#mucus every fucking where

[neshatriumphs]

It feels like I have fucking sludge in my ears bitch. I hate it here. I wonder if I can get an allergy shot. My typical winter meds cocktail is failing me miserably. Need some nature's penicillin and hot toddy

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Between Dreams and Sugar

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: Your screams will haunt his dreams until the day he dies.

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Torture, gore, angst, violence & death, suggestive joke, fluff, happy ending, rescue fic but who rescues who...>:)

A/N: Guys, I have a confession - I don't think I can write Ghost properly lmfao. This is horrifically mid.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

There was so much blood coating your body that you had forgotten where the wounds were and weren’t. It flowed from you like viscus water—a homogeneous mixture of congealed shades of red like rubies except for the simple fact that this was not beautiful; it was not desired or sought after. 

 On the ground, soaking in indistinguishable pools of crimson, ripples are sent out when your limp foot twitches mutely in its clutch. That was all you could do now. Twitch. Writhe. They didn’t even bother tying you to the chair anymore—just let you slouch half out of it like a school kid who had gotten too drunk the night before. 

Hell, you wished you were drunk. 

“Sergeant.” 

You wished you could feel your fingers. You wished you could move your neck up from its bend position as if it was a wilting flower; hair stuck to your skin. Blood dribbles out of your mouth. Drip…drop…drip…drop. 

You’d bitten your tongue open in a vain attempt to stop yourself from screaming, hadn’t you? You…you can’t quite remember.

“Sergeant!” Groaning long and low, the violent chills that wrack your form only serve to make yourself bleed out faster, tension forcing precious life fluid out from burst veins and slashed ankles. 

Cuts far span your legs and shoulders. Your back is nothing more than a painting of burns coated with sweat and infection; puss sticking you to the backrest of the chair like yellow-colored adhesive. Your clothes are the opposite idea of modesty. Tattered, torn by blades to create harm. Fuck, could you even breathe properly anymore?

Lungs only create a wheeze—you’re not getting enough oxygen to function. 

A dark growl bounces off the walls.

Ghost struggles against his binds, uniform also in a state of disarray with very obviously broken ribs and bruised chest. Splotches of yellow-white mounds signal blunt trauma over the pale skin that’s already laced with old scars. 

They’d all but anchored him to his chair—and even then the red marks that blister are a signal of the brutality of the large man as he peels back his skin to try and struggle himself out. 

You whine, the loftiness stuck in your brain addictive; to pull back that curtain was as much of a struggle as staying awake. That harsh Manchester accent was something to draw closer to, though, professionalism a key to the lock on your failing consciousness. The reminder of companionship.

“G…” Your vocal cords fizzle, “Ghost…” 

“Open your eyes.” Every word was enunciated, deep and guttural.

Parting your lips, more blood drowns your lap in thick globs, and soon your battered throat vibrates with coughs that make you see stars, mild panic the moment you realize that you can’t breathe. 

Jerking forward, you gasp, eyes snapping open as your neck bends ahead in desperation. Mucus and other bodily fluids spray over your lap, tinged scarlet, but the blockage in your throat is dispelled as your broken ribs quiver in agony. 

Whimpering like a kicked dog, you wonder how long it’ll take for Ghost to realize getting you to focus on him was pointless. If this all continued, you’d be dead within the day. 

But you entertain him.

Head slowly balking back as your jaw hangs loose, you rest it on the wooden frame behind you as softly as you’re able with a most likely concussed brain and a fractured skull. Only one eye opens, and even then it’s half-glued to your cheek with dried blood. 

Ghost’s balaclava had been ripped off. It felt wrong to see him in the open like this. Exposed. It was quite obvious he disliked it just as much as you did. 

Blue eyes blazed at you; blonde hair going this way and that as crimson fell down the swell of his Adam’s Apple from a very broken nose. That gaze was unrelenting, and even with your blurry vision, you knew it would be unwise to look away. 

His stubbled jaw sets as a heart can be seen skipping beats in his breast. You were totally out of it, enough so that you missed the way his lungs slightly released when you had pulled yourself back to the present. 

The gulping sigh.

“That’s it, Sergeant.” You cough once more, wet and haggard, and your head falls back to your chest before you have to force it back up on shaking muscles. It was getting harder. “Easy does it, then…Thought I lost you.”

“C–can’t,” the useless feet flicker over the ground, sloshing through fluid in unstable jumps as you slur out, “Hurts, Ghost.”  

A slow and dark inhalation meets your ears before a sudden grunt of a struggling body; jerking arms as the chair squeals with old nails being torn out. 

