you.

With a sharp intake of breath, her jaw tightens, shoulders set, and she grabs Manny's wrist with bone-crushing force. She whispers something in his ear. His lips part and his throat bobs, but he doesn't dare argue, not now.

She lifts two fingers in the air, and with a flick of her wrist, she makes the signal.

Because Abby's always been the one to make the tough calls.

Her voice cuts through the roar at the end of the world.

"Light them up."

--------------------------------------

The corridors of the stadium are a disorienting maze of shadow and death. Dust covered lenses bleed an anemic glow onto blood spattered walls, emergency bulbs buzzing like dying moths against a porch light, burning themselves out one by one.

It's hard to believe that just hours ago, this place was home. Now? Nothing but remnants of what you'd always known. Abandoned halls, overturned chairs, books soaked through with ruin, their pages curling and damp.

You try to push the screams out of your head. The memory of people, your people, shoving toward the exit gates, rushing to their rooms, desperate and afraid.

The sirens wailed until the generators gasped their final breath, their shrieking call echoing through the city, beckoning every infected from miles around. If, by some stroke of luck, you had escaped? You would have only found yourself trapped in a slower, crueller death.

Abby's voice pulls you back, and she's softer spoken than you've ever heard her.

"Take the baby for a second."

A motion detector bulb flares to life outside, beyond the shattered floor-to-ceiling windows of Jordan's apartment. For a brief moment, it paints the field in harsh, false sunlight.

A figure lurches into view.

Its movements are jerky, disjointed, a body still discovering its own demise. Its jaw works like it's trying to remember how to chew.

The light flickers, dies.

Darkness swallows the thing whole.

And then the bulb flares back to life.

Closer now.

The soft shuffle of rotting feet, a wet, dragging sound.

Another flicker, and then nothing. The light doesn't come back on.

From the corner of your vision, a shadow shifts. One of Abby's comrades, tall, broad, rifle already raised, meets her gaze. No words needed, just a nod. Then he's gone. Glass crunches beneath his boots as he moves through the space like a ghost and into the night.

A few seconds later, a single flash of muzzle fire.

The soldier steps back inside with his rifle lowered, his pale expression unreadable.

A hand drops to your shoulder. It's heavy and grounding. You flinch but immediately reach up, covering it with your own.

"Hold the baby. I have to take care of this."

No.

It erupts from your chest before you even think.

"No! You are not leaving me, Abby."

That she would even suggest it after everything, after the horrors you've barely survived together, it blindsides you—knocks the breath from your lungs, leaves you stammering.

Fear, camouflaged as anger, lingers at the edge of your voice.

"Don’t you dare leave my sight. Do you hear me?" you hiss.

Abby doesn't argue. She simply nods toward Jordan, and it punches the breath from you.

Your friend, silent and peaceful, rocks his son in his arms. The soft rise and fall of the baby's breath is the only other movement in the room. He's taking it all in, the baby, the space, the life that's slipping through his fingers, not from neglect, but from time.

Time he doesn't have.

Weakened, he sinks onto the edge of the mattress.

"I can't leave him like this," Abby says, her voice thin and quiet.

Abby moves to kneel beside him, her hand resting on his knee. They don't speak. Slowly, Jordan looks at you with quiet resignation.

Your hands shake as you reach forward, and he places the baby in your arms.

The tiny body wriggles, restless, until, without thinking, you begin to sway, matching the rhythm Jordan had kept, a quiet instinct guiding you.

Small eyelids flutter open.

In the darkness, a luminous galaxy of guiding stars blinks up at you.

"Hey, little moon." Your voice shakes. "God, you're so tiny. How did someone like you make it through all this?"

You're so engrossed that you don't notice Abby approaching until her warm breath touches your temple. She whispers a light, lingering kiss to your forehead, her voice breaking as she softly cracks, tears sliding in muddy pearls down her cheeks.

"I'll fix this."

Her promise hangs in the air between you, but it's a fragile prayer, and a plea all at once.

Abby guides you out of the room and the door clicks shut. You hold the baby tighter, pressing a shaky kiss against their soft little head.

