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seneon · 6 months ago

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waiting for hours ──── seishiro nagi x fem! reader.

about. in which, nagi awaits your arrival at home for hours. pure fluff oneshot. wc of 1.2k.

notes. this is like, the highest rated chapter in my my oneshot book in wattpad. so im slapping this in tumblr too and happy belated bday to koala boy!! for @hyoismbbg ♡

𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐀𝐘 was the first time during this year that nagi was able to arrive home early from his football practice. and by early, earlier than the time his lover's work finishes.

he freshened himself up, ate some food in the fridge and waited. it was 8:42pm, almost an hour and a half for you to finish your work.

the football player, now playing for a professional team, was basically bored out of his mind. he could play games until you've returned, but the man had played every game in the universe.he could watch anime, movies or anything. but those would bore him instantly.

honestly, everything is boring to him nowadays. the only thing that would keep him entertained is football and you.

you were practically the same as him, a lazy person who somehow managed to be a successful writer and be in a relationship with another lazy athlete.

nagi waited and waited and waited. for what seemed like hours, he kept waiting for your presence to shine in his day. but every time he checked the clock, only a few minutes passed from the previous.

as tired as the white-haired male is, he decided to make you some simple yet cute supper, prepare your essentials for when you returned from work. nagi even set up your little table in your shared room by the window for when you read or do some planning for tomorrow.

he eventually lost track of time while trying to make everything in the house perfect so you didn't have to do anything else when you came home. an hour or so had passed, and nagi still didn't hear the door twist open.

you yawned, tired from the meeting you had at your publishing company. really, sometimes you wish you could boss around rude people and shut them up from their shitty opinions. but business is business. and rude people didn't really matter anyways.

you set everything the way it is, and stop in your tracks when you see the kitchen counter filled with a plate of delicious food.

the apartment looked pretty neat and clean too. when you looked around in suspicion and curiousity, some of the recognisable things belonging to your boyfriend were laying around freely.

that was when a smile crawled up your cheeks. your mind traveled to nagi who prepared the food and cleaned up the house— just as he walked out the room, an annoyed expression on his face.

"i thought you were never coming home, after i prepared everything for you," he pouted with a poker face, definitely disappointed at how late you arrived home.

"ah— my bad. thank you. you're home early," you shot him a lazy smile before he walked towards you and pulled you into a lazy hug, completely embracing you in his huge form.

"yeah, practice kinda got canceled because coach's wife got into trouble.”

since you were way tinier than him, you practically squished under his body, melting in the warmth of your lazy, sweet loving boyfriend.

he smelled like mint and fresh sugary frosting, from the body wash you gave to him as a present on his birthday. it was a scent that pulled you in so much it froze and destroyed all the negative comments that were written about your books.

as much as you didn't want to separate the hug, nagi gently plucked himself away from you, sternly looking into your eyes.

"eat, and go take a bath. then we can sleep together. practice might be cancelled tomorrow too if coach's wife's trouble is still ongoing.." he trailed off and shook his head. "ehh whatever just go. i made food for you without burning the kitchen and prepared stuff for you in the room."

you chuckled and nodded your head repeatedly, trying to keep in the laugh with his ridiculously sarcastic get funny words. pretty much whatever nagi said could be funny to you.

"i won't doubt your effort. thank you again," you tiptoed and gave him a quick peck on the lips, heading over to the kitchen counter to eat your supper.

the peck made nagi blush. it was the first kiss you gave him this week. it is monday night, the start of the week. and you kissed him yesterday. hah. humour. nagi keeps track of kisses he gets from you.

anyways, he wanted more kisses from you later so he watched you eat while conversing a little about both your writer job and athlete jobs.

then, he waited for you to take your bath, freshen up before you bailed out your little window corner and jumped into bed with nagi.

"thank you, sei," you thanked him again, as he buried his face into your hair, inhaling the fresh scent of your shampoo. "you've thanked me three times already. you're welcome though..."

your fingers moved to lace themselves in the soft fluffy hair of the male, moving around to ruffle and gently play with it.

nagi's hair was fairly soft, like cotton candy that would melt when it came in contact with liquid. it could even be on par with the clouds albeit you've never felt clouds before. but you just know it was more soft and fluffy than anything else.

you found it awfully cute that his love language is physical touch, so much that you often see him as a cat. and for a fact that nagi only needs and wants your attention, not from anyone else because you are everything to him.

the male hummed when your fingers played with his hair, an odd calmness filling over the mind and body of the athlete. you always managed to calm him down, physically and mentally. he loved that it was a good trait of you that he fell in love with.

"i love you," he said against your neck, his breath touching your skin as you couldn't help but smile at his words. he was random, sure, but you know when nagi was being genuine and sarcastic. now, he meant every word of it.

"i love you too," you replied softly, your fingers moving, trailing down to his cheeks to caress his chiseled jawline and softly stroke his cheeks.

such a work of art, you thought to yourself when you faced him and looked into his eyes.

how could a man be as angelic as your boyfriend?

you felt so blessed to have nagi in your life, never regretting that you made the first move for being friends and eventually he would later on give you a lazy confession that was conducted by his friend, reo.

"you're really beautiful, love," he felt himself smile when the both of you were staring into each other's eyes lovingly. "so beautiful.."

"and you're very handsome," you chuckled, going closer to his face. you kept the tiny distance for a moment, having a small time to admire nagi's grey eyes.

nagi then closed the distance between you both, his lips ever so softly closing in on yours to give you a lovely kiss.

it was filled with the purest intentions of showing how much he loves you, nothing else than an innocent kiss that was focused on appreciation and love.

you both pulled away at the same time, your arms wrapping around his neck as his own snaking around your waist to pull you close.

gosh, you love hugs when it comes to your lazy gigantic boyfriend. he always gives you the best ones.

"let's sleep now, okay?" he placed a soft kiss on your forehead, letting you reply with a nod before pulling the soft blanket over you two.

"i've been waiting for hours to cuddle you to sleep. good night, y/n.”

#﹙🗝️ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐰𝐫𝖎𝐭𝖎𝐧𝐠﹚#seishiro nagi #nagi seishiro #seishiro nagi x reader #nagi x reader #nagi x you #nagi x y/n #blue lock #blue lock fluff #bllk #blue lock x reader #blue lock nagi #blue lock hcs #bllk fluff #nagi fluff #bllk nagi #nagi #blue lock x female reader

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avelera · 2 months ago

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Ok, I feel like there's three writing concepts that Tumblr needs to get reacquainted with when it comes to understanding fiction:

Catharsis - Sometimes, fiction engages with horrifying, disgusting, painful, or scary concepts in order to bring about a positive experience for the reader. This can be through the hero defeating a disgusting evil, like defeating an abuser for example. One might also get catharsis not out of the defeat of something bad or uncomfortable, but simply from the experience of living it vicariously, such as joy at successfully hiding the body of a murder victim. There are literally countless examples of catharsis in fiction, but most importantly it must be understood, it is completely harmless to real people whether you're experiencing catharsis at something good happening or something bad happening that you get to live vicariously because it is literally fiction. Indeed, there's a lot of evidence that getting to experience catharsis through fiction at evil things, say, living vicariously through a fictional character committing adultery, even if you would never want to cheat on your own partner, actually helps purge the desire to do evil things oneself.

Pleasures of the genre - some genres have expectations that go with them. If you, as a writer, don't include those pleasures, you might turn off the audience. For example, the Western genre has a certain expectation of being set in the 19th c American West. There's usually cowboys and horses involved. If you write a story that's advertised as a "Western" that takes place entirely in a New York City apartment, it might be novel for the genre, but it might also piss off a bunch of readers who were expecting horses. You can do it, obviously, but don't be surprised if readers are confused and perhaps disinterested in the work. More salient to Tumblr perhaps - Marvel believes it is creating action/adventure superhero stories. If a Marvel movie suddenly became a psychological exploration of the internality of a character's relationships, without a single laser beam or fight scene in sight, Marvel expects its audience to be confused and unhappy. We, as fanfic writers and readers might be dying for that story, but that is not the pleasure of the genre that Marvel thinks its audience wants when it walks specifically into a superhero film.

Power Fantasy - this might be one of the most misunderstood or perhaps narrowly applied terms. Yes, sometimes a power fantasy is a 16 year old boy watching a superhero dude with 8 pack abs destroy the bad guy, get the girl, and save the day. Living vicariously through that character is definitely a power fantasy. BUT, a power fantasy can also be fantastical things that the audience wishes would happen in a way that would empower an audience member or make them happy. For example, a billionaire industrialist merchant of death like Tony Stark getting hit by his own weapons and deciding to become a crusader for justice in a way that actually helps normal people is, in fact, an audience power fantasy. We want to believe that if the right bad guy like a billionaire got the right comeuppance like a near-death experience at the hands of their own evils, they'd learn their lesson and become a better person. This is a power fantasy. This is not a thing that actually happens. It's honestly not that different from the power fantasy many gun owners have that if they own a gun, they're more likely to stop a crime in progress with their perfect marksmanship, rather than that they're more likely to kill or be killed by a member of their own family. Understanding the application of power fantasies in terms of good things you hope would happen happening in fiction is not only important for dissecting fiction as an intelligent viewer, it's also important in terms of recognizing when you're being influenced by certain stories and choosing what lesson you take away from it and what lesson (if any) you want to take away from it.

I just feel like these 3 terms are what I see most lacking in a lot of "discourse". Fiction is trying to engender emotion in the audience. Great fiction engenders a wide range of emotions in the viewer, not simply good emotions. Thoughtful fiction might (but not always!) try to impart a lesson. But great fiction can also just want to give you great emotions and make you think outside the usual box of your usual experiences. It's also completely fine for great fiction to just want to give you a great emotion experience like catharsis, or the thrill of a power fantasy. And I really wish these three separate but interrelated concepts were discussed more when it comes to dissecting fiction here on this site.

#fiction #writing #long post #maggie rambles #these are gross oversimplifications in some case but it's already a long post

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fanfictionismyaddiction · 1 month ago

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Under Fire

word count: 1.1k

Pairing: Toto Wolff x reader, ft. Jack

Summary: When Y/n L/n, Jack Wolff's beloved teacher, falls for Toto Wolff, their secret relationship is exposed to the world, igniting a media scandal that threatens to destroy their love and reputations.

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Y/n L/n had always been careful to maintain her privacy, especially as Jack Wolff's teacher. She kept her life in order, professional in every sense, and ensured that boundaries were respected. But everything changed when she met Toto Wolff at the first parent-teacher conference. He had walked into the room, tall, powerful, and commanding, and from that moment, everything began to shift.

It was supposed to be simple—discuss Jack’s progress, talk about his studies, and work to help him thrive. But with each passing week, the conversations between her and Toto lingered long after the school bell rang. First, there were shared smiles, then subtle compliments, until finally, their professional relationship evolved into something far more personal.

Toto had been honest with her from the beginning: he and Susie had divorced amicably years ago. There was no drama, no lingering bitterness between them, but that didn't stop the public from creating their own narratives. And as much as Y/n tried to keep her distance from Toto, the connection between them was undeniable.

One evening, after a long day at school, Y/n found herself at Toto’s penthouse in Monaco. It had become their sanctuary—hidden away from the prying eyes of the media. The city’s lights glittered across the water, and inside, the warmth of their shared moments felt intimate and safe. She sat on the couch, wearing a silk dress that clung to her curves. Toto sat beside her, his hand resting on her leg, the gentle pressure of his fingers sending sparks through her.

“Y/n,” he said softly, his voice thick with concern. “We can’t keep hiding like this.”

She sighed, her heart heavy with the reality of their situation. “I know, Toto. But the moment we go public, everything will change. You know what they’ll say.”

“They’re already talking,” he replied, running a hand through his dark hair. “The whispers are growing louder. It’s better if we control the narrative.”