“I know, Birdie, I know.” His tone is lesser now as he bites back a curse as the blisters on his arms pop, the rope burns turning a vile color as his muscles strain, “But you keep those pretty little eyes on me, yeah?” 

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. 

Black Operations were dangerous, yeah, but never had the Lieutenant been so down in the gutter as he was right now. Mainly because of you, no, entirely because of you. He could withstand months of torture—mental and physical—with no problem. He’d done it countless times before. 

But never had he been forced to watch someone hurt you instead of him.

They would come in every day, these pitiful excuses for German drug runners, and would make him watch as they ripped open your skin with blunt knives and other tools coated in rust. Questions would be asked—questions that Ghost knew he could not answer even if it was you who would get punished. 

Every time you would flinch when the door to this concrete basement opened, it was harder to keep his tongue from wagging. He was watching you die; letting it happen. 

Fuck, it made him sick.

Ghost violently reems a shoulder up and down, not caring about the long stripes of now oozing blood on his forearms or the pain that the action brings bone-deep. There was so much scarlet flowing from you. Too much.

What he knows for certain is that he can’t let you die here. He’d never forgive himself for that.

How is she still conscious? The question was utterly genuine as Ghost’s dead eyes narrowed dangerously, sparking with urgency at the uneven risings and fallings from your chest. 

“Fucking hell,” the Lieutenant growls, each word punctuated by a desperate attempt to free himself. He had to get you out of this. You were his responsibility; his team. 

His…Ghost pants, sweat dripping down his arms.

You didn’t abandon him, how could he do the same to you? When questioned you hadn't given up his true name, hadn’t blabbered to save your own skin so you could avoid a horrible amount of pain. Pain that Ghost knew well. 

Pain that was never supposed to be known to you.

Your screams would haunt his nightmares until the day he died. 

“Ghost,” blue eyes freeze, snapping away from the sight of the bone around his wrists becoming visible through a thin coverage of remaining flesh. He pauses like a guard dog. Your optic was glinting, flicking with failing consciousness. The movement of your chest sputtered as the man clenched his teeth together. “You’re hurtin’ yourself.” 

“‘Bout to do even more damage, yeah?” he gets back to it, working enough blood into the rope to make it slick; dripping. “If it’ll get me out of these bastard things.” 

The weak smirk on your face gives his brows a deep furrow, sweat glistening on his forehead.

A part of him hated you. Hated you for the way you had this effect on him. He shouldn’t care if you lived or died—that wasn’t his cross to carry. 

But you’d made him soft these last few months. Soft, and weak, and disgustingly concerned for your safety. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t Ghost. 

“Gonna b…bleed out, y’know.” Your tongue slips, mind so loose that anything that comes to the front slips out like water from a slip-and-slide. Fingers twitching, your limp body grows so cold that you shiver. 

“Negative.” Ghost barks, slipping one hand partially under the restraint and his flesh, acting as a zipper, starts to go with it. He hisses under his breath, body hot and spilling. Mutilating himself. “Shut your damn gob.” Blood splatters to the floor, “I’m gettin’ us out of ‘ere.”

“Tell me a joke.” Blue eyes flicker, blonde lashes slipping over pale cheeks. 

You feel another wave of pain shutter through you—one that makes you whimper as quietly as a soft breeze on a summer day. 

“Joke?” Ghost hisses, glaring over at you without heat. “The fuck are you on about?” A wobbling eyebrow raise is all he gets. 

He grunts feral-like, evocative of a bear that hadn’t gotten his supper. Your lid droops and panic spikes.

“How long can a fish breakdance for?” Ghost slips a hand free, snarling in the back of his mouth as the entirety of his left hand is left ripped open, the fissures itchy and welling. Wasting no time, the limb goes to assist the other, pulling with ripped-off fingernails at the tight knot. A side-eye is sent your way.

Only you weren't moving. Lips snap in a moment of obvious concern, not only by the tone but by the way the man jerks forward in the chair—no matter if one arm and both of his legs were still restrained.

“Love!” The door handle rattles with screeching chains, but Ghost is occupied with raging at you. Ordering you to stay awake with terrifying eyes. It was as though for the first time in a long time there was true fear in his throat. True hatred. 

Chucking voices heat veins that he had long since thought were cold, and the Lieutenant composes himself with a sharp pause. He leans back slowly into the chair; jaw so tight his molars almost crack in the back of his mouth like candy. Your face is tilted downward, and Ghost memorizes the make of it, trails his gaze slowly over every slash and cut that mars you. Feet slap off the concrete as multiple people enter the room, but it was like a switch had flipped internally, walls going up.