You hum a melancholic tune, the only one you can think of at a time like this. The baby whimpers, their tiny fingers curling against your sweater.

For a moment, it's the only sound in the world.

And then, swallowed by your lullaby, is a single, muffled gunshot.

++++++++++

The grassy, sweet notes of green tea drift down the hallway from the kitchen, where you can hear Abby humming a familiar tune.

You bury your face into the silk pillow beside you, its shape still molded by her presence. The fabric is cool against your cheek, a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of the blankets.

A small child clings to you like a sleepy little sloth, their soft breath warming your collarbone.

At some point in the night, they must have crawled in, tucking themselves close. You feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, his tiny fingers twitching in sleep.

Despite the ache in your back, there's a quiet relief in already knowing where he is before your feet even touch the floor.

"You awake back there, Caelus?" you whisper, your voice carrying a sleepy rasp.

The only answer is a tiny, contented sigh.

For now, you let him be.

The sound of Abby packing up for work is a comforting disturbance, a reminder that she'll be waiting for you somewhere nearby when you wake.

And just as sleep pulls you back under, you feel a gentle kiss pressed to the top of your head.

"Come find me when you wake up," Abby murmurs.

The front door clicks shut, and for a moment, you simply breathe.

--------------------------------------

With each passing morning, as the sun makes its gradual climb into the sky, you and your child set off on your route to the schoolhouse, delighting in the energy that accompanies your journey.

"What’s this one?" Caelus asks.

In his state of fascination with insects, he eagerly points at a beetle, its iridescent shell catching the light as it scuttles along a sun-warmed stone. Abby always stays updated on topics like these, effortlessly rattling off facts, and you hate not knowing, so you make your best effort to sound confident.

"It's a Doodlebug," you lie.

"Oh!"

"It’s got a nice shine to it, don't you think?" you ask.

Caelus shakes his head and wrinkles his nose, mirroring Abby’s notorious expression of uncertainty.

"The feet are too prickly," he says.

The child kneels to get a closer look, but when the beetle abruptly flies away, causing him to scream in surprise, it's confirmation that Caelus dislikes Doodlebugs completely.

Moving through the thoroughfare, the sharp aroma of charred wood fills your nose, while colourful murals bring life to the buildings lining the path.

Scattered throughout the streets, small flower gardens bloom, greeting the season. The petals ripple with the breeze, spilling soft bursts of colour into the morning light.

The settlement thrives under the careful guidance of a small committee, its heartbeat sustained by the hands of those who call it home. Yet, it is your family with Abby that the town holds in highest regard—its founders, its steady roots, the ones who first dared to carve a future from the unknown.

The town's warmth is evident in every passing glance and every familiar voice that calls your name. A neighbour pauses, pressing a small wooden helicopter into your sons' hands. He turns it over in his fingers, spinning the tiny rotor with quiet fascination, tracing the carved details, before pulling it close to his chest, his laughter bubbling up and bursting out like sunlight spilling through the trees.

Home. It feels like something stable, something earned. A place where roots have taken hold, where love lingers in every brick, every whispered greeting, every hushed gesture of kindness.

--------------------------------------

The second Caelus spots Abby in the distance, his whole body lights up like a struck match. His eyes go wide, a breathless gasp escapes him, and before you can say a word, he's tugging at your arm with frantic energy, bouncing on his toes as his hands flail wildly to get her attention.

Abby and her crew work in practiced rhythm, securing salvaged metal sheets and reinforcing weak points along the storm damaged wall. Sparks fly as welders seal the cracks, the metallic tang of heated steel lingering in the air. Along the perimeter, watchful eyes scan the horizon from the guard towers, residents standing sentinel over the home they've fought to protect.

Under the morning sun, Abby’s powerful body glistens with sweat, showcasing her unwavering dedication to removing the sleeves from all her shirts. The sight of her muscles flexing makes you want to take a pair of scissors to every piece of clothing she owns.

Your little one races toward Abby at full speed, his shoes pounding across the pavement, giving you no time to dwell.