Y/n bit her lip, knowing he was right. But the thought of being exposed to the world terrified her. She had always been private, especially in her role as Jack’s teacher. The idea of being dragged through the media was overwhelming, but hiding had become suffocating.

“It’s not just about us,” she said quietly. “Jack’s involved. His friends at school… they’ll hear things. He’ll be caught in the middle of all this.”

Toto leaned in closer, his dark eyes locking with hers. “Jack will understand. He loves you. He’ll know that what we have isn’t wrong.”

Y/n closed her eyes, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m not sure the world will see it that way.”

But that night, they made a decision. The next morning, they would stop hiding, and the world would know the truth. What Y/n didn’t expect was just how fast the backlash would come.

The following day, Y/n’s phone exploded with notifications. It was just after 8 AM when the tabloids published the story—photos of her and Toto walking into his penthouse, the headline bold and brutal:

“Toto Wolff’s New Flame: School Teacher Sparks Romance Scandal After Divorce From Susie Wolff!”

Y/n felt sick to her stomach as she scrolled through the articles. The vitriol pouring in from social media was immediate and vicious.

“She’s just a cheap rebound for Toto. Susie deserved better!”

“Some teacher she is—sleeping with a student’s father. How low can you go?”

“This girl thinks she can replace Susie Wolff? She’ll never be her!”

The comments felt like knives stabbing at her, each one more cruel than the last. Y/n’s hands trembled as she set her phone down, trying to block out the words. But they had already done their damage.

She tried to shake it off, telling herself that people didn’t know the real story—that Toto and Susie had been divorced long before she came into his life. But that didn’t seem to matter to the public. They wanted scandal, and she was the perfect target.

At school, things weren’t any easier. Parents whispered as she walked by, their gazes full of judgment. Y/n could feel their eyes on her, their silent accusations making her stomach twist. Even her colleagues, who had once been friendly, now kept their distance, unsure of how to navigate the media frenzy that had erupted around her.

And then there was Jack. Sweet, innocent Jack. The child who adored her, who looked up to her like a second mother. He had started calling her "Y/n/n" in the past few months, a term of affection that made her heart swell. But now, Y/n feared what this scandal would do to him.

One afternoon, after class, Jack stayed behind, as he often did, waiting for Toto to pick him up. But today, his usual cheerful demeanor was absent. He looked up at Y/n, his small face full of confusion.

“Y/n/n,” he asked, his voice soft, “why are people saying mean things about you and Daddy?”

Y/n’s heart sank. She knelt down beside him, her voice gentle. “Sometimes, Jack, people say things that aren’t true. They don’t understand what’s really happening, and they can be hurtful.”

Jack’s eyes filled with concern. “But you and Daddy are happy, right?”

Y/n nodded, forcing a smile. “Yes, sweetheart. We’re happy.”

Just then, Toto walked into the classroom, his face tense. He gave Y/n a knowing look, one that told her he had seen the headlines, read the comments, and was just as furious as she was.

He crouched down beside Jack, placing a protective hand on his son’s shoulder. “Everything’s okay, buddy. Don’t listen to what other people say.”

Jack nodded, but Y/n could tell the boy was still troubled by the whispers he’d overheard.

That evening, as they sat in Toto’s penthouse once again, Y/n could feel the weight of the scandal pressing down on them. The backlash was relentless, and the haters seemed determined to tear her down.

But as Toto wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, Y/n knew that they had something real. It didn’t matter what the world thought of her or how many people spewed their hate. In the end, it was her and Toto against the world.

“They’ll never stop, will they?” Y/n whispered, her voice shaky.

Toto kissed the top of her head, his voice firm. “Let them talk. I don’t care. You’re the one I love, Y/n, and that’s all that matters.”

Y/n leaned into him, finding comfort in his words, knowing that despite the storm of haters outside, what they had was worth fighting for. But deep down, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this scandal was just the beginning of a much larger battle.

#fanfiction #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #fluff #toto wolff #f1 #f1 fanfic #toto wolff x reader #reader insert #fanfic #totowolff #f1 fic #formula 1

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bluemooniegif · 4 months ago

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Soukoku's first meeting could not have been written more perfectly. Allow me to explain

A quick note on the manga panels: these are fan translations from BSD Bibliophile. At one stage they refer to Dazai as 'the youngest boss in Mafia history,' and the executive meeting as 'a meeting of five bosses.' This is just a stylistic choice! All of the panels shown here are from chapters 8 (volume 2), 10 & 11 (volume 3)

I love this scene more than life itself, because it is literally the PERFECT introduction to Chuuya, his character, and his relationship with Dazai. Let's talk about it!

First: some context. Dazai seems to be in a bit of a predicament- he's walked right into a trap set by the Port Mafia, an organisation that we don't know much about at this stage in the story. What we do know, and what we can observe, is this:

Dazai is a former executive, and appears to have walked into the trap on purpose

He is now being held in a room that Akutagawa describes very negatively- the fact of being here is dangerous

Dazai reveals that Akutagawa was once his subordinate, and that he thought very lowly of him at the time. He claims to still think of him this way. Akutagawa has a violent reaction to this.

This is a PERFECT example of 'showing, not telling' within a story. Rather than making a bunch of asides, describing what Dazai and Akutagawa are feeling and why, Asagiri & Harukawa have plopped us into the middle of a rather awkward reunion. I feel like I've walked into my friend's Christmas dinner and am now witnessing family politics unfold real time. It's like watching a car crash.

Now, we move between settings a bit, jumping around to watch Yosano DESTROY Kajii, Atsushi rescue Kyouka, and subsequently be injured and kidnapped by Akutagawa. We watch the Agency fall into disarray when Fukuzawa demands that everyone go looking for Atsushi- interesting, considering that Dazai is IN THE BASEMENT OF THE PORT MAFIA RIGHT NOW.

I've had lots of discussions and arguments about the meaning and significance of this. I won't delve too deep into it for now, but the way I see it is this: something the ADA is really REALLY good at is splitting up Mystery-Inc. style and working to solve cases etc., together, but apart. Dazai is also something of a stray dog (... cat), regularly wandering off and reappearing of his own accord. He's been with the ADA for several years at this point, and they would understand the way he operates well. Even if there's no indication whether he explicitly told anyone what he's doing or where he's going (which honestly, does that matter, when Ranpo would know immediately anyway?), we can safely assume that this is more or less a regular thing for them.

Anyway, back to the point. the Agency is not fazed by Dazai's disappearance... and neither, for some reason, is Dazai. He stands chained to the wall in the PM's basement- the same one, we discover later, where he's brutally tortured countless victims and traitors, and he's humming a little tune to himself, smiling, totally relaxed. We as the audience know he's pretty unflappable, and Akutagawa's expression when he sees him confirms this, too.

But. BUT. This doesn't last.

With the ADA descending into chaos, we switch perspectives back to Dazai again. He's bored at this stage, and thinking to himself that they must be searching for Atsushi soon (an indication that he was riling Akutagawa up earlier, btw) when he hears it: A voice that makes his resolve crack. A look of panic on his face that, at this stage, we haven't seen yet.

He turns, and we see Chuuya for the first time! He's got this strange smug look on his face, something deeply vindictive. Here's a current mafia executive, and he's so happy to see Dazai chained to the wall of their Torture Basement that you can't help but wonder... is there something that Dazai did to him, personally, that makes him feel this way? Or is this guy just so deeply involved with the PM that the fact Dazai left is like a personal slight against him?

Now, we don't really have long enough to truly panic over this predicament, because almost immediately these two fall into their old habits. Dazai isn't PLEASED, but he isn't afraid. He goes right into bantering with Chuuya, who surprisingly meets him right in the middle. Their regular dynamic shines right through: it's quick-witted quips, inside jokes, and knowing looks. It's this odd relaxation in their posture. In all of this, we have an acknowledgement of what they were, and evidence to suggest that they still are... whatever that thing is. Whatever you wanna call it: partners, boyfriends, best friends, buddies. That much is up to interpretation; the only undeniable fact is that they once knew each other better than themselves, and still do.

Then, the fight. This, to me, comes across as more of a way to display how powerful they both are individually: Chuuya punches concrete so hard it shatters in several places, Dazai snaps his fingers and breaks out of handcuffs.

We have front-row seats to what is in my opinion one of the best action sequences in early BSD, not just for what physically transpires, but what it tells us: they deeply understand each other on multiple levels. They're constantly predicting each other's moves, and they know where each other's weak spots are.

But there's also been a lot of growth. Dazai surprises Chuuya a few times, and vice-versa. Despite their apparent closeness, it's still clear that they haven't been together like this for a long, long time.

Then, they reach checkmate. It appears as though Chuuya has won, and we're fed some more Dazai lore- he was the youngest executive the PM ever saw.

This is how Chuuya remembers Dazai. Again, I want to remind you that this is the first time so far we're seeing PM-zai, and he is worlds away from the Dazai we've grown to know so far.

Though Chuuya seems to have driven Dazai into a corner, the roles are quickly reversed when Dazai claims to know something about a meeting between all five of the Mafia's executives. Chuuya quickly realises this is one of his 'predictions,' further proving the depth of their mutual understanding.

With hindsight, we know just how big a deal a meeting of this scale is, and knowing a certain stormbro (who I won't reveal just in case of spoilers) will be there makes me lose my mind, personally. It clearly affects Chuuya, as well, which was undoubtedly Dazai's goal.

With the power balance disrupted again, they quickly fall back into that same bantering dynamic. The volatile nature of their relationship is so perfectly portrayed within this short scene that it actually makes me sick, I genuinely don't think it could have been more perfect

Anyway. Chuuya has realised, at this stage, that Dazai had multiple goals when he allowed himself to be kidnapped, and one of those was to piss Chuuya off (which is something I think he could've managed even if Chuuya wasn't physically there). This, in turn, pisses Chuuya off, especially when he realises the predicament Dazai has left him in- let him escape, or the Mafia suffers. A test of loyalty, Chuuya's greatest weakness. Do you understand why I am tearing my hair out and howling at the moon??? This is fucking insanity.

And then, the final moment! The part we all know and love! Not only does Chuuya choose to err on the side of caution, allowing Dazai to escape- he also leaves with the repetition of another inside joke. And Dazai laughs- he looks genuinely happy, too.

That is all. I'm gonna go cry now ಥ_ಥ

read this original thread on twitter

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #dazai #chuuya #skk #soukoku #bsd theory #bsd analysis #analysis #they make me cry

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noxturnalnymph · 11 months ago

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Devotion 🖤 Masterlist

Series Summary: When is it enough? When is it too much? When does Devotion become Obsession?

I. Stronger Together CH 1 CH 2 CH 3

II. Predator or Prey? CH 4 CH 5 CH 6 CH 7 CH 8

III. Path to the Future CH 9 CH 10 CH 11 CH 12

Epilogue Some Summer Sunday

Series Warnings: 18+ MDNI, canon-typical violence/death, death of clickers, guns, blood/injury, references to previous SAs (not described), Reader has low self worth & trauma, this group/cult is not feminist - women aren’t treated as equals, Joel has sexual relationships with other characters (not described in detail), possessiveness, manipulation, stalking/spying on, Joel gets mean, DubCon Oral, Joel gets abusive (verbally, mentally, physically (he hits, throws, and bites), thoughts of self-harm and suicide, talk of periods & pregnancy, unprotected PiV, oral sex (m & f receiving), come eating, DIRTY TALK, brief reference to breeding kink and creampie kink (but reader does NOT get pregnant in this story).

A/N: OBVIOUSLY this is canon-divergent, but it is post-outbreak. The events of outbreak day have not changed (sorry Sarah). Reader does have a developed background that plays heavily in her character arc, so in that sense she is very much an OC. Reader has a nickname and some minor physical descriptions.