The mask was still there, even if all that physically remained of it was the black paint in his sockets.

He’d return every mark, from a bruise to an open wound, tenfold. But you needed to wake up first. You…you needed to.

You had to be okay.

Three men encircle the two of you, faces hidden and obviously enjoying a bit of their own product.

“Look at this, Lutz, the man got a hand out of the binding.” Blue eyes travel to stare dead-on into a pair of blown pupils; mind gone. 

The second man goes to grip your hair, forcing your head up in inspection. Ghost’s vision immediately travels over, biceps going tense like a dog with its hackles raised and vision going red. 

“Don’t worry about that. It’s one hand, what can the Bastard do?”

“Oh,” another laughs, though his body is wound tight, “careful with the woman, Alric—the beast looks like he’s about to snap at you.”  

The three share sly looks. Alric, the one with your hair in his grip, shakes your head back and forth, blood flying around in the air as your limp body jerks. Ghost lunges, but he only makes it as far as the chair allows him before he’s shoved back by a hand on his chest. 

Moving quicker than an animal, bone snaps, and an agony-laced scream echoes off the walls not a millisecond later. 

Ghost had gripped that hand and twisted, making the wrist joint completely flip on itself. Blank blue eyes watch with glints of sadistic glee as the man wails, grabbing onto himself and falling back onto his ass.

The one holding you instantly releases your hair and rushes to his friend. 

“Holy fuck!” Everyone divulges into frantic German curses, Ghost making out a command to leave and go see a doctor.

“Cheers. Good luck with that, ya’ Bastard.” Grumbling under his breath, the Lieutenant realized he was probably enjoying this more than he should, but always his attention shifts back to you. How you hang limb, battered face covered by your hair, and loss of blood steadily leaving your hands curling into the palms—

Ghost’s eyes widen slightly as the two still try and calm down their companion. Your hand. It wasn’t curled because of onset rigor mortis. You were holding a blade. 

The Brit’s large chest swells with pride; jaw going somewhat slackened as he stares at you. So you were faking it….Fucking hell, Sweetheart. 

Slowly, his vision peels to the empty sheath on Lutz’s belt. It wasn’t a big knife—nothing more than a three-inch blade on the end. But you were still conscious enough to hear these goons show up before he had; had used sleight of hand that anyone else in your situation would have just given up on. 

It was hard to hold back a low chuckle, but he managed. Fuck, you were something else.

The two unmaimed men shove the third out the door, shouting down the hallway as his sobs and sniffling nose reverberate even as he’s out of sight. 

Grunting, the Brit shifts his hips, lips pulling in a snarl at the bouncing electrical wire that goes up his ribs. Many were broken; along with his nose and a dislocated shoulder, but he knows he can deal with it. Getting you out and to the Evac point was his top priority—his wounds weren’t over-the-top life-threatening unless they went too long without treatment. 

You on the other hand. 

Lids narrow on the way the knife-holding hand shakes with exertion when simply applying pressure. If this was going to happen, it had to happen now.

“That was a nice little show,” Alric growls, standing in the middle of the two in the chairs and keeping a considerable distance farther from Ghost than you. Blue eyes blink blankly, emotions swiftly wiped away. “One-handed? I’m impressed.” 

Ghost raises a single blonde eyebrow, “More where that came from.” 

Alric smiles.

“Emil—get the gun.” Legs slowly tense, but other than that there’s no outward display of nervousness. 

Seconds later a barrel is level with Ghost’s forehead, the chilled metal pressing deep into his blood-coated skin. He doesn’t balk back, he doesn’t even flinch, just watches with a dim flicker in his optics that remains even after he blinks. Like a cat’s slitted pupils. 

It would be no use shoving the gun out of this man’s hands—he would fire before the Lieutenant was able to steal the weapon for himself. 

“I’m getting sick of this game, Soldier. We’ve been through this day after day.” Alric swipes at his nose, white powder stuck under his nostrils. Ghost can’t stop the small tick of his mouth. “Tell me who you are,” the gun swivels, and the Brit’s heart seizes up. It points at your abdomen. “Or the girl gets a nice new stomach.” 

Lips thin into a small line as hidden fury swells. 

“Alric…” Emil seems nervous, his feet shifting and hands twitching. The aura Ghost was emitting was like a dark cloud around the room; sheer size and indistinguishable emotions rose to drown out all else when a threat to the beast’s bird was brought into the picture. There had been multiple times throughout the days when the men had been scared to touch you at all for fear of the look that had been leveled their way. Those eyes…fuck it was like a demon was stuck in flesh. In blue so close to gray the color was more like the concrete of a prison cell. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Tell me.” Alric growls as Emil gets closer to you. Ghost stays silent, unblinking as his fingers curl into fists. His knuckles crack from the force. “Tell me!”