Laughter ripples through the early morning crowd, a warm, easy sound as people glance over at Caelus, grinning before returning to their routines. But it's Abby’s reaction that holds you still—how her stern face softens the second she sees you both, her rigid expression shifting into unguarded simplicity, as if for a moment, nothing else in the universe matters.

"Mama! Mama! I found you!" Caelus squeals, his little legs moving as fast as they can carry him.

Abby catches him mid-air with practiced ease, spinning him in wild circles until their laughter tangles together. Dizzy and breathless, they topple to the ground in a heap, giggles spilling out between them. Caelus barely gives himself a second before launching onto her again, sending Abby flat on her back with an exaggerated "oof!" Her deep, rumbling laughter rolls through the air, pulling you into the joy right along with them.

"When did you get so strong?" she asks.

"Today!" Caelus exclaims, his eyes shining with triumph. He flexes his tiny arms with all the seriousness of a seasoned warrior. "Look at my guns! They're huge!"

You give your woman a playful scolding, hands firmly planted on your hips.

"Really, Abby?" you ask, arching a brow, already bracing for whatever ridiculous answer she's about to give.

"Well, someone's gotta teach him how to be cool," she teases, effortlessly trapping Caelus against her chest. Her fingers sneak under his arms, and the second she starts tickling, laughter rushes out of him like an overflowing creek—helpless, gasping, uncontrollable. "Right, Cae? Or are you just all talk?"

Your child gasps for air and pins Abby with a serious look when the giggle attack subsides.

"Wait—how come you’re not ticklish?" he asks, squinting suspiciously, as if Abby's been keeping some grand secret from him all along.

"Oh, I am," Abby says, eyes flicking up to yours, full of mischief. "But only Mommy knows where."

"That’s not fair," Caelus grumbles.

Manny hobbles over on his crutches, curiosity piqued by the commotion. Despite his arduous path to recovery, he never hesitates to contribute, continuing to be the finest marksman you've ever encountered.

In his excitement, Caelus momentarily forgets about Manny's injuries and lunges at him. Your heart jumps, instinct kicking in as you lurch forward, arms reaching before you can even think.

"No, Caelus!" The sharpness in your voice cuts through the hum of morning work before you even realize you've spoken.

Caelus startles, his little shoulders tensing at the sudden edge in your voice. His bottom lip wobbles before he ducks his head. But Manny only chuckles, giving the little boy a playful shake, waving off your concern like it's nothing.

"Sorry, Uncle Manny," he mumbles, voice small as he scuffs his blue rainboot against the dirt.

"I've survived worse, kid," Manny snorts, tousling your son's hair. "Gonna take more than that to bring me down."

You watch them walk together, Manny's hand resting gently on your son's shoulder, their voices blending into the hum of morning work. The guilt doesn't hit all at once—it seeps in slow, curling at the edges of your mind like mist. Your voice had been too firm, too fast, not cruel, but enough to weigh heavy in your chest. It sits there, unwanted, no matter how many times you remind yourself that Caelus isn't still flinching, that he's already moved on.

But you haven't. The moment replays, looping in your mind, making you wish you could pull him close and undo it all.

With a dirt streaked forearm shielding her eyes, Abby looks up at you from the grass, her gaze searching, a mix of empathy and softness.

Abby puffs a breath, her eyes tracing over you, not just seeing, but understanding. "Don't do that," she murmurs, voice warm, steady. "You don't have to punish yourself for caring."

You stand still, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, eyes fixed on your sneakers like they hold the answers you need. The world around you is alive—easy laughter, bright voices, the distant sound of hammers against wood—but it all feels far away, muffled by the weight pressing against your heart.

Then, a gentle tug at your shoelace.

Playful, coaxing, like Abby's daring you to notice her. When you don’t react, Abby tugs again, firmer this time, an amused huff slipping past her lips. You blink, and there she is, kneeling in front of you, deft fingers making quick work of the knot. Her head tilts like she’s trying to figure out how to pull you back in.

When she meets your gaze, there's tenderness behind the teasing now, a quiet kind of insistence.