LAYOUT OF JOEL'S HOUSE

AO3 LINK

MOODBOARD BY @strang3lov3 MOODBOARD BY @beefrobeefcal

*🖤*NOTES ABOUT THE CULT & JOEL BELOW*🖤*

ABOUT THE CULT

The Cult's Core Ideology

Build up a community (and supplies) to return to a thriving society that can keep people safe & find a cure.

The Cult Operates by its 3 Tenants:

How Joel does it (what he "preaches")

I. Build Trust (We are Stronger Together)

Makes people feel beautiful, important, HEARD

Shares the wealth (food, shelter, women)

Seeks Power & Control to get others to help him

II. Us vs Them (The Predator Vs The Prey)

FEDRA is the enemy, do not trust them

Assimilate or Destroy all other people/groups

Attack them before they attack you

III. Gather & Prepare (Create a Path to the Future)

You can never have enough, always take take take take

The community you create now will determine future society (fair, honest, hardworking)

Once you are well-prepared and rebuild, you can work on finding a cure

🖤

Notes about Joel and the Cult:

He and Tess began this community together in 2010 after they met Bill and Frank and they felt that the QZ was becoming too dangerous and unstable. They settled in a small, remote town in the mountains of Vermont. Tess helps him "run" the community but she has a submissive role. (Their dynamic here is different from canon.) Tess has his respect probably more than anyone else does but she is not looked upon like an equal by anyone in the community.

Timeline/Ages:

This takes place in the fall of 2012, so It’s been 9 years since outbreak day. Joel is 45, my HC for Reader is Early 30's (Tess is 39/40). Reader's exact age isn't given, but she was in her early 20's on outbreak day and I wanted her to have experienced a fair taste of an adult life before the world ended. I didn't want to write the reader as inexperienced or with too large of an age-gap, although I think 11-14 years is still pretty significant. She has a history that plays a significant role in her personality (wary, untrusting). She has been hurt/abused by men - both those that took advantage of her when she was young, as well as by those that she trusted/loved. There are very few physical descriptions but she is very much an OC. Note that her age is not something that's explicitly mentioned because I did want to keep it inclusive. I hope everyone who wants to read this can use their imagination to fit themselves into the story in a meaningful way.🖤

#devotion series #cult leader joel miller #noxturnalpascal #noxturnalnymph #ofc!reader #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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a-killer-obsession · 2 months ago

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Whoops, you got hit by a bus, and now you're in the world of One Piece. But not everything is quite as you remember it...

General Tags: afab reader, she/her reader pronouns, isekai, monsterfucker reader, vampire!kid, werewolf!killer, wyrm!heat, minotaur!wire, everyone has a human form, smut heavy, unhealthy relationships, dubious consent, serious violence, spoilers for Wano arc, starts pre-timeskip. There will be a lot of more intense kinks, please check AO3 for all current tags.

Chapter 8 - Wire's Turn

Sabaody continued.

WC: 3.5k

Masterlist | AO3 | Chapter 1

“Hurry the fuck up,” Wire growled, tugging on the chain leash that was attached to your metal collar. At least it wasn't explosive, small victories. You could only hope it would stay that way.

“I'm trying!” You pouted, practically jogging to keep up, “not all of us are eight feet tall!”

“You're not that much shorter than me,” Killer pointed out, “but I'm having no trouble.”

“I have a misleadingly long torso!” You whined, “I've only got little legs. Carry me if you're so bothered, I can't walk any faster, I'm basically running as it is.”

Wire grabbed you unceremoniously and threw you over his shoulder, making Killer snort a laugh as you squeaked in surprise. You crossed your arms against Wire's back with a pout, poking your tongue out at Killer walking behind as his shoulders shook with silent laughter. “I feel like a hunted deer,” you commented.

“Shut it or I'll drop you,” Wire replied flatly. You looked at the eight foot drop to the ground and quickly decided against that.

“Please don't,” you whispered.

You took some time to enjoy the view from all the way up there, finally taller than pretty much everyone around you. Killer's mask bobbed side to side, taking in the locals as well, while also no doubt staying on guard for potential trouble, considering where you were. For the “criminal” area of the archipelago, the town was pretty nice. Sure it was clear that most of the people here were more colourful than the usual Sabaody resident, and obviously on the rougher side. You saw a great deal of women, and the occasional man or child, wearing explosive collars, often being led by chains not dissimilar to your own.

The children were the hardest to look at, all clearly emaciated and abused. Your grand hope was that Luffy would become King of the Pirates and destroy the Red Line and all the disgusting pigs that lived in Mariejois on top, and put an end to this horrid human trade. If things went wrong and Kid decided to get rid of you, you desperately hoped Killer would take ownership of you. At least then you could expect the bare minimum care, though you still weren't sure if Killer would be the type to hit you. He was your favourite so you hoped not. Then again, Heat seemed like the type who couldn't hurt a fly, and yet you knew he burned people to death on a regular basis, a truly gruesome way to die. You tried not to think too hard about how many people Killer had murdered to get his epithet, or how many people had been impaled on the forks of the trident held only inches to your left.

Sabaody was certainly an amusing place. It was just as pretty in person as it had been in the anime, with the ground and bubble based structures all shimmering with a pretty iridescence, making everything sparkle. Bubbles floated from the ground and drew your attention to the giant trees surrounding you that formed the island, with their pale blue-grey striped trunks and vibrantly green leaves. Rays of light broke through between the trees, giving the whole archipelago an almost ethereal look, Killer's hair often glowing like he had a halo as he passed through the rays. You wondered if he knew how attractive he looked like that, with his cool fringed jeans and button-down shirt, opened to the chest to show off his muscles. It was a real shame he'd get rid of these clothes at some point in the next few years. Now there's a thought, I mean you'd confirmed it now that you'd seen him naked, but before you came here - when this world was still just fiction - what proof did you have that his arm hadn't always been scarred? It'd never even occurred to you now that he wore long sleeves, he could have been hiding those scars all along. Now that you were here though you knew that whatever caused that injury was still to happen. There was the comment Kid had made in Udon about one of Big Mom's pirates hurting one of his friends, maybe the burns would come from Charlotte Oven and his heating ability.

“Where are we going anyway?” You asked curiously. The commanders had already found an inn for the night and dropped off their stuff, as well as heading to a few different weapons stores to stock up, and cashing in some looted treasure for berri. Most supplies for the ship were taken care of by the lower ranked crewmates, which meant this was likely a personal trip.

“None of your business,” Wire huffed.

“Wire's just embarrassed cos his cocks too big for regular condoms,” Killer chuffed, “we're going out tonight, gotta be prepared.”

“Wait, so we're going to an adult store?” You perked up, “fun!”

“Don't get excited, we're not wasting any berri on you,” Killer spat back, making you pout. Still, you were curious to see what sort of things were available in this world. Sabaody was a hub city, you had no doubt it would have a wide range of the things available in this world, especially in this shadier area. You wondered what sort of toys were popular here, and what sort of technology they had. Did One Piece have vibrators? Suction toys? Remote controlled toys? Did they utilise den-dens? Now there was an intriguing prospect. Was it morally grey to use a snail for that?

“How big can it possibly be anyway?” You pondered aloud, “I thought those XL condoms were a marketing scam, I mean have you seen how big regular ones can blow up?”

“They break easier if they're too small,” Wire replied frankly, “I ain't risking that with random whores.”

“If you're so desperate for a lay why haven't you just fucked me?” You asked him, “My legs are wide open baby.” Wire was the only commander who hadn't taken advantage of your presence on the ship, in fact he'd barely interacted with you at all outside of Kid ordering him to jizz on you.

“You couldn't handle me,” Wire said smugly.

“What, I can take Kid's soda can cock but not you?” You asked.

“I'm bigger,” Wire replied with a cocky tint to his voice, “did you not see?”

“She was a little preoccupied,” Killer smirked.

“Someone was gagging me with his cock,” you frowned.

“And you loved every second of it, didn't you?” Killer teased, and you poked your tongue out at him again.

“Maybe if you're a good girl today I'll let you try,” Wire promised, “but don't come crying to me if you get hurt. I warned you.”

“Bet,” you smirked as Wire put you back down, “I'm not some inexperienced little virgin. I can take it.”

“We'll see,” Wire mumbled, coming to an open door that led to a stairwell, apparently the store was upstairs. There was only minimal signage outside, but once in the stairwell it was obvious what sort of store you were ascending to, the walls plastered with various posters of sexy, barely dressed - sometimes entirely nude - models advertising various products. There was even a sign that read ‘pets welcome’ with a stick figure pictogram of a human with a collar and leash. Ironic. The shop attendants would probably think Wire was your dom, not that you were opposed to that.

The shop held all the usual things you would expect; dildos, lingerie, anal play toys, lubricant, porn, basic BDSM gear. But there were things that you definitely didn't expect as well. For one, less vanilla dildos like the style you'd used on Killer seemed to be common, as well as many other monster themed dildos that you would more expect to have to buy online in your own world. There were all sorts of them, some you recognised that looked like Heat's, some even in pairs like his, others that looked like horse or cow, advertised as minotaur themed. You wondered if this was an effect of not having the internet here, whether it was easier in that case to just sell more exotic items in store, or if it was a result of being in a particularly shady area. There was a whole display of what you recognised to be dials, with a big cardboard cut out of some beautiful woman with purple hair in space buns, a strange visor, and barely any other clothing, advertising that these dials stored vibrations.

Wire selected his condoms fairly quickly but continued to peruse the store, so you followed him around, not that you had much choice as he tugged at your leash whenever you paused for too long. The store worker and other customers didn't even blink an eye at him leading you around, or your bound wrists. Killer was already off looking at the porn when Wire made his way to that section, and you were curious to see what sort of kinks were popular here. Once again you were suprised by the amount of monsterfucker targeted items, with magazines that featured all sorts of creatures on the front, often entangled with humans. It was strange how very photo realistic they were, were they just very good at costumes and special effects makeup in this world? You didn't think they had CGI here, because surely that would require computers. Maybe they were devil fruit users? Minks?

You picked up a magazine that intrigued you, the cover featuring a human woman not dissimilar looking to yourself, with a large werewolf and minotaur either side of her. You flicked through the pages looking at the various poses they put her in, quite impressed at the size of their cocks and how realistic they looked, surely they couldn't be dildos? They must be devil fruit users. The centrefold was an extra long page that could be flipped down, and you gasped as it revealed a almost to life scale image of the minotaur's massive cock.

“Oi, no free reads,” the shop attendant yelled from the counter, “either buy it or put it back.”

Killer and Wire both took note of the magazine you were holding and exchanged a look. “She'll buy it,” they both said in unison, making you extremely confused.

“What… but…” you stuttered as Wire took the mag from you, “I thought you weren't spending money on me?”

“We're making an exception,” Killer said quickly.

“Oh… okay,” you replied, still very confused.

The boys paid for their things and dragged you back out of the store, Wire putting you back over his shoulder to walk faster. “You liked that mag then?” Wire asked. Weird thing to ask when he'd already bought it for you.

“If you're asking if I'm a monsterfucker, or interested in fucking werewolves and minotaurs,” you replied, “my answer would be a resounding yes. You should see some of the dildos I have back home.”

“Interesting,” Wire hummed. Perhaps you could take him after all, if you were used to that sort of size. The thought of burying himself in you made his cock twitch, finding someone who could take him was a rarity, especially human. That's why he usually turned to professionals who knew their limits, no fucking around only to be disappointed when they tap out. It was unfair really that he hadn't gotten a chance to destroy your cunt, and with the clock ticking on your story being proven true or false, he might not have much time left to try you out before inevitably sold you off. Being from another world was a insane excuse for Wire, he didn't have a single inclination that you were telling the truth, but that didn't mean he wouldn't fuck you while he could. Making a snap decision he carried you to a nearby alleyway, still in broad daylight and in full sight of those walking past but he didn't give a shit. This was normal for this zone anyway, there were no kids in this area and besides, he'd seen at least three other couples going at it on the way here.