Emil bushes your shoulder and you lunge. Bringing the blade into his chest, your form brings the both of you to the floor in a splash of scarlet and twin screams of pain. 

The Blonde’s heart seizes at the sound in an aggressive bounce.

Alric whips around, eyes widened and gun loose in his grip. Ghost wastes no time, trusting your judgment, and shoves himself forward. A shot goes off as the Lieutenant rams his shoulder into the man, but the bullet bites into the far wall instead of your back as you dig your knife into Emil’s throat; wrestling for life. 

The chair still attached to Ghost was a problem, but his body weight was used to his advantage. Sinew bunched as a growl exits his lips, Alric and him slamming to the floor in a flurry of rabid intentions and the likeness of wolves caught in a trap. Ghost’s eyesight goes red, remembering every cut and beating you went through for him in the reflection of Alric’s eyes. That pathetic drug runner had made you bleed. 

His bird doesn’t bleed.

Teeth and nails are tools kept for animals, and now that the gun was too far from grip and you were limp beside the gargling body of Emil, Ghost decided that being a bit insane might do him well at the moment. 

He had to get you out of here. And in no world was this man going to get away to live one day more.

“Please, don’t,” Alric begs, clawing at his behemoth build, “I’m not—I wasn’t—!” 

Blood-stained teeth snap into the thin flesh of a visible neck as dead blue eyes keep you in sight like a dog does the moon.

—

You don’t recall anything after slashing one man’s neck and even that is a blur of flashing colors; instances of one waxing expression waning into another. Trapped between bouts of failing consciousness and pain that could rival someone getting their bones snapped one by one. 

But you know the feeling of moss on your cheek. The shadow that sits above you and the fingers that prod at your back, pressing cooling salves of Silverweed into the burns and cuts. Your eyes weakly flicker, a low moan stuck in your throat. 

Every limb is a cinder block.

“Stop your moving.” The command was stiff but quiet, and the pressure on your spine increased. Flinching, the sensation of tight bindings all along your body became apparent to you, slowly but surely. 

“That…hell?” You cough, throat bare and dry. Sweat drips down your temple. 

Blinking rapidly, you try to focus on the cold wind whipping past your bare skin, the trees in the distance of what appeared to be a glade. The sound of a running stream makes your ears perk.

A canteen was suddenly shoved to your lips and you grunt in surprise, water slicking your closed lips.

“Drink.” You don’t argue, peeling back your lips and letting the liquid drip into your mouth, most falling to the moss under you and getting re-adsorbed into the earth. “...There’s a girl.” 

The metal container disappears just as quickly as it showed up, and you lick at the corner of your lips, cheeks burning at the comment.

Ghost kneels above you, bar a shirt, and you narrow your lids to focus on the black and blue splotches completely covering him. He still doesn’t have a mask, and you glance over the blonde stubble; the scars, and the aggressive set of his eyebrows. The blood had been washed away, and you wondered if the stream in the background of this place was still stained with crimson and the telltale black of eye paint.

“Simon,” whispering seemed appropriate, though you don’t know why. Your voice was better now but still, your body refused to listen to your instructions. Every plea to move your arms or legs was denied, sharp needles poking into your flesh that made you shake. “What…?” 

Blue eyes blink down at you, something hidden in the depths. A finger curls to flick a stray hair from your face slowly. Skin brushes skin.

“Snagged what I could before I ran off. Wasn’t much.” That harsh voice, the gravel in it. You frown weakly, your lids heavy. “Bandages. Extra shirt. Blanket I used to stop the bleeding.”

He won’t tell you he was begging you to wake up when he’d been stuffing old fabric into your open wounds. 

Coughs wrack your frame, whole body jerks that overtake what little peace there was to be found. A hand tilts your head back to the ground, patient as the other grabs your hair, peeling the strands away as a flood of vomit escapes your mouth. 

Eyes burning and face hot, you sputter as a thumb runs deep circles over your scalp. 

“Easy…” Ghost whispers, tattoos like obsidian in the darkness of the world around the two. Late afternoon and this was the first time you’d woken up since he’d been carrying you. A nail was taken out of his heart. 

Seeing your eyes flicker, even filled with the tears as they were, was a blessing he’d thank whatever God that was out there for. “Easy, Sweetheart. Breathe for me.”

“Fuck,” you gasp, shaking more than a leaf. “Fuck it hurts, Simon.” 