"C'mon," she says, low and certain, her voice curling around you like ivy. "Sit with me for a bit."

With a sigh, you give in, sinking down beside her as Abby's crew patiently guides your son through the art of hammering a nail. His tiny hands grip the tool with more determination than skill, his little brow furrowing as he listens intently to their instructions. The careful way they gesture, showing him where to place his fingers, keeps you mesmerized.

A gentle stroke along your thigh pulls you back to her. Abby's fingers trail slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of your knee before giving it a light squeeze—just enough to tether you before the thoughts swirling in your mind can drag you under.

"I’m a terrible mom."

Abby shakes her head, not sharp, just firm. "Don't do that to yourself." She nudges your knee with hers, voice gentler now. "You're an incredible mom. Caelus is lucky to have you—we both are."

You swallow hard. "I scared him."

The words feel fragile, like they might shatter if you hold them too long.

Abby pauses, and you sense the heavy burden of her sorrow. It's a loss she rarely gives voice to, mourning a mother she never got to know. Ghosts linger for her where memories should be.

"Yeah," she admits, voice quiet. "Maybe you did. But he knows you love him." She runs her thumb over your knuckles, grounding. "And love is what sticks. Not one bad moment."

She lifts your hand, pressing a soft kiss to your palm. "Baby, look at me."

You meet her eyes. Abby wouldn't hesitate to tell you if she thought you were slacking. But guilt is a cruel liar.

Her lips quirk into a half-smile. "Raising a kid with you is the best thing I've ever done. Just so you know."

Her grin tilts wickedly as her hand slips beneath your shirt, fingertips skating lazily over your stomach. The touch is light, absentminded, but intentional, like she enjoys the feel of you under her hands as much as she enjoys teasing you.

"Uh oh," you murmur, narrowing your eyes. "That’s a dangerous look."

"What?" Abby hums, like she's completely innocent. "I never really thought about it before this—having kids, you know?"

Her thumb strokes along your ribs, slow, warm, making it harder to focus when she chuckles low in her throat.

"Watching you with him does something to me, I guess," Abby murmurs playfully, her fingers hooking through your pant loops. "Can't help but think about putting a baby in you. You'd wear it so good."

"You can't just say things like that," you blurt, shoving her hand away, but your face feels hot, betraying you.

"What? Just stating facts," she smirks, glowing with mischief.

"And what about you, huh? You think you're off the hook?" you challenge, tilting your head.

"What about me?" Abby snorts.

"Think you’re too good for pregnancy?"

Abby blinks, her mouth opening slightly before she clamps it shut. A blush creeps up her neck, warming her ears, and for once, she's the one caught off guard. The sight stuns you. Bathed in the sun's warmth, she looks ethereal, something too good, too beautiful, too constant to be real.

With a cocky brow raised, Abby shrugs.

"You'd miss my abs too much. Not sure I could do that to you," she teases, recovering fast, but you catch the way she swallows.

Manny approaches, his limp more pronounced after a long morning's work. He doesn't call attention to it—he never does. Instead, his focus shifts to Caelus, watching the little hands gripping the hammer too tightly, the same way Jordan used to clutch his rifle.

The memory drops an anvil on your heart.

The bond between Manny and Caelus has always been more than just Abby's best friend looking out for her kid. It's deeper, stitched together by something unspoken—by the night Manny and Jordan crushed beers in celebration, welcoming the newest wolf cub into the pack.

Manny had been there when Leah gave birth, cracking jokes to mask his nerves, promising Jordan he’d always look after them. That promise lingers in every quiet moment like this.

"He’d be proud," Manny murmurs, voice quieter than usual, like he's saying it more to himself than to either of you. His fingers pick at a scab on his elbow, a nervous habit, but his eyes stay locked on Caelus—watching, remembering something he'll never speak aloud.

Then, softer, almost an afterthought, Manny continues. "Jordan couldn't swing a hammer to save his life."

He says it with a forced chuckle, humour trying to cushion something heavier.

When you glance at Abby, it's an understanding that hums in the space between breaths. You don't need words.