Killer followed you both into the alley and stood knowingly on watch towards the end, knowing full well what Wire wanted as the tall man put you back on your feet and rested his trident against the building. “Wire?” You asked hesitantly as he spun you to face the wall, “Oh,” you squeaked as he pushed his growing erection against your ass, pulling your hips away from the wall so he could unfasten your shorts. “Right here?” You questioned nervously, looking at all the people passing by at the end of the alleyway as he worked your shorts and panties down till they pooled at your ankles.

“Right here,” Wire confirmed, “you said you could take it, right? Don't come bitching to me if I hurt you.”

“You won't,” you replied confidently, the allure of being fucked in such a public area already making you wet. Wire grinned coyly as he pushed his fingers between your legs and felt your arousal.

“Dirty whore,” he purred, “so fucking wet already, I bet you'd let me fuck you in the middle of the street if I wanted.”

He wasn't wrong, but you didn't have time to respond before you were biting back a moan as his long fingers entered you, going straight to two of them. Wire knew exactly what he was doing, zeroing in on your g-spot while his other hand reached around your front to play with your clit as he worked at stretching you. He found it surprisingly easy to work you open to a third finger, your slick coating his fingers as your pussy tried to suck them in. His fingers were so long he may as well been fucking you with a dildo, and with the added simulation on your sensitive bud and the risk of being out in public, barely hidden in the alleyway by a watchdog Killer, it didn't take long for your pussy to clench around Wire's fingers. Your knees shook as you came, clawing at the brick wall of the building you were pinned against with a choked moan.

“Good whore,” Wire hummed, removing his fingers from your cunt and wiping them on your shirt, “now get on your knees bitch, this dick isn't gonna suck itself.”

Wire let go of your leash but as it landed he stood on it purposefully, pinning it beneath his boot and forcing you downwards by your collar. Your panties were still around your ankles as you knelt, and your mouth watered as Wire unfastened his tented shorts, pulling his impressive cock free.

“Oh fuck,” you gasped as you set your eyes on it. He wasn't fucking around, he was big. There was no fucking way you could take all of him in your mouth, and you had doubts that he'd be able to fit all of it inside you either.

“Change your mind already?” Wire chuffed.

You pouted at him out of feigned hurt before eagerly bringing your bound hands up to grasp him, unable to reach a single hand around his shaft. You stacked them one above the other to cover as much surface as possible while your tongue came out to lick the head of his cock, running your muscle over the smooth skin and up the underside of his shaft, letting the tip of your tongue slide along the slit. You did what you could to try and fit him, barely taking a quarter of him in your mouth before you were gagging, the corners of your mouth stinging from the stretch. Wire took your hair and wound it around his wrist to hold your head, making shallow thrusts into your warm mouth that made your eyes water as he pushed even deeper.

“There's a good whore,” he praised, “gag on it sweetheart, let me see those pretty tears.”

You took as much as you could into your throat, unable to take more than half of him even as your throat bulged and you struggled to control your gag reflex. There was no hope of breathing with him in your throat, his cock so thick that you felt like you were truly choking. He was clearly used to this though, giving you plenty of opportunity to catch your breath while drool ran down your neck.

“That'll do,” he said flatly, like he was bored, “stand up and take your shorts and panties the rest of the way off.”

You obediently did as he asked, noticing as you stood how people walking past would occasionally stop and try to watch, quickly deterred by a quick threatening whizz of Killer's punishers to encourage them to move along. You slipped your shorts and panties past your shoes and Wire picked you up like you weighed nothing, wrapping your legs around his hips and holding you far off the ground with your back pinned to the alley wall. His heavy cock was pinned between your stomachs as he rut the base of it against your mound. You whined in need, trying to roll your hips to rub your clit against him.

“Last chance,” Wire warned, “it's not too late to admit defeat “

“Give it to me,” you begged, “please Wire, fuck me, I want your massive cock stretching me open.”

“Alright then,” Wire smirked, pleased with your begging, and lifting you higher to line his tip up with your slick entrance, “don't say I didn't warn you.”

He watched smugly as he sank you down on his cock and your face contorted as you bit back the urge to scream. The stretch was almost too much, but it wasn't the first time you'd experienced such a large intrusion, having dildos back home that were about his size. Soon the pain melted to pleasure, but as you had guessed, he was unable to sheath himself entirely before you were gripping his shoulder painfully tight, warning him that you'd hit your limit as his tip bullied against your cervix.

“Fuck, look at you,” Wire praised, leaning back a little so he could admire the way your abdomen bulged. No human could take all of him, but he was thoroughly impressed with how much you had managed to take. “What a good girl, I'm gonna enjoy ruining this cunt.”

Not wanting to waste his time, he started a brutal pace, your overstuffed cunt making obscene sounds as Wire made quiet grunts and used you. You looped your bound wrists over his head and clawed at his back, burying your face in his cloaked shoulder to muffle your moans as your body was bounced up and down. You would no doubt have scratches all over your ass after this from the brick wall, overly thankful that he'd at least let you keep your shirt on to protect your back from the rough surface. Wire's hands holding you by your ass at least protected you a little. With his body so close to yours there was a slight grind against your clit every time he thrust up into you, raising and lowering you in time with his movements to get as deep as he could, showing off his incredible strength and control as he continuously avoided smashing into your cervix. The way he stretched and filled you meant every sensitive spot inside you was being rubbed against, your entrance stretched to its limit around him. With all that stimulation it didn't take long for him to have you close to your peak again, crying into his shoulder at the overwhelming pleasure as he used you like a ragdoll.

“Mmmph,” you mumbled into his shoulder, leaving a wet patch on his cloak from your combined tears and drool, “cu-cumming!”

There was a pattering of fluid hitting the concrete pathway below you as you gushed on Wire's cock, and you let out a stuttered whine that caught the attention of a few passersby that Killer had to clear away. “Good girl, mouse,” Wire praised, not letting up for a moment, still chasing his own high, “gonna cum soon too.”

Wire pulled out and put you back on your feet, pulling your arms over his head to unhook you but holding you under an armpit to keep you upright, unbelievably shakey on your legs from the hard orgasm. He pulled up your panties up most of the way with his other hand before jerking himself off, cumming with a grunt into the gusset of your underwear. The hot white fluid was thick against the fabric and you whined as he pulled your panties the rest of the way up, making the fabric stick to your cunt. He pulled up your shorts as well, fastening them before throwing you back over his shoulder. He spanked your ass as he made his way out of the alley, but you were too tired to respond, now truly looking like a hunted deer as you went slack over his shoulder.

“We're done here,” Wire stated as he passed Killer. The shorter man huffed a short silent laugh and followed on behind, not at all surprised to see you had already fallen asleep on Wire's shoulder.

[Next Chapter]

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 months ago

Text

1968 [Chapter 8: Demeter, Goddess Of The Harvest]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.2k

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💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Is it a story worth telling? I think so. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than watching raindrops slither down the cracked concrete walls until the prison guards come back to bloody us again.

Today I’m sending John McCain taps in the shape of the tale of Io. John has a hard time tapping back—they’re doing something to his shoulders, they’re destroying him—but he likes to listen. He’s getting it a lot worse than I am; perhaps even the North Vietnamese fear Aemond’s retribution if I die here. They should be afraid of him. He thinks he owns everything he touches, and he’ll snap bones to keep it.

So anyway, Io was a king’s daughter, a mortal who Zeus saw and wanted and took when her father kicked her out to avoid the god’s wrath. That’s easily half of Greek mythology, right? Zeus appears, irrevocably fucks up someone’s life, vanishes in a plume of clouds and thunder. He leaves human rubble behind him: ribs, nerves, disembodied hearts that leak blood from torn ventricles, minds broken in two. Zeus impregnated Io and then turned her into a cow to hide her from his wife Hera, ever-watchful, ever-vengeful, an aspiring mass murderess. When this disguise failed, Hera condemned Io to wander ceaselessly through the wilderness, tormented by the constant stinging of a gadfly. Eventually, Zeus returns Io to human form and she pops out a few bastard kids, as if Zeus needs any more of those. Then he ditches her and she marries some Egyptian dude. There are other details that I’ve forgotten. I don’t think John McCain will know the difference.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I acquired all this fabled trivia. I don’t seem like the type to lie around under trees reading folklore from religions that died thousands of years ago. You’re right, I’m not. But Aemond is. He would tell the stories, and Helaena would embroider scenes on quilts for us to burrow under in the winter, and I would dramatically act out the best parts (mostly murders), and Aegon would scribble comics in jagged black pen strokes. He has all these notebooks down in the basement filled with his new versions of ancient myths: Poseidon as a horny dolphin, Aphrodite as Marilyn Monroe.

Wait, I remember what I skipped. While Io was roaming across the globe, she bumped into Prometheus—chained to a rock for giving humans the gift of fire—and he cheered her up somehow. I guess meeting a guy who gets his liver continuously chewed out by a giant eagle would make me more appreciative of my circumstances too.

I have a lot of time to myself here in solitary confinement. My social circle is microscopic. I tap to John through the wall, I have dinner dates with Tessarion the rat. And I think about my family. They’re fucked up, but I miss them. I miss going to Monmouth Park with Fosco to bet on horse races, I miss getting hammered with Aegon while he sings Johnny Cash or Beatles songs. I miss my mother and Helaena and Criston. I even miss Aemond’s wife, though I only met her a few times before I deployed. She’s sharp, she’s hilarious. She’s mean as hell to Aegon, and sometimes he deserves it.

At first I wondered why Aemond hasn’t gotten me out yet, but I understand now. It sounds a lot better to have a brother being tortured as a prisoner of war than one who received a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It’s the kind of thing Aemond would consider. He understands which stories are worth telling.

I feel kind of bad for her. Aemond’s wife, I mean.