He shifts you slightly away from the bile, the familiar words burning his lungs. 

“Evac point is four miles.” It felt like a death sentence to you, your eyes going buggy at the thought. “I’m carrying you there.” 

“Bullshit,” you pant, wheezing. “Your arms are destroyed.” 

Ghost blinks before scowling, sending a glance to his limbs. They’re both raw and skinned, just like his fingers; red with burst blisters the size of rocks. One hurts far more than the other.

“They’re nothing.” 

“Nothing pretty to look at,” blue eyes narrow on you in annoyance, but the dry-humored Brit doesn't miss a beat.

“Seems you’re in good spirits, Sergeant. Fancy walking on your own?” Your lips flick, delirious and high off of whatever pain meds that Ghost had found when he had been carrying you out of the basement of that house. 

Try as he might, the feeling of your dead weight was worse than he ever could have imagined. So, outwardly, he stayed numb but knew that every little look from you was as beautiful as a sunrise. 

“Want me to try?” Palms begin to shift, a hand pressing deep into the moss that bends and yields to your form. 

Ghost snaps forward.

“Fucking Bastard!” He puts weight on the back of your shoulder as you hiccup dull chuckles, “Quit it! Else I’ll leave you here to annoy the damn plants.”

The threat was empty, and your eyes softened as they spread their fatigued gaze over the span of the Brit’s visible skin, glee leaking out. Ghost sighs, shaking his head sharply at you, agitation stuck in his skull as it always was.

So beastly, this man, but his hold on you was about as gentle as you could imagine. 

Your attraction to him was anything but one-sided. You knew his emotions as well as your own; it was quite obvious to everyone but him. The long looks, the concerned glances. His touch freely given.

He had given you his name and, to you, that was about as close to a proposal as a ring was. You’d kissed; you’d shared beds and shared skin. You knew when he was being horrible to himself deep in the confines of his head.

“Simon,” you whisper, and a blue gaze stays stubbornly away, glaring at your burns with venom. A tired smile peels your lips. “Simon.” 

A huff is all you get, a bush of skin as breath wafts over your bare back. Your hand goes to touch his knee, brushing softly over the torn fabric. The flinch would not be noticeable to anyone but you. Brows pull slightly tighter. 

“I had a dream about you, y’know.” Speaking hurt, but the attention that is finally brought your way was worth it. Birds chirp in the distance.

“What’s that?” 

“Hm,” you lightly nod, cheek ruffling moss as you take down slow inhalations. Staring into each other’s eyes you for a moment forget the agony under your skin. “You were trapped by a giant fish underwater.” 

A Blonde eyebrow raises, slow smirk unable to be hidden. It was impossible not to be entirely taken by you. How you speak, how you breathe. Even like this, you had placed a spell of black magic over him, binding the darkness that made up Simon Riley—Ghost—to your every action and whim.

“That right, Sweetheart? What happened, then?”

Chuckling, Ghost’s hold goes to your neck, massaging the skin so delicately that you lose your train of thought for a moment as shivers erupt, “I had to save you.”  

Lips press to your scalp, a bent nose digging despite the shifting cartilage as lion limbs shake with a want to drag you to him. Such a rabid beast that devotes himself to your life.

“You tend to do a lot of the savin’, Love.” It’s muttered into your hair, softly, lowly. Compliments are rare—Ghost prefers actions above all else—but they’re treasured. 

You know what he means.

“Yeah, I love you, too, you brute.” Deep chuckles dance in your ear, and you both stay there for a while, simply breathing in each other as the sky bleeds into the earth. So content, your heart had slowed, the salve in your wounds and the bandages compressing the areas with the most problems and forcing them to be numb. 

When you had nearly fallen asleep, Ghost had peeled back to look down at you; eyes malleable as they slipped over your battered body. 

“Hm,” he hums, reaching to his side and grabbing for the shirt he had stolen. After a few minutes of quiet curses and apologetic kisses, the large piece of fabric was over your top. The Lieutenant had begrudgingly admitted that the scraps of pants you had on now would have to do until you got proper attention. 

“Giving the squirrels a show, then, Simon?” The man rolls his eyes deeply at the sarcastic comment, rubbing up and down your legs to keep circulation going as he readies to move you.

“They better keep quiet ‘bout it,” Ghost grumbles, running a hand through his hair, “Else I’ll have to rip a few tails.”

“So violent,” You wince when your shoulder is gripped, neck limp as your upper half was rotated. Gnashing your teeth, the Lieutenant shushes you comfortably, raising your body to rest in the crook of his large arm. Muscles tense and loosen, your cheek now resting on your Lover’s pec. You hear him hiss silently at the pressure on his broken ribs as guilt hits you. “Not the squirrels’ fault.” 