You've never needed them with her.

You barely lift your hand before she's already there, fingers closing around yours like she's been waiting, like she knew exactly when you'd need her.

--------------------------------------

Life here is steady, growing, rooted in something stronger than survival. The greenhouses thrive, rows of crops flourishing under careful hands.

This is the first year your town has made substantial trades with other communities, and it has brought about a remarkable transformation.

Abby leads differently than Isaac ever did—she builds bridges, not walls. The treaties, born of trust rather than fear, reflect in the unwavering loyalty of her community.

Prior to the stadium's collapse, most had already observed this trait in her, so it came as no surprise when many of the survivors and soldiers distanced themselves from the WLF and instead opted to follow Abby.

At first, you worried—loyalty can be fickle—but hardship forged something unbreakable among those who stayed. They weren't just survivors anymore; they were a family.

Humanity continues to surprise you with its remarkable ability to inspire hope.

"Carrots or beets?" you mumble, trailing your fingers along the leaves, feeling the sun-warmed greenery beneath your touch.

The simple luxury of deciding what to cook for dinner still feels like a quiet miracle.

Abby has a fondness for tomatoes that are crunchy and seasoned with a sprinkle of salt. Once they become squishy in the middle, she doesn't hesitate to toss them into the pigpen. You pull a few from the vine with a satisfying tug, their deep red skin firm and smooth.

Abby's fixation with snap peas borders on absurd, but her true talent lies in launching them across the kitchen with a precision that would make any marksman jealous. It creates playful chaos that your child eagerly joins in on, but you've caught one in the eye a time or two.

You drop only a few handfuls into your basket, as you prefer to see the nutrients being consumed rather than flung across your linoleum floor.

It's no great loss as potatoes are Abby's true obsession, anyway—so much so that she asks you to keep a clandestine garden dedicated solely to their cultivation in the backyard.

Your backyard gardens, crafted from old rubber tires and scrap planks, is your quiet labour of love. You've lost track of how many times you've watched Abby's hands help work the soil, grounding herself in the rhythm of growth. Your heart spills over with a bittersweet ache every time she convinces your son to join in.

She has a knack for making learning fun.

Upon returning home from the greenhouse, the unexpected sight of two leather boots greets you, their muddy soles peeking out from the end of the couch. Inching forward on silent tiptoes, you notice Abby is indulging in a rare afternoon nap.

Her work ethic hasn't changed in the slightest, her muscular hands calloused from keeping the community in one piece, but she no longer embarks on any overnight journeys.

A blessing you value every morning as you wake up beside her.

Leaning against the breakfast nook, you watch her chest rise and fall, the quiet rhythm of her breath a testament to hard earned peace. The golden afternoon light filters through the curtains, casting a honey glow over her skin, highlighting the freckles scattered across her nose.

The air in the room is thick with the scent of freshly chopped wood and the faint trace of her timber-steeped soap, grounding you in the moment. It has taken years to convince her it's okay to take a break, and now, watching her like this, you know it was worth it.

"You're welcome to join me," Abby murmurs, voice thick with sleep. "Or you can just keep staring. Up to you."

"Abby," you sigh, shaking your head as warmth spreads through your chest. "How long have you been faking sleep?"

"Since you walked through the door."

"Great," you sigh dramatically, bending over to scoop up a pile of wooden blocks spilling from the back of a toy truck. "Just another day of cleaning up after both my children."

Before shuffling across the carpet to put them away, you can't resist tossing a block at Abby's backside. It bounces off with a soft thud, landing on the rug beside her, skidding an inch before coming to a stop.

She grunts in protest, but the lazy smirk she shoots you makes your heart flip.

"Careful, baby," she drawls. "You keep that up, and I'll have to put you in time-out."

Abby arches her back in a slow, indulgent stretch, her drowsy gaze lingering on your body, tracing every curve and contour with possessive hunger.

Her lips part slightly, a slow, pleased breath escaping her.

"How long before our rug rat gets home?" she asks, her tongue briefly wetting her lips.

Your stomach flutters as you hear the subtle shift in her tone.