I don’t think she knows about Alys.

~~~~~~~~~~

On a chilly mid-September morning cloaked in fog, Mimi is laid to rest in the Targaryen family mausoleum at Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park, New Jersey. Most of the golden plaques already have names chiseled into them: Viserys and Alicent, Fosco and Helaena. Aegon will one day be interred beside his wife. You have a spot reserved next to Aemond. All of you have already lived and died and been entombed; all of this was predestined by the stars eons before you had blood or bones.

Ari’s vault—an unnaturally tiny drawer, less than half the size of anyone else’s—is located just above yours. You can’t stop staring at it. You can’t hear anything the bearded priest in his black robes is chanting. Then Cosmo squeezes your hand and you look down at him. Mimi’s other children are somber but seem to be coping well enough—they are used to being raised by consensus, they would probably be more affected if one of the nannies died—but Cosmo always wants to be near you. He gazes up with those vast, wet, murky blue eyes, so much like Aegon’s, and you offer him a sad, reassuring smile. Cosmo smiles back. And you think: Life goes on.

Alicent is sniffling noisily; it echoes off the walls of the mausoleum. Criston—a man with no plaque assigned to him—is trying to console her. Aegon is watching you from across the cold granite chamber, grim and red-eyed in his black suit, the first time you can remember seeing him in one since your wedding. He wears no small gold hoops, only a row of stitches in his right ear. He wants to say something, to do something, but he can’t. Aemond is beside you, a hand heavy on your waist but muttering something to Otto. Back in Omaha, Otto had spent a few hours alone with the medical examiner, and when the death certificate was issued it revealed that Mimi died of a heart defect, a perfectly blameless sort of misfortune, an innate impending disaster. And so that’s what the newspapers printed, and any gossip to the contrary is confined to salacious rumors, untrustworthy and unproven.

When the ceremony is over, journalists are waiting to scavenge for photos and quotes under the guise of expressing their sympathies. It’s a shameless display, though they at least have the decency to wait by the cemetery gates. Aemond and Otto go to meet them. Alicent, Criston, Helaena, and Fosco, protective of the children, keep them far away from the feeding frenzy, hungry-eyed reporters like sharks without fins. Ludwika is reapplying her lipstick. Aegon is smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to his oldest son, Orion, a stilted exchange that holds the promise of turning warm with time.

You sit on a stone bench and Cosmo curls up beside you, rests his head in your lap, dozes off as you thread your fingers through his wavy blonde hair. In the mist there are shadows of gravestones and trees that turn skeletal as they shed their leaves.

“He is okay?” Fosco says as he ambles over, meaning Cosmo. He has his hands in the pockets of his slim black trousers that stop at his ankles. His suit is velvet, his eyeglasses speckled with drizzle from the slate-grey sky.

“He’s alright. He’s resting. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” Fosco sighs mournfully. “I keep thinking someone is missing. We came into this family together, Mimi and I. We got married six months apart. I have never had to do this without her. And I know she had her problems, but she was different when she was younger. She always liked a party, that’s why she and Aegon got along so well at first. But she was so loud and so funny, always telling these long stories, and everyone in the room would be grinning as they waited for the good part. Viserys loved her. Otto loved her. And then she had all those children one after the other, and that was hard, and Aegon self-destructed when he was the mayor of Trenton, and that was worse, and she was supposed to fix him and she couldn’t, the harder she tried the farther he ran from her. She started drinking her Gimlets before dinner, and then after lunch, and by the time you showed up it was never ending. But that wasn’t who she really was. She was like a moon that got smaller and smaller until the only thing left was a sliver.”

This family breaks people. This family kills people. “We’ll make ossi dei morti for Mimi tonight. I’ll help you, and we can teach the kids.”

Fosco smiles, swipes a tear from beneath his glasses, squeezes your shoulder with one wiry hand. “I am very glad you are still here.”

“I’m not trying to race you to that mausoleum.”

Fosco laughs. And then he says as he spies Aegon approaching: “Um…I will go avoid the paparazzi somewhere else.”

“You don’t have to leave, Fosco.”

“It is no trouble. And I suspect you enjoy your very rare privacy.” Fosco gives you a knowing glace and then heads back to where Helaena, Alicent, and Criston are lingering with the rest of the children. Now Ludwika is fluffing her blonde curls with her French tips, a smoldering Camel cigarette tucked between two fingers.

Aegon comes to you through the mist, plops onto the bench, and looks fondly down at Cosmo—now fast asleep, his face smooth and peaceful—before he speaks. “I can’t grasp that she’s really gone. We barely spoke for years, but she was always there, you know? Christ, she deserved better than this. She could have been happy somewhere else.”

“Your children need you.” It’s not the first time you’ve said it, but it’s the first time he believes you. He nods, staring out into the fog. “They have to get away from this whole circus for a while. And you have to learn how to be a real parent.”

“I’ll have time to work on it. I’m staying here. I’ve already been informed.”

You are alarmed. “What? By who?”

“Aemond and Otto.” Aegon says. “When the rest of you fly west, my kids and I will be at Asteria.”

“They’re getting you off the campaign trail,” you realize.

“They’re putting me on house arrest.”

Not seeing Aegon, not being near him? How long can I stand that? “I’m sure you’re relieved. You hate the grandstanding and the media.”

He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I have Fosco and Ludwika.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that they need to look out for you.”

“Aegon, I’ve been doing the political wife thing for over two years.”

“But it’s different now.”

He’s right, it is.

“You’ll call, won’t you?” he asks. “You’ll let me know how the trip is going, you’ll tell me if anything bad happens? Because I can always get on a plane and meet you wherever you are. Otto might pay someone to murder me, but I’d risk it.”

“Of course I’ll call.”

“Hey.” Gently, he turns your face so you can’t hide from him. “Will you be okay without me?”

I have to be. I don’t have a choice. Instead you reply: “I’ll miss the weed.”

The tension breaks and Aegon smiles, and then he pats your cheek twice with his open palm. “Behave yourself.” He waves Ludwika over, interrupting her meditative chain smoking.

“What, what?” Ludwika says. “Are we leaving soon? Yes, it is so sad what happened to Mimi, but us standing around in the rain won’t resurrect her. And I look terrible in black.”

“I can’t be there for the last leg of the campaign.” Aegon points to you. “I need you to pay attention and check in with her at least a few times a day.”

“This is a common request. I should get a degree in it so I can charge people.”

Aegon furrows his brow at her. “What are you talking about?”

Ludwika smirks as she puffs on her Camel. “You are not the first person to ask me to keep an eye on her.” She nods subtly towards Aemond, then sashays off to give a quote to the journalists.

~~~~~~~~~~

In San Diego, Aemond meets with residents of a new public housing complex to hear their concerns about neighborhood jobs and infrastructure. In San Jose, he visits labor activist Caesar Chavez—being treated for debilitating back pain at O’Connor Hospital—and expresses support for the ongoing boycott of all grapes produced in the state. In Sacramento, he attends a Jimi Hendrix concert and receives a standing ovation from the audience; the next day he joins high school students protesting for a more inclusive curriculum. In Oregon, he makes a speech at Portland State University acknowledging the tremendous cost of the Vietnam War—in money, in time, in blood—and pledges to begin dismantling U.S. involvement as soon as he is sworn into office in January. Aemond talks about hope and despair, the bleak reality and the American Dream, and he is so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesn’t even notice when someone takes his cufflinks as souvenirs. His lack of concern for his own safety exasperates Criston, but Aemond can’t be convinced to increase his security or his distance. If he expects the disaffected masses to carry him to the White House, he has to be real to them.

“What if another Wallace supporter tries to shoot you?” Criston demands. “What if a Nixon stooge stabs you or a crowd tramples you?”

“No one can kill me,” Aemond says, grinning wryly. “I’m not supposed to die yet. I’m supposed to be the president. It is God’s will.” And how can anybody disagree when that appears to be so true?

The earth dies as you drive north, summer withering into autumn. That familiar brisk cuttingness reappears in the air. You shake thousands of hands, smile for countless photographs. Mothers and wives of dead soldiers sob into your shoulder as you embrace them; teenage girls ask how they can get a good man like Aemond. Only one thing is missing from his glorious pilgrimage: something he wants desperately, something he cannot have (though he’ll never know why), you conceiving his child in time to announce it before Election Day. Each morning you sneak a pill and every night you bite the bullet. As often as you can, you duck into Dairy Queens to order lemon-lime Mr. Mistys.

George Wallace is in the South, galvanizing segregationists and accepting the endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan. Richard Nixon is working his way across the Midwest. He has chosen a politically moderate Greek as a running mate, Spiro Agnew; this does not strike you as a coincidence. He even shares a name with Aegon’s second son.

Nixon promises “peace with honor” in Vietnam, which means no immediate end to the draft. He makes speeches about “states’ rights” and “law and order,” ambiguous euphemisms designed to attract Wallace’s white supremacists without alienating too many suburban moderates. He commiserates with those lamenting the proliferation of sex, drugs, and divorce. He says he will return the nation to a more moral time. You wonder what he means. You can’t think of any such refuge in the bloodletting, spine-crushing history of mankind.

A kindergarten teacher tells you in Olympia, Washington, her eyes alight with reverence usually reserved for heroes, saints, gods: “People are voting for Aemond, but they’re voting for you too.”