“It is if they keep looking at ya. Only I get to see you like that.” Your pain-laced laugh is cut off when you’re lifted, large hands under your knees helping equalize your body. 

A strained whine exits your lips, straining to get air as you pant and clench your eyes shut. Ghost wasn’t doing much better—gritting his teeth and tilting his head back. 

Feet stumble before righting themselves, lids opening as lashes flutter over bloodless cheeks to stare down at you. 

The word seems to stop.

“...Tell me you’re alright.” You heard that for what it was—Tell me to keep going, because if you don’t then I won’t be able to. 

Blinking up at him, your nose slots under his chin as you feel him shake with exertion, lips pressing deep into his raging pulse. You swallow down saliva as his grip on you tightens, pressing you closer; giving you his body heat.

“I’m okay, Simon. Not…not lost yet.” 

“Good.” He lets his eyes close for a moment, taking you in as he lets his nose be coated in your scent, the flesh under his fingertips. Ghost knows some of your wounds reopen, and, thus, his bare feet start off into the woods. His men would still be at the Evac point waiting for them. Price would have given the order. “...I’ll be needing you ‘round. Might lose my head otherwise, eh?”

“You do seem to have a few loose screws when I’m not near.” 

“That was an exaggeration,” Simon grumbles. 

You scoff, trying not to puke at his limping steps. The word swirls, but the man carrying you stays ever clear. “No,” you whisper, “No, it wasn’t.”

Scared lips pull up, but the birds respond for him. 

Less than ten percent out from the Evac point is when you drop a tidbit of a thought to the man.

“Y’know what I want, Ghost?” The large Brit side-steps a downed tree, sweat dripping down his chin to splatter to your skin.

“What is it?” He pants, sparing you a glance as his eyebrows are constantly furrowed in concentration. Your talking made it easier to push on.

“A fucking cake. A big one.” Blue eyes blink and his feet nearly stumble to a stop before he forces on. A gasp of a chuckle makes your heart skip a beat as voices start up from the next tree line.

“Keep talking to me, Love, and I’ll buy you the whole bloody bakery.” Soldiers burst from the bushes, and Ghost calls out identification as everyone gapes. Guns immediately lower.

Medics rush forward, but still on high alert, the Lieutenant snaps at them, bringing you closer into his hold as he pushes onward. 

“Where’s the fucking heli?!” Everyone stops and points. Huffing, Ghost shoves forward. 

“The whole bakery?” You slur, giggling and feeling the kiss on your head. 

“Every bastard pastry’ll be yours. Count on it.” 

—

“Simon, you promised.” Your wheel-chair bound form pouts as the man in question deadpans from behind you, leaning on the handles. His balaclava can only hide so much.

The air is sweet with the scent of desserts and bread. 

“Birdie, you can’t eat all ‘O that, you’ll explode like you took a .308 round to the head.” The woman behind the counter pales, pulling at the collar of her shirt with her smile becoming strained.

“Is that a challenge?” You glance over your shoulder, smirking wide. 

“No,” Simon blanky states, the skin over his nose bridge and under-eye completely black and blue. 

“I think that was a challenge.” 

“It wasn’t.”

The customers grind their palms into their eye sockets, some tuning around in line and leaving entirely.

“Simon,” you intertwine your hands and lean to show him, eyes wide and pleading. “Please.” Drawing out the word, you smile with everything you can. 

The both of you connect in a battle of wills—you with that infectious innocent and sly nature, and Simon with a tight glare and tired eyes. A blatant will to please you in every aspect and a need to see you happy at all times. This goes on for a full minute before a loud sigh echoes off the walls, shoulders deflating. A hidden kiss is pressed firmly to your head.

You giggle loudly at the authoritative order.

“One of everything.”