"Any minute now," you say.

Though you're always together, truly being alone feels impossible. Over five years of stolen kisses between bedtime stories, of hushed whispers under covers, of shifting apart when tiny feet shuffle into bed at midnight.

Wanting each other is a constant; having each other is rare.

Abby nibbles at the dry skin on her finger, deep in thought. She shifts, making space for you, but she doesn't move to sit up.

"If you let me," Abby murmurs. "I’ll make you feel good. You won’t have to lift a finger."

That cunning smile awakens a powerful, bone-deep ache. It’s different this time, more urgent. All the whispered promises, all the stolen glances across dimly lit rooms, every second spent wanting but never quite having, all of it culminates here, pressing down on you like gravity itself.

It's the kind of want that builds in layers, heavy with all the nights you've curled against her, desperate for more but settling for warmth.

It vibrates through you like starvation finally being sated.

"Here?" you ask, pulse quickening. "Right now?"

"Or… I can take you to bed," she says, voice husky, fingers tracing slow circles on her thigh, beckoning you to stare. "But you won't be leaving. Not until I've had you how I want."

The hands of the clock seem to mock you as your eyes dart to them, and back to Abby, shifting anxiously on your feet.

"Come here," Abby says, sitting upright on the couch. She spreads her legs and gives her thigh a gentle pat. "Please. You have no idea what you do to me."

The plea catches in her throat, and it's thick with desperation. She craves your touch more than air, and you watch as she lays it at your feet, the waves of her desire lapping at you like shallow ocean pools.

They rise higher with every breath she takes.

You swallow hard.

"I want you," Abby whispers.

And like a taut wire pulled too far, the hunger inside you stretches and snaps. You rush to close the curtains, fumble with the lock on the front door, pressure crackling under your skin. By the time you turn back to her, your shirt is already hitting the floor.

Abby's breath catches at the sight of you, her pupils blown wide, her grip tightening on the couch like she's trying to steady herself.

"God, you’re beautiful," she says, dipped in sugared rust. "I love watching you lose yourself on me."

Abby sets a match to every nerve ending, grabbing your wrist and pulling you flush against her. The warmth of her body seeps into yours, the scent of moss and cedar wrapping around you like a drug.

The gentle, deliberate way she moves, how she drags her hands over your skin, leaves you trembling before she's even begun. Sparks spread for miles in every direction as her calloused hands map the familiar terrain of your body, relearning you with a reverence that makes your breath hitch.

She moves slowly, agonizingly so, stopping to trace the dip and swell of each scar she lands on, her fingers memorizing scripture. Just when you’re certain she’s missed a spot, her fingers flex and the smooth bed of her nails backtrack, ensuring nothing goes unnoticed.

You knead the tension from her sculpted shoulders, letting your fingertips slide up to her braid. You tug, and the woven strands unravel, slipping loose between your fingers. Her hair spills down her back in golden waves, cascading over her flushed chest. The scent of pine and salt clings to each strand, as if she carries the wild, open forest with her.

Abby whimpers, tilting her head into your touch like she’s already lost in it.

"Tell me how to take you apart," you say, barely above a whisper, eyes locked onto hers. "Show me."

Abby puffs out a breath, her pupils darkening as she drinks you in, looks at you like she's the one unraveling.

When she yanks her shirt over her head, the fabric barely clearing her arms before her hands are on you again, she's breathtaking. Hard muscle wrapped in soft, freckled skin, every inch of her carved by effort, and now, she's at your mercy.

She drags her lips over your cheek, your jaw, tracing the curve of your throat like she's savoring something long overdue. The first press of her tongue against your pulse is devastating, and you're desperate to make up for every moment you've had to hold back.

Looking down at her through your lashes, you see that she’s already fighting for breath.

"Ride me, yeah? Let me feel every inch of you," Abby says, breath catching as you push her knees further apart, her thighs flexing beneath your touch.

"We have to make it quick," you murmur, your hands tightening on her like you can't stand the space between you for even a second longer.