And you find yourself thinking as a thousand miles roll by beyond the glass of limousine windows: How many people will I condemn if I don’t help Aemond win? How many lives is mine worth?

~~~~~~~~~~

The Hotel Sorrento in Seattle insists on giving you and Aemond the honeymoon suite: a retreat from the breakneck campaign, a romantic oasis for the future president and first lady…according to half the country, anyway. You are in the impractically large pink bathtub, surrounded by snowy dunes of bubbles. The wall to your right is a mirror, foggy around the edges; just a few yards to your left is the king-sized bed. In the top drawer of your nightstand is the card Aegon gave you in July. You aren’t sure where Aemond is, and you don’t especially care. You are relieved to be alone.

There’s a passion-red phone built into the rim of the tub, conveniently located for sudden room service revelations, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, steak and lobster. You have a different idea. It’s 7:15 p.m. here, so after 10 on the East Coast. On the steam-slick keypad, you dial the number for the main house at Asteria.

Eudoxia picks up and demands gruffly: “Geiá sou? Ti?”

“Hi, Doxie. Is Aegon around?”

“Where else would he be? Making himself useful somehow? Killing communists, driving a rocket to the moon? No. He is a burden as always.”

“Please be nice to him. His wife just died.”

“And so he cannot put his empty cups in the sink?” Without waiting for a reply, she sets the handset down on the kitchen counter with a clunk. There is distant, muffled shouting in Greek; she seems to back and forth with somebody. Then Eudoxia returns. “Antio sas,” she says, and hangs up just as a phone elsewhere in the house is lifted from its cradle.

Aegon answers with something halfway between a groan and a yawn. “Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey!” You can hear it riding the wire like electricity: a rustling as he sits up, a fresh clarity in his skull. His voice is deep, hushed, still husky with sleep. “What’s up, little Io? Any interesting happenings to report from your neighborhood of the solar system?”

“I just left a riveting tea party. Apple cinnamon scones and smoked salmon sandwiches. We talked about what kind of couches I should get for the White House and I wanted to kill myself. Are the kids okay?”

He’s smiling; you can tell. “They’re alright. I could have used you this afternoon. I was trying to help Spiro with his math homework. Trying, not succeeding.”

“Well he’s in middle school and thus beyond your skill.”

“How’s Jupiter?”

You know who he means. “I don’t want to talk about Aemond.”

“Okay.” Aegon says, curious. “So what should we talk about?”

A few seconds tick by, silent and perilous. “Where are you right now?”

“In my lair. Like a beast.”

“Alone?”

A transitory pause. “At the moment.”

“On the shag carpet or your futon?”

Now he’s very intrigued. “Futon. Why?”

“I just want a visual.” Beneath the water, your free hand is resting on the velvety inside of your thigh.

“Where are you?” Aegon asks.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Maybe I want a visual too.”

You chuckle, peeking over at yourself in the mirror. Your skin is dewy with steam; stray wisps of hair stick to your face. “I’m in a gigantic pink bathtub. It’s ridiculous, it’s shaped like a heart and everything. They have a phone installed right here in case I find myself in desperate need of filet mignon.”

“Oh.” And then he hesitates, like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. “Big enough for two?”

“More like five. You should get a tub like this for your basement, it would delight the campaign staffers.”

“My basement’s been pretty empty recently.”

Softly, vulnerably, glass offered for him to shatter: “You aren’t seeing other girls?”

“Nah, babe. I want something they can’t give me.”

You picture him, messy hair falling over his forehead, drowsy eyes that gleam with clandestine wisdom. You can smell the smoke and rum that bleeds from his skin. “I wish you were here.”

“In Seattle?”

“No. Right here.”

Aegon exhales shakily, swallows, takes a few seconds to collect himself. “How’s the water?”

“Extremely hot and full of bubbles.”

“So I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“No,” you say, baiting him.

“But I could touch you.”

“You already have.”

“Not enough,” he murmurs. “Nowhere close to enough.”

“Do you remember what I felt like?”

“Oh God,” he whispers, and you envision him closing his eyes, rubbing his face with the open palm of his left hand. “Yeah. Of course I do. I can’t get it out of my head. But I’ve been trying not to…you know…it felt wrong to think about you that way unless you were cool with it. Like I was betraying your trust or taking advantage of you or something.”

“No, I want you to think about me.”

You can hear Aegon moving around on the green futon, repositioning himself, yanking down a zipper. When he speaks again, his breathing is quick and jagged. “Where’s your other hand, huh?”

“Under the water,” you reply coyly.

“You bitch,” he says, laughing. “I miss you so fucking much. The house isn’t right without you in it. You belong here, you belong where I am.”

Beneath the veil of bubbles and steam, there is no scar on your belly, no infidelity, no campaign, no distance of almost 3,000 miles separating you and Aegon. Your fingers slip between your legs, finding slickness the water can’t wash away. It’s a familiar sensation, though you haven’t felt it in a while: rising steadily until you hit a plateau like a jet reaching cruising altitude. From here, it will either glide along smoothly until it dies out, or eventually turn sharp and painful. “Tell me about you,” you pant.

He can hear it in your voice, a needful surrender that sets him on fire. He can’t believe this is happening; he never wants it to end. “I mean, I’m…I’m insanely hard.”

“Stroke yourself, imagine it’s me. I wish it could be me.”

“Oh fuck,” Aegon whimpers. “Okay, okay…I want you. I want you with my fingers, I want you with my tongue, I want you to beg for it, and then…”

Impossibly, incomparably, your own pleasure is climbing faster than you can reconcile yourself to it, no longer a hunger but a violent aching, a crushing gravity you can’t fight against, a ship being dragged to the floor of the ocean. What’s happening? When will it end? You moan into the phone, amazed yet petrified. You can’t get enough air; it feels like drowning, like dying.

“I need to see you,” Aegon says. He’s close to the climax that you know men experience, he has to be; he’s gasping. “I need to be with you, let me give you what you want.”

“I want you to finish inside me.”

“Io…babe…oh my God, you’re gonna kill me…”

There are sounds out in the front room of the suite: a lock clicking, footsteps, keys and a wallet tossed onto the kitchenette counter. You’re so consumed you almost don’t notice. Aemond is back. Aemond is back!! And every ion of your ascending euphoria evaporates. “Gotta go, bye.”

“Wait—!”

You hang up just as Aemond is opening the bedroom door. He walks in—immaculately tailored dark blue suit, polished black leather shoes trampling soft pink carpet—and turns to you. He has already taken his glass eye out and put on his eyepatch. Vaguely, fleetingly, you wonder where he’s been. His gaze darts to the red phone, your fingerprints in the condensation. “Who were you talking to?”

“My parents.”

If Aemond doubts this, he doesn’t show it. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bathtub, peers down at you with an omniscient metallic glint in his eye. He’s always been less a man than a force of nature. “I know this year has been hell.”

You envision Persephone being stolen by Hades, Orpheus searching for his dead wife Eurydice, Charon ferrying souls across the River Styx. “You haven’t made it easier.”

There’s a flash of something in his scarred face, blazing and instantaneous like lightning, and then it fades. He reaches out to touch your hair, swept up and neatly bound with clips and pins. “We can’t forget everything we’ve accomplished together,” Aemond says. “I still need you. You’re my Aphrodite.”

He’s going to tell you to get out of the tub, to lie down on the bed, to open yourself so he can fill you. You distract him, forestalling the inevitable. Each morning Prometheus dreads the return of the eagle that pecks out his liver; as every summer ends Demeter mourns the loss of Persephone. “Any luck with Nixon?”

Aemond sighs, furious, brooding. “He still won’t agree to a debate. Wallace is onboard, he’s rabid for it, he’d show up if we held it in the fucking asteroid belt, any opportunity to spew his idiocy. But not Nixon.”

“Because he knows standing on the same stage as you can only hurt him. People thought he looked bad in 1960, can you imagine now? Television has gotten so much clearer. They’ll be able to count his sweat drops from their living room couches.”

“So how do I get him to do it?”

You look up at Aemond. It’s not a hypothetical question; he’s really asking for advice.

“I have to debate Nixon,” Aemond insists. “It’s close in the polls, which means it will be even closer on Election Day. I’ll underperform whatever is projected, my coalition is less likely to show up when it counts. College kids, hippies, transients. That’s just a fact. But the old people vote. The suburban housewives vote. Nixon’s resting on his political experience and accusations that I’m a communist, an agent of chaos. But I could slaughter him in an hour on ABC.”

You think of the mutilated Vietnam veterans waving their signs and screaming at LBJ from the other side of the wrought-iron gates of the White House. “Challenge him in public. Say that the American people deserve to see the candidates debate, and do it where everyone can hear you.”

“What if Nixon still refuses?”

“Then you call him a coward. You say he must have something to hide. You ask how he’s supposed to square up with the Russians and the Chinese if he can’t even face you.”

Aemond grins admiringly. “You’re vicious.” And he lifts your hand from the rim of the tub so he can kiss your knuckles. Once you licked up drops of his approval like Tantalus, cursed with eternal thirst. Now it is poison that turns your veins black.

“If there’s a debate, everyone should go,” you say, seized by sudden inspiration. “We should have a united front, including Aegon. It can be his return to the public eye. A month will have passed since the funeral, the timing is right. He can pose for a few photos with the kids to show the nation that they’re doing well and distract from any lingering rumors about Mimi.”

Aemond isn’t grinning anymore. He’s studying you with his cold blue gaze; no, he’s trying to intimidate you, to overpower you. “Otto and I will decide what to do with him.”

“He’s a Targaryen. He should be with the rest of us.”

Aemond stands and motions for you to follow, a snap of his wrist like a man calling a dog. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

Panic, tension, an iron sinking in your belly. The water is only lukewarm now, but you don’t want to leave it. “I’m not done yet.”

“Yes you are.”

There’s nothing else to say. Legally, a wife’s flesh is one with her husband’s. You slip as you step out of the bathtub, and Aemond grabs your forearm. Not like he’s helping you; like you’re something he owns.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two knocks, swift and forceful. “Hey, it’s me. You ready? Everyone else is downstairs in the lobby waiting for the limos.”

You hurry to open the door, almost twisting your ankle as you stumble in your heels. They’re an inch higher than what you’re used to. Aemond chose them, and your dress too, and your sapphire teardrop earrings, and the silver chains around your wrist and throat, and your future and your past, and your life itself. It’s mid-October, and the night of what will almost certainly be the sole presidential debate of 1968. Aemond’s retinue is staying at the Hotel Saint Louis. It’s harvest time, the fields beyond the city being reaped of their soybeans, wheat, corn, cotton, and rice, the beef cattle culled in mechanical underworlds. Aegon’s flight must have just landed.

As soon as he sees you his eyes drop, wide and bewitched, ensnared everywhere except your face. You say: “Can you help me zip this, please?”

He blinks a few times, then shakes it off. “Sorry, what?”

“The zipper’s stuck. I need you to get it.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He steps into the suite and stands behind you. The gown is a vivid blue like the Greek flag, gorgeous and shimmering but a size too small. It wasn’t tight a week ago, but now it is, and you aren’t pregnant just always gaining and losing weight in new places, first the baby and then the pill, and it wouldn’t bother you if Aemond didn’t seem so confounded by it. Aegon says as he tugs at the zipper: “I don’t think it’s gonna fit, babe.”

“It has to fit.”

“Even if I miraculously get this closed, you won’t be able to breathe.”

“Do whatever you have to. Just…just…” You push every last molecule of air out of your lungs, suck in your belly, and you hear the triumphant squeal of the zipper. “Yes!” Oh, but Aegon was right: you really can’t breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“You’re not gonna last the whole debate in that. You’ll be sweating more than Nixon.”

“I’m fine.”

“Io…”

“I’m fine. Come on.” You snatch your matching purse off the coffee table by the couch, check your makeup one last time, and hobble in your heels as you walk with Aegon out into the hallway.

At the Kiel Auditorium a few blocks away, the Targaryen children—Aegon’s five and Helaena’s three—are presented for photographs before being escorted back to the hotel by the nannies. And even in the few weeks that have passed since you last saw Aegon’s kids, there have been extraordinary changes. They talk to their father, and he talks back, and he ruffles their hair and rests his hands on their shoulders and asks them about what they’re learning from their private tutors. Cosmo tackles you before he leaves—a powerful bear hug, though he can only reach your legs—and he says he hopes you’re coming home to Asteria soon.

“Me too, kiddo,” Aegon tells him, and then smiles at you; but above his gleam of teeth his cloudy blue eyes, like the Atlantic in a storm, are gloomy and troubled.

As the audience takes their seats and the journalists are poised to capture the best images and quotes of the night, the three candidates and their wives (minus Wallace’s dear departed Lurleen) meet briefly backstage to exchange the perfunctory well-wishes. Pat Nixon is introverted and bookish, though she tries to hide it; but Aemond reels her in like swordfish until her eyes are filled with him. George Wallace gets one glimpse of your venomous glare and escapes, claiming to need one last trip to the restroom before the debate begins. But Richard Nixon beckons you to accompany him to a quiet, discrete corner of the room.

“I tried to call,” he says. He’s a remarkably normal man: medium height, receding dark hair, rough voice, weathered skin, not a god but a mortal, and—you have the impression—more aware of his flaws than his fiercest critics will ever be. “But no one at that damned beach house would ever put me through to you.”

You aren’t sure what he means. “Oh?”

“I never got the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was for your loss in July, Mrs. Targaryen,” Nixon says with unglamorous, plain, genuine compassion. “Pat and I, when we heard, we wept for you. We truly did. And for your husband to be clear across the country…I can’t even imagine. It must have been awful for you. A parent never gets over something like that. It stays with you like a scar.”

“It does,” you say softly.

“I lost two brothers. Arthur died when he was seven, tuberculosis killed Harold in his twenties. God, it just about destroyed my mother. You’re a remarkable woman. You’re lightning in a bottle for Aemond, do you know that? You’re like one of those Kennedy gals, but even better. More personable than Jackie. More intelligent than Ethel…although, to be frank, who wouldn’t be? And you’re not afflicted with any ghastly vices like Ted’s wife Joan. What would Aemond do without you? He’d lose, that’s what he’d do.”