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[holybibly]

𝔚𝔢'𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔯|𝔐𝔄𝔗ℨ 𝔵 ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯(𝔗𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢𝔯)

♡ 𝔓𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤: Wolf hybrids MATZ x bunny reader ♡ 𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: They say sex with a wolf is like a flirt with death, but what about heat? Or where your two devilishly luxurious alphas help you warm up before your heat fully kicks in. ♡ 𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢 / 𝔄𝔲 / 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢: Shameless Smut, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Hybrids!Au, Established Relationship, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Pretty Flushed!AU ♡ ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: 18+ / 21+ / MDNI ♡ 𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: ? ♡ 𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Mommy/Alpha! Seonghwa, Daddy/Alpha! Hongjoong, Omega/Bunny! Reader, unprotected sex, threesome, daddy kink, mommy kink, dacryphilia, pussy drunk, lots of sperm, lot of mucus, stuffed with sperm, wet and dirty, scent kink, collars, fingering, degrading, оral knotting, stomach bulge, vaginal knotting, pet names, size kink, spanking, hair pulling, lots of squirting, creampie, humiliation, fur kink, bites kink, objectification, breeding kink, pussy slapping, dirty talk, face fucking, overstimulation, oral, double penetration, manhandling, choking, multiple orgasms, rough sex, rough oral, power play, praise kink, anal play, explicit sexual content, explicit language, and more. 𝔄/𝔑: Before reading, I suggest you check out previous works in this universe.

"Please, please, please... Alpha!" You moan shrilly, your long velour ears flapping and your puffy cotton tail flicking up. You wriggle and shiver as if you have a fever, and the tingling, dragging, golden, molasses-like lust that is filling your veins right now has you whimpering and begging to be touched and fucked properly.

"Are you already begging us, my lovely sugar bunny? Do you have the right to do that, eh? Seonghwa slowly licks the top row of his sharp fangs and tilts his godlike face so close to you that you can feel his hot, wet breath on your lips. His perfectly sculpted, luscious lips make contact with yours with every word he utters, though you understand little of what he says. Your head is completely blank; all you can feel is the hot pleasure spilling under your skin and the thick, sickeningly sweet scent of pheromones mixing with the natural scents of Seonghwa and Hongjoong. "You're just our lovely, pretty sex toy, aren't you, fluffy?" He purrs velvety against your lips; his deep, utterly sinful voice, filled with mocking condescension, flows over your skin like melted honey. You sob in frustration, but reach for him anyway, desperately tangling your fingers in the impossibly soft fur of his luxurious coat. Then you stick out your tiny tongue and lick those gorgeous, tantalising lips, making him laugh darkly. "You insatiable little bunny, are you just begging to be eaten by big bad wolves or... are you just desperate to be fucked properly, huh?" He doesn't wait for you to answer, licks your mouth once, leaving a glistening trail of saliva on your lips, and slides it down your tender, vulnerable throat and lower, over your heavy, milky tits and soft belly. His hot breath streams over your flushed skin, and you arch up on the bed, trying to get more of his touch. 

"Alpha...more, please, I need more...' Your pathetic whimper excites Seonghwa even more, and a new wave of heavier, sweeter pheromones fills the bedroom, and you begin to dissolve even more into the thick, seductive haze, sinking deeper and deeper into the natural pleasure space that is inherent in all bunnies. All of your rational thought has ceased to exist, and all you can think about is how badly you want to get on top of the Alpha's thick knot and ride him for hours on end until your pussy is saturated and filled to the brim with cum. "Please touch me more! Touch me more! I need it so badly, Mommy...' 

Your little heel kicking the air as one of Seonghwa's clawed hands reaches up and roughly cups one of your swollen, milk-filled tits, beginning to knead it in his palm as his long, rough tongue lazily glides over your tender belly skin. His sharp nails gently scratch your aching, swollen nipple before wrapping two fingers around it and twisting it. 

You squeal loudly as a sharp, raw sensation of pleasure rushes through you, and Seonghwa takes advantage of it, sliding his long, slender fingers so deep into your pussy that the soft pads of his fingers touch a small bundle of super-sensitive nerves, shutting you off completely. 

"Oh God, Alpha!" Your loud scream fills the room, along with the sugary scent of ripe peaches and cream, and you feel the viscous sweet slime spurting from your pussy, coating Seonghwa's fingers in a glistening glaze. 

All of a sudden you feel a hot, soft mouth encircling your sensitive clit, sharp fangs scratching at it for a moment before a slippery, rough tongue begins to massage it aggressively. Greedy lips clinging even tighter to your swollen bud, sucking it deeper into the wolf's mouth to suckle your pussy with a deep animal hunger. You tremble all over. Crystal clear tears begin to gather at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of the sensations, and you squeal loudly, unable to contain yourself. A new wave of lust washes over your body, leaving you feverish and helpless, hungry for more and more. 

I-I... so much... so much...'

You feel rather than hear Seonghwa's velvety purr as he painfully slowly withdraws his fingers from you, allowing the demonically handsome Alpha to slip his tongue into your slime oozing hole. 