"Don't worry," she laughs, the sound spilling out of her like she’s coming alive with the realization of just how badly she needs this. Her fingers twitch against your jaw, pressing her forehead against yours. Her grip tightens on the edge of too hard and just right. "That won’t be an issue for me."

She helps you settle with one leg on either side of her thigh, but she doesn't wait, afraid you might disappear if she lets go. She guides you down against her and the friction is dizzying, sharp, electric. The first drag of your body against hers wrenches a sound from her throat and the heat of it is overwhelming. Abby sucks in a sharp breath, her fingers digging into your hips, rough enough to leave marks she won't even remember making.

The slow grind of muscle flexing between your legs as she urges you down harder, sends a pulse of pleasure coiling low in your belly, leaving you gasping, aching for more.

"I need you so bad," Abby groans, her head falling back, jaw slack with pleasure. "I think about this all the time."

"Keep talking," you beg.

"Every time I close my eyes—every time I touch myself, it’s you. It’s always you."

Her hands slide up, palms rough and warm, molding over your breasts, her thumbs teasing your sensitive peaks with divine, gentle flicks. She lingers, coaxing helpless sounds from you, sounds no one else has ever touched. When her mouth finds your nipple, her tongue curls over itself, devouring you, taking your body apart like she's unravelling silk.

She sucks harder, until you notice her cheeks hollow, stirring up hot, carbonated sparks that climb your spine. You ride her thigh faster, fingertips tracing the edge of her waistband, slipping just beneath—just enough to make her hips lift.

"Fuck, I’m right there—" she rasps, breaking on the last syllable.

With tenderness, you cup her face in your palm and take a moment to appreciate the newest lines now etched at the corners of her eyes. How beautiful her scars look when they’re dipped in pleasure.

"Make a mess for me, Abby," you say, dragging your nails down the column of her neck. You feel the slow ripple of her throat as she swallows against it, a shudder running through her. You're dissolving her piece by piece, a squeak of leather as her toes curl in her boots. "Show me how much you need me. That's it."

And then—a knock.

Abby jolts violently, her fingers spasming around your waist like she can hold on to the moment if she just grips tighter. Her thigh flexes hard beneath you, her entire body wound tight with the ache of what was just about to happen.

Another knock, so loud it feels like the cosmos is shattering, the moment detonating into smithereens. Fragments of pleasure scattering into nothingness.

She mutters something under her breath, too low to catch.

And just like that, the universe proves once again that it has a personal vendetta against your sex life. The knocks grow louder, more insistent—an all out assault that rattles the doorframe, filled with the kind of unrelenting energy that can only belong to a six-year-old and a very amused Manny.

"This cannot be real life," you groan, pressing your forehead into Abby's shoulder like you can physically block out reality. "If we stay still, do you think they'll go away?"

Abby lets out a frustrated, breathless laugh that stutters on the edge of wrecked, her chest still rising and falling in uneven, gasping breaths. She's trying and failing miserably to pull herself together.

She drags her calloused thumb over your lower lip, watching the way it bounces back into place before whispering, "We really need to build that damn treehouse."

Evidently, Manny is also quite skilled at making learning fun, because to him, everything is a game. The frantic tattoo of knocks surely denting your door grows louder, more rambunctious, nearly shaking the panes from the window frames.

Abby presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing the frustration to dissipate, setting free something dangerously close to a growl. She scrubs both hands down her face, head thumping onto the back of the couch with a dull impact, her fingers flexing, clenching at the cushions, physically restraining herself from dragging you right back down onto her.

"I swear to God, I’m making this happen. If we have to barricade the door, send them on a scavenging hunt—hell, fake my own death—I'm fucking you properly tonight," Abby chuckles humourlessly.

Then, after a long, suffering sigh, she mutters, "How long has it been? We still can't get five goddamn minutes? Jesus Christ."

She lifts you up to place a tender kiss on your bare stomach, her lips lingering for just a second longer than necessary, still gripping your hips like she's contemplating sneaking you away and ignoring reality altogether.

"And you want another one," you say, your voice just as ruined as hers. "You see how that's insane, right?"