Nixon’s smart, but he’s wounded. He’s capable, but he’s so desperate to prove it. Power could ruin a man like this. “You’re very kind, sir. You did some great work under Eisenhower. Self-made like my father was, a devotee of the American Dream. I believe you have an important role to play in this country…” You smirk, a bit mischievously. “Just not as the president.”

Nixon chortles. “No matter what happens tonight, rest assured that I hate Reagan more than I could ever dislike your husband,” he says, meaning the Republican governor of his home state of California. “You know that bastard tried to primary me?”

“Actors don’t belong in politics.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Nixon says, and then bids you farewell as the lights turn blinding and the curtain begins to rise.

As soon as the adrenaline begins to fade, all you can think about is that you can’t breathe. You take your seat in the audience between Aegon and Ludwika, who won’t stop making jabs about Nixon: “He looks like a troll,” “He looks like a sasquatch,” “Do you think Pat makes him wear a Creature from the Black Lagoon mask in bed so she is not so repulsed by him?” The most you can offer is an occasional distracted nod in response.

“You alright?” Aegon whispers.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look alright.”

“I’m great.”

“Sure,” he says, and he acts like he’s teasing, but there’s something tremendously sad underneath. He can’t save you from this. He can’t save you from anything. What must that feel like?

On the debate stage—broadcast to a national audience—Aemond performs brilliantly. Nixon salvages what could have been a bloodbath with a handful of clever retorts that Aemond pretends not to be rattled by. The real loser of the night is Wallace, who is brutally attacked by them both: Nixon because Wallace is commandeering some of his voting bloc, and Aemond because of his near-assassination back in May. After an hour, the contest concludes and the candidates descend to the main floor to pose for photos and get lassoed into brief interviews with various journalists. Everyone in Aemond’s entourage besides you and Aegon flock to his side. By now you’re gasping in shallow gulps, close to tears and in agony from your ribs to your wobbling feet.

“I told you,” Aegon says. And then: “Come on. We’ll take the first limo back.”

In the front room of your hotel suite—one yellowish end table lamp glowing dimly, the rest of the space like twilight—Aegon wrestles with the zipper as you struggle for every breath, trying not to pass out. “Ow,” you whine. “Oh fuck, this was so stupid…”

“Don’t let him make you wear shit you don’t want to wear.”

“I have to do what he says, Aegon.”

“He doesn’t own you.”

“Legally, he does.”

He’s tugging futilely at the jammed zipper. “Are you planning on using this again?”

“I believe that would be wistful thinking.”

“You probably look better out of it anyway.” He grabs his Zippo lighter from the pocket of his emerald green suit jacket and flicks it to life. “Don’t move, okay?”

“Okay.”

“At all.”

“Got it.”

You can feel heat, intense but not painful. Aegon has pulled the edge of the fabric as far away as he can from your skin and is singeing it until it turns black and charred and brittle. Then he tucks the lighter back into his pocket and with both hands rips your dress down to the small of your back. Cool air rushes to meet the ridge of your spine; goosebumps prickle all over. Aegon is marveling at you; you can see it when you glance over your shoulder at him. Then he lays a palm against your bare skin, leans into you, inhales everything you’ve ever been: smoke and sex and starlight, strategies, shadows, secrets.

The others will be pouring into the hallway from the elevator any minute. Aemond. Aemond could find us.

“We can’t,” you whisper, hating yourself for it.

Aegon kisses the nape of your neck—so slow, so kind—and then goes to the doorway. You wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He’s looking at you as you hold up the ruined gown so it covers your belly and your chest. You gaze back helplessly, wanting him, needing him, a moon chained to another world’s gravity.

We can’t, we can’t, we can’t.

“I’m so sorry,” you say.

And only then does Aegon vanish.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon x you #aegon x y/n

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oceandolores · 3 months ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | chapter 7

Dbf! Joel Miller x female reader

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸?"

summary: you can't get enough of him, and he wants more of you

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, ped0ph!l1a, cann1bal!sm, human traff1ck1ng, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 7

masterlist of the series!

previous | chapter 6

next | chapter 8

The days after you and Joel finally crossed that line were a blur of stolen moments and lingering touches. You found yourself craving him in ways you hadn’t before, your thoughts constantly drifting back to the feel of his hands on your skin, the warmth of his breath against your ear. Every moment spent apart felt like an eternity, and you wondered how you’d ever managed without him.

For Joel, the realization that he had given in to his desires was both exhilarating and terrifying. You were like the forbidden fruit—sweet, tempting, and utterly irresistible. He knew the danger of indulging in something that was not meant to be his, yet every time he thought of you, he felt a pull that was impossible to resist. You had become a part of him, woven into the fabric of his thoughts and desires, and he was powerless to fight it.

The guilt gnawed at him, whispering that this was wrong, that he should be stronger, that he should protect you, not give in to the very thing that could destroy you both. But like the serpent in the garden, you had offered him a taste of something he had long denied himself, and now that he had taken it, there was no going back.

You were his Eve, the one who had tempted him to take a bite of the apple, and now, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get enough. Every touch, every kiss felt like a forbidden indulgence, and yet, the more he had, the more he wanted. He was a man who had long believed himself to be beyond redemption, and yet, in your arms, he found a kind of salvation, even as he knew it might be the very thing that damned him.

The nights you spent together were filled with a passion that neither of you had ever known before. Joel was gentle, always so careful with you, as if you might break under the weight of his desire. But there was also a hunger in him, a need that seemed to grow with every touch, every whispered word. You were like a drug to him, intoxicating and addictive, and no matter how much he had, it was never enough.

But as the days passed, that small voice in the back of his mind grew louder, reminding him of the consequences, of the pain that could come from this, the inevitable fallout when the world discovered what they had done. He knew he was in deep, that this wasn’t just a fling, that his feelings for you ran deeper than he had ever expected. He had been so careful for so long, keeping everyone at arm’s length, building walls around his heart to protect himself from the hurt he knew too well. But with you, those walls had crumbled, and he was exposed, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t been in years.

You were like a flame, drawing him closer, even as he knew it could burn him. But he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t stay away. You were everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever needed, and now that he had you, he wasn’t sure he could ever let you go.

The dance troupe’s performance was just two days away, and you were supposed to be focused on your routines, on perfecting every move. But all you could think about was Joel, about the way his hands had felt on your skin, the way his lips had tasted against yours. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him, felt him, and it was driving you wild. You wanted him, needed him in a way that was almost painful, and the thought of going even a few hours without him seemed unbearable.

Joel felt the same. He knew he was playing with fire, that this couldn’t last, that something would have to give eventually. But he didn't want this to stop. And now, he was willing to let it consume him, because the thought of losing you, of going back to the way things were before, was too much to bear. You were his forbidden fruit, his secret sin, and he was addicted to you. No matter how wrong it was, no matter how much he knew he should stop, he couldn’t.

Because you were everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever needed, and now that he had you, he couldn’t imagine his life without you.

Today another dance practice, as the music filled the church building, you let the rhythm guide your movements, your body swaying gracefully with each note. Jem and Ben watched your group practice from the pews, but your focus was elsewhere. The melody transported you back to the nights you spent with Joel, the memories flooding your senses with a mix of desire and longing.

You closed your eyes, letting the music and the memories intertwine. The church faded away, replaced by the familiar setting of Joel’s house in Houston. You could almost feel the creaking of the bed beneath you, the sounds of your shared passion echoing through the room. His rough hands moved over your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His beard grazed your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

Each thrust he made was a reminder of how deeply you were connected, how perfectly you fit together. The world outside ceased to exist; there was only Joel and the overwhelming pleasure he brought you. The biblical teachings of your father and the church labeled this as sin, an ultimate transgression before marriage. Yet, in Joel’s arms, it felt nothing like sin. It felt like a divine ecstasy, a taste of heaven.

"If this is the consequence," you thought inside your head, moving with the music, "if this is what sends me to hell, then why does it feel so heavenly with Joel?" The thought was intoxicating, the juxtaposition of sin and salvation blurring in your mind. You couldn’t get enough of it, of him.

The memory was vivid, each detail etched into your mind. You danced faster as the music quickened, your movements becoming more fervent. The tambourine shook in your hand, its jingle a counterpoint to the imagined sounds of your intimate moments with Joel. The sensation of his touch, the heat of his body, the way he made you feel utterly cherished and desired – all of it played out in your mind like a sacred ritual.

Your eyes remained closed, lost in the reverie. You no longer cared if your friends noticed your entranced state, or if Jem and Ben watched with puzzled expressions. The rhythm of the music intertwined with the rhythm of your memories, transporting you back to the nights with Joel.

In your mind, you were back in Joel’s house. His hands were on you, their roughness a stark contrast to the gentleness of his touch. He moved with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring every moment. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t deserve you.”

You shivered at his words, your body arching into his touch. “You do, Joel.” Your voice was breathless, filled with the intensity of your feelings.

Joel’s response was a deep, satisfied groan. “I need you,” he said, his words a command and a plea. “Let me show you how much.”

The memory of his lips on your skin was almost tangible. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your neck, the way he kissed you with a mixture of passion and reverence. “Yes, Joel,” you murmured, your hands finding his shoulders. “Show me.”

As you danced, the sensations became more vivid. You could feel the weight of him above you, the way he moved with a careful precision, ensuring your pleasure with each thrust. “You’re so good,” he would say, his voice strained with his own desire. “My good girl.”

Your own voice echoed in your mind, a litany of need and surrender. “Please, Joel,” you would beg, your body responding to his every touch. “Don’t stop.”

The music swelled, and your movements became more frenzied, mirroring the crescendo of your memories. You could hear the bed creaking, the sound a testament to the intensity of your passion. Joel’s hands were everywhere, his touch branding you as his.

The heat of his body, the strength in his arms, the way he looked at you as if you were his entire world – it was all-consuming. Each thrust was deliberate, sending waves of pleasure through you. “You’re everything to me,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “I’ll never let you go.”

Your body responded to his every move, the sensations overwhelming. “Joel,” you gasped, your nails digging into his back as the pleasure built. ”Oh, I'm close,"

He groaned, his pace quickening. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you.” His words were a lifeline, anchoring you in the midst of the storm of sensations.

Your response was a moan of pure need, your body arching into his touch. “Joel, please,” you begged, the words spilling from your lips without thought. “Don’t stop.”

He answered with a deep, throaty groan, his hands gripping your hips as he drove deeper. “Never,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. As you neared your climax, the world seemed to blur, the only reality being the intense connection between you and Joel. With a final, powerful thrust, you both shattered, your climax washing over you as Joel found his own release, his warmth filling you.

The music in the church reached its crescendo, mirroring the peak of your shared passion. Your body responded to the memory, your movements becoming more fervent and impassioned. And then, as the final notes played, you felt the echo of that release, a sense of completion washing over you.

The music ended, and you heard clapping, pulling you back to the present. The applause was a reminder of where you were, and you opened your eyes, the church coming back into focus. You saw Jem and Ben watching you, their expressions a mix of admiration and curiosity. Your friends were smiling, their faces glowing with the shared joy of the dance.

You took a deep breath, grounding yourself in the present moment. The vivid memories of Joel still lingered, the intensity of your connection with him a comforting presence. As you looked around, you realized that your dance had been more than just a performance – it had been a celebration of the love and passion you shared with Joel.

Jem approached you, a knowing smile on his face. "That was incredible," he said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation. "You really put your heart into that dance."

You nodded, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "Thank you," you replied, your voice steady despite the turmoil within. As you stood in the church, the sacred space, you couldn’t help but think about how your mind had been filled with memories of the unholy. It was as if you were standing in the Garden of Eden, yet your thoughts were consumed with the forbidden fruit.

You couldn’t escape the feeling that your passionate moments with Joel were both a sin and a salvation, a paradox that left you breathless. The church, with its stained glass and solemn aura, was meant to be a place of purity and worship. But here you were, having indulged in the carnal, the profane, and it felt as if you had brought a piece of hell into heaven.

Ben noticed you, his eyes locking onto yours. He gave you a smile, but there was something in his gaze that unsettled you. It was as if he could see through you, as if he knew the unholy thoughts that had been consuming you. Your breath was still ragged, your chest rising and falling with the effort to regain composure.

He approached slowly, his expression curious and knowing. "You were really into that dance," he said, his voice gentle yet probing.

You swallowed hard, nodding. "Yeah, I guess I was."

Ben’s eyes didn’t leave yours, and for a moment, you felt exposed, as if he could see every sinful memory, every intimate detail of your nights with Joel. "You seem... different," he observed. "Like something’s changed."

Your heart pounded, guilt and desire warring within you. "I’ve just been... thinking a lot," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ben’s gaze softened, and he leaned in slightly, his voice low and almost conspiratorial. "We all have our moments of doubt and temptation," he said. "It’s human."

His words were a balm to your troubled soul, but also a reminder of the duality you lived with. The sacred and the profane, the pure and the sinful, all intertwined within you. You were a creature of both light and darkness, standing in a place that demanded only the former.

As Ben stepped back, his eyes still holding that knowing look, you felt a surge of determination. You could balance these two worlds, find a way to reconcile the love you had for Joel with the faith you were raised in. It wouldn’t be easy, but you were willing to try.

After the practice ended, Emma and a couple of your friends said goodbye and left, their laughter and chatter fading as they walked away. Jemima and Ben approached you hand-in-hand, Jemima with her ever-kind smile.

"You did a great job today," she said warmly. "You were really into it. Don't forget tomorrow is our last practice before the big performance on Sunday. I can't wait to see you on stage."

"Thanks, Jem," you replied, trying to muster enthusiasm despite the turmoil within.

They both said goodbye and left, driving away in their car. You stood outside the church, waiting for Joel. Usually, he would be waiting for you, but he had texted earlier, saying he would be late due to work. You were planning to spend the night with Joel, taking advantage of your father's absence. If he were home, sneaking out would be nearly impossible.

As you waited, a sudden voice startled you. "Hey!" It was Jamie. You sprang up from where you were sitting and took a step back, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Wait, please, just listen to me," Jamie called, taking a step towards you.

"Get out of my face, Jamie. I don't want to see you ever again," you snapped, fear and anger mingling in your voice. The memory of what he had done to you, the trauma he had caused, still haunted you.

"Please," Jamie pleaded, his voice desperate. "Just listen to me for a moment. I swear I won't hurt you."

You hesitated, knowing that if listening would make him go away, it was worth it. "What do you want?" you demanded, your voice trembling with suppressed rage.

Jamie took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I regret what I did. Please, don't tell anyone. It would ruin me, ruin my family."

"Sorry?" you echoed, your voice rising. "You hurt me, Jamie. You fucked me over, mentally and physically! You think sorry is going to fix that?"

"Please," Jamie begged, his face a mask of fear and desperation. "I know I messed up. Just don't tell anyone, please."

Your anger flared. "Get out of my fucking face or I'll fucking scream," you threatened, your voice low and deadly. For the first time, Jamie saw the seriousness in your eyes, the fury that had been building up.

Jamie stumbled back, fear evident in his eyes. Without another word, he turned and ran. Moments later, Joel’s truck pulled up. You quickly got into the passenger seat, your body still trembling with anger and fear.

Joel glanced at you, concern etched on his face. Before he could say anything, you leaned over and kissed him hard, your lips crashing into his.

Joel was taken aback but responded instantly, his arms wrapping around you to steady your trembling form. The kiss was a mixture of desperation, anger, and a need to feel something other than the fear Jamie had instilled in you. You pulled back, your eyes meeting Joel’s, and in a voice that was barely a whisper, you said, "Just take me away from here."

Joel nodded, his expression serious, and without another word, he put the truck in gear and drove off. As the town's familiar streets blurred by, you tried to calm your racing heart, but the proximity to Joel only heightened your senses. The tension from your encounter with Jamie slowly eased as you focused on Joel, his presence a comforting anchor.

Unbeknownst to either of you, Jamie had hidden behind some nearby bushes, watching the entire exchange. His eyes narrowed as he saw you kiss Joel passionately before driving away. Jamie’s mind raced with thoughts of revenge and use this against you if you ever tell anyone about him and you.

He got you.

***

Finally, Joel pulled into a secluded spot just outside of town, a place where the stars were visible and the world seemed to stand still. He turned off the engine and looked at you, his eyes filled with concern. "Are you okay?" he asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You were confused about why he stopped. "Why are you stopping?" you asked, a hint of frustration in your voice.

Joel sighed, still caressing your cheek. "I just want to make sure you're alright," he said gently. "You look pissed,"

"I'm fine," you insisted, trying to push the memories of Jamie away.

As Joel continued to caress your cheeks, you felt a familiar warmth growing inside you, a need that was becoming impossible to ignore. You leaned closer, your lips brushing against his neck. "I need you, Joel," you whispered, your breath warm against his skin. "I need to feel you."

Joel's breath hitched, and he shook his head. "No, not here. Wait until we get home."

But you were determined. Ignoring his protests, you unbuckled your seatbelt and began massaging his erection through his jeans. You could feel him getting hard, and it fueled your desire even more. "See, you're hard," you murmured, your voice low and teasing.

Joel's breathing grew heavier. "Doll, not here," he said, his voice strained. "Just wait."

You didn't stop. You unzipped his pants, your hand slipping inside to free his erection. Joel groaned, his resolve weakening as your touch sent shivers down his spine. "Relax, Joel," you whispered, your fingers wrapping around his length. "Just enjoy it."

He let out a shaky breath, his head leaning back against the seat. You lowered your head, your lips wrapping around him, taking him into your mouth. Joel's hands gripped the seat, his hips involuntarily thrusting towards you as you pleasured him.

"Fuck," he groaned, his voice thick with desire. "Keep doing that,"

You hummed in response, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through him. You moved your head up and down, taking him deeper each time. Joel's hands found your hair, pulling you suck his deeper as he lost himself in the sensation.

You hollowed your cheeks, increasing the intensity of your movements. Joel's breathing grew ragged, each gasp and groan driving you further. His taste, the warmth of his skin, and the way he responded to your touch fueled your own desire.

"God, you're so good," he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper.

His words spurred you on, and you took him even deeper, your tongue swirling around him. Joel's grip on your hair tightened, and he let out a series of low, guttural moans, his hips thrusting up to meet your movements.

"Fuck," he hissed, his control slipping. "I'm close."

You didn't stop, your pace quickening as you pushed him towards the edge. Joel's entire body tensed, and with a final, deep thrust, he came, his release filling your mouth. You swallowed, savoring the taste of him, before finally pulling back.

Joel looked down at you, his eyes dark with a mixture of love and desire. "You're incredible," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

You smiled, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Well, what are you waiting for? Drive! Do you want more or not?" you teased him, your voice a sultry whisper.

With a final desire glance, Joel started the truck again, his hands gripping the wheel with a mix of anticipation and restraint. The drive to the house was charged with a palpable tension, every touch and glance between you intensifying the connection.

When you finally arrived at the house, the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of you and the quiet sanctuary of the night. Joel led you inside with a sense of urgency, his touch a blend of tenderness and raw desire.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the sound amplified the charged atmosphere between you. Joel’s hands roamed over your body with an assertive grace, his touch igniting a fervent passion that mirrored your own. His eyes were dark with longing as he took in every curve and contour of your form.

"You’re so beautiful," Joel murmured, his voice a low, husky whisper. His fingers deftly tore at the fabric of your dress, a playful glint in his eyes. "Looks like you’ll owe me a new one."

You laughed softly, the sound mingling with the crackling tension in the air. His lips descended on your neck, trailing kisses that were both tender and intense. Each touch, each kiss, was a promise of the desire he felt for you. As he made his way down your body, his lips moved with a fervor that left you breathless.

When he reached your breast, his tongue traced delicate patterns over your skin, his touch sending waves of pleasure through you. The heat between you was palpable, a tantalizing dance of need and connection that drew you closer together.

"Joel, I need you now,"

Joel’s breath hitched at your words, a mixture of desire and affection deepening in his eyes. His hands, now firm and steady, guided you gently yet purposefully. Every touch was a deliberate exploration, a testament to the yearning that had built up between you.

He lifted his gaze from your breast, locking eyes with you. “Are you sure?” His voice was a low, husky whisper, filled with an intense sincerity. The warmth of his breath mingled with yours, creating an intimate cocoon around you both.

You nodded, your eyes never leaving his. “Yes, Joel. I want you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but filled with longing.

With a deep, appreciative breath, Joel's hands continued their journey with an almost reverent touch. His lips followed the path his hands had traced, moving with deliberate care. As he kissed his way down your abdomen, his touch was both urgent and gentle, a contrast that only heightened the sensation.

Every kiss, every touch, seemed to create a delicate tension that made the air between you crackle with anticipation. The world outside faded into insignificance as the two of you became enveloped in this intimate space.

As Joel guided you gently to the bed, his touch remained tender despite the urgent desire that fueled both of you. He moved with a deliberate calmness, his actions conveying both care and intensity. The soft rustle of the sheets contrasted with the fervor of the moment, creating a sense of serene anticipation.

Joel's hands were steady as he reached for the condom from the nightstand. You watched him with a mixture of excitement and affection, your breath catching slightly at the sight. The preparation felt like a final step in a journey that had been building with every touch, every kiss.

Joel’s movements were careful as he opened the condom, his focus entirely on you. The contrast between his urgency and the meticulousness with which he prepared was a testament to the deep respect and care he had for you. As he rolled the condom on, his eyes never left yours, each motion filled with a deliberate tenderness.

As Joel entered you, the sensation was a blend of gentle pressure and overwhelming pleasure, each movement an expression of deep connection and longing. The rhythm of your breaths, mingling with the soft sounds of your shared pleasure, filled the room, creating a melody of intimacy that made every moment feel profoundly significant.

With each thrust, Joel's intensity matched the rising tide of your shared desire. His growl of approval mingled with your moans, a symphony of connection that built to a crescendo. You whispered for him to move faster, and his response was immediate, increasing the pace with a mix of urgency and care. The world outside seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of you in this sacred space of mutual adoration and longing.

"Fuck," you cursed, for the first time Joel heard you cursing.

Joel grinned, feeling the heat rising between them as he took control. He reached out, gripping your hips firmly and flipping you onto your stomach with ease, like a seasoned wrestler tossing an opponent in the ring.

"Now, be a good girl," he growled huskily, his voice thick with desire, his large hands moved deftly along your curves, pulling you up onto all fours as he positioned himself behind you. With a powerful thrust, he entered you from behind, eliciting a sharp gasp from your lips.

The sound echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls and filling the air around them with lustful energy. As he began to move, his strong arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close while he fuck you in this unfamiliar position.

"You feel so fucking good," he groaned, each word punctuated by the rhythmic slapping of their bodies colliding together.

Sweat dripped from his brow as he increased his pace, driven by raw animal instinct. "Oh God, Joel, yeah, keep doing that," you moaned, your voice dripping with desire.

The intensity of his movements caused the bedsheets to slip from beneath you, leaving you grasping at nothing but thin air as he continued to thrust into you. "You're gonna make me come so hard," he growled, his breath ragged and uneven. His powerful arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer still as he ravaged your body mercilessly.

The force of his penetration shook the very foundations of the bedroom, creating a symphony of primal passion that seemed to shake the world around them.

With a final, powerful thrust, Joel released a primal roar that echoed throughout the room. His warm seed filled the condom completely, spilling deep inside as he collapsed onto your back, panting heavily from the exertion. As both of you lay entwined on the bed, their bodies slick with sweat and passion, he gently pulled out of you and rolled onto his side, cradling you in his strong arms.

"Fuck, baby," he whispered hoarsely, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead, "That was one hell of a ride." he said.

You couldn't help but smile weakly at him, feeling an overwhelming sense of satisfaction and exhaustion wash over you. "I love you," you said.

Joel’s eyes softened, his usual guarded expression giving way to something more vulnerable as he looked at you. His thumb gently traced the outline of your jaw, his touch warm and reassuring. “I love you too, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere.

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his words, the connection between you both feeling deeper than ever. The room was quiet now, the only sound was your breathing as you lay there, tangled together. It was a moment that felt almost surreal, like something out of a dream, yet it was very real and very much yours.

Joel leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he whispered, his lips brushing your skin with each word.

You giggled softly, the sound light and content. “You’re not so bad yourself, Miller,” you teased, earning a playful nudge from him.

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that you could feel in your chest. “I’m serious,” he said, his tone becoming more earnest. “I never thought I’d find this again, not after everything. You make me feel...alive, in a way I didn’t think was possible.”

Your heart swelled at his confession, and you reached up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his cheek. “You make me feel the same way, Joel,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I can’t imagine my life without you now.”

Joel’s eyes locked with yours, and for a moment, it was as if the world outside ceased to exist. There was only the two of you, and the unspoken promise of more moments like this, of a future that was suddenly bright with possibility.

He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between you. “Then we’ll make it work, no matter what,” he said softly, his words filled with determination. “I’m not lettin’ go of this, of us.”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but they were tears of happiness, of relief. “Me neither,” you whispered back, sealing your promise with a tender kiss.

As you lay there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside could wait. For now, it was just you and Joel, and that was all you needed.

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