Abby closes her eyes with a goofy grin, forcing herself to let go. "I blame you."

Then, in one last act of pure defiance, Abby steals a bruising kiss, wanting you to feel exactly what she was about to do to you—all the ways she wants to love you.

All the ways she already does.

As she disappears down the hall to splash cold water on her face, you hear her grumble, "I need a minute."

The sheer exasperation in her voice sends you over the top, and you bite your lip, a giggle bubbling up before you can stop it.

As soon as the door opens, Manny's beaming smile suggests he didn't miss much of your conversation. With a cheerful squeal, your son launches himself at you, his little arms wrapped around you in a tight hug.

Abby slips by—her face still flushed as she grabs a glass of water from the kitchen, the cool splash against her skin clearly a poor relief from the tension. Manny shoulders his way past you, never missing an opportunity to antagonize her.

"Should we come back later?" Manny teases, leaning against the wall with an exaggerated smirk, arms crossed like he's been thoroughly entertained. "It looks like you haven't finished your reps."

"God, your timing is fucking horrendous," Abby groans.

"Bad word, Mama!"

"Yeah, you better watch your mouth, Abs," Manny grins. "You need to set a good example."

Squatting in front of Caelus, Abby softens her voice, tucking a stray curl behind his ear as she murmurs an apology. She reaches for the folded piece of paper in his hands with gentle curiosity, treating the artwork like something sacred.

It's a picture of a helicopter, and for a moment, she forgets to breathe. Her fingers graze the edge of the drawing, tracing the lines. She studies every intricate detail, her throat tightening. "You made this all by yourself?" she asks, voice just a little rougher than before.

"Miss Dina helped me with the udders," Caelus says.

"Do you mean the rotors?" Abby asks, her face lighting up with the kind of smile that reaches her eyes. She taps the drawing playfully, pressing a kiss to her sons' forehead. "These great big blades that help the helicopter zoom through the sky?"

"That's what I said, Mama," he insists, furrowing his brows in dramatic indignation.

With a smirk on her face, Abby lifts the little one up to the fridge, basking in their excited chatter as they debate the perfect spot to place it.

Your refrigerator is a gallery of imagination, a chaotic masterpiece of smudged crayon strokes and slightly crumpled pages, some barely clinging to the surface with mismatched magnets. The waxy texture of each drawing catches the light, the colours bold and unrestrained, a testament to boundless creativity.

Most of the artwork consists of endearing, abstract sketches of your family—Abby lifting wonky shaped weights, you reading on the couch, your head comically oblong and purple, Manny with his signature goofy grin, his eyeballs questionably placed.

And the world as Caelus sees it, from the towering walls of your quaint town to the whimsical classroom where Miss Dina teaches with endless patience.

Each drawing, in its own way, is a love letter to the life you’ve built together.

"Do you two need a little alone time?" Manny teases, nudging you hard enough to rock you on your feet. "Because you're looking a little wound up."

You reach into the vegetable basket on the counter and toss a pea at Manny's head.

Turns out it's pretty great.

"That depends," you say, nailing Manny square between the eyes with another pea. "Are you offering?"

Manny tilts his head, tapping his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness before shooting you a knowing grin. "Hmm... tempting, but I don't think you could handle me." He pauses, then gestures vaguely at himself. "I mean, I'd hate to break up a happy home, but I do look great in an apron."

You shake your head and shove him back. "Please."

Manny scoffs, straightening his shirt like you just insulted his honor. "What am I, a full-time uncle now? Might as well start charging for my services."

"That's exactly what you are," you say smugly. "Hope you like bedtime stories and dinosaur shaped pancakes."

You watch with delight as Abby and Caelus chase each other, their gleeful laughter filling your home.

Your son shrieks as Abby scoops him up, swinging him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, her own laughter mixing with his. He wriggles and giggles, kicking playfully as Abby spins him around before setting him down, only for Caelus to immediately retaliate with tiny, determined hands pushing at her legs, demanding another round.

Abby would move mountains for him, for you, and you'd be right there beside her.

One night without little ears around couldn't hurt, though.

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