Seonghwa deep moans and leaves kisses on your wet, flushed skin as he watches Hongjoong lapping at your beautiful cunt, his fingers still pulling and twisting at your nipple, stimulating the production of milk, and you sob between intermittent sighs, completely softened by the intense pleasure. He returns his fingers to your cunt, running them over your silky petal-like folds, only to open them to the insatiable mouth of the other Alpha, causing more and more of your sweet nectar to ooze out of you, coating his fingers and dripping directly onto Hongjoong's tongue.

"That's it, fluffy. Make Daddy happy; come on his face; let him taste you." Seonghwa lifts his gaze to your face wet with tears and grins with a lecherous grin. "Your heat is getting close, bunny; I can smell it in your scent, and Hongjoong can feel it as well, right, Joong?" The dark-haired Alpha growls in confirmation, burying his face even deeper between your legs, and you squeal, kicking the air around with your little heel in vain. 

"I can't wait for it to hit you with full force. We'll make you purr, princess."

[bamboozledbird]

Don’t Go Where I Can’t Follow // Stiles Stilinski Imagine Characters: Stiles Stilinski, You Pairing: Stiles x Reader, Stiles x You (no use of y/n) Word Count: 1k Tags: blatant use of han solo's iconic 'i know' moment, overuse of the em dash as always Warnings: Angst. Angst. Angst. Descriptions of a panic attack.

A/N: A little baby revamp of an old work to get me inspired for these beautiful requests in my inbox.

The jeep is quiet. It was the first thing you noticed when you climbed into the passenger seat, legs shaking, knees wobbling—shoving Stiles’s hands away when he tried to help you. Now, you’re gripping the faded upholstery as the blood slowly drains from your knuckles. It’s a funny thing to notice, silence, but it’s hard not to when the quiet is so heavy you can feel it weighing down your chest, pushing the anger and hurt from your lungs to the pit of your stomach.  

Stiles is wearing his blue sweatshirt you love so much. The one that’s gone through the wash so many times you can rub your cheek against it and feel like you’re curled up in bed under cottony sheets, safe and warm. He knows that. You hate that he knows that.  

Stiles’s lithe fingers wrap around the steering wheel, despite the jeep being safely parked against the curb of some random road halfway between your house and his. He squeezes the wheel until the veins in his wrist bulge and his knuckles turn white. “I’m not sorry,” he says in a low voice, like he can feel the silence too, like he’s scared of snapping the cord holding a hundred-ton weight over your heads. 

The weight falls, and a wet, choked-off gasp is ripped from your raw throat. It hurts, from all the crying while he was gone, from the look on his face when he came back. “I fucking hate you,” you whisper. Your voice is raspy, barely there between your shallow exhales. After he locked you in that godforsaken closet, you'd screamed at him through the door, spewing every hateful, awful thing you could think of, until there was nothing left. Every part of you still aches—knuckles bruised from trying to beat the door down, fingernails bloodied from biting them down to the quick. You'd torn yourself apart while you sat against the wall, alone in the dark, waiting for him to come back. If he came back. 

“No you don’t,” Stiles says, but he winces anyway.

You shake your head violently and clench your jaw to stifle the angry sobs budding in your chest. You’re done with the crying; you already cried all night waiting for him to come back alive. “You had no right.” Your voice quivers, thick with mucus, and it fractures right through the marrow, “You had no fucking right to leave me there like that.”

Stiles tugs his hand through his hair. It’s already a mess, sticking up in random tufts from previous passes. Under normal circumstances, you’d try to fix it and then immediately get distracted by the softness and his soft content whines—but nothing feels normal now. You’ve never felt this frantic, this desperate, this much. It’s too much. You want to shed your skin and set something on fire—maybe yourself, at least until the ringing in your ears stops. 

He licks his lips, swollen from ripping them apart with his teeth, and stares out the window, “You could’ve died. I don’t care if you hate me or if you stay pissed at me forever—you’re alive. That’s all I care about.”

Your voice cracks when you try to scream again, “It wasn’t your choice to make!”

His teeth grind together for a moment. He won’t look at you. Maybe he can’t. “I would do it again,” he finally says in a quiet voice, like a confession, like he’s seeking atonement from god—or, more importantly, from you. Neither of you speak, the sound of your shallow breathing fills the jeep until his arm surges forward. You flinch when he slams his hand against the steering wheel; the horn is shrill and almost as loud as the tension left in its wake. “God, don’t you get it?” The muscles in his neck strain with the clench of his jaw, “None of it matters if you’re gone. I don’t give a fuck, okay? I just don't. I don't fucking care about stopping the villain of the month, or saving the entire goddamn town again, or keeping the world from imploding if you’re not in it, so don’t fuckin’ yell at me.”

You shake your head again because everything else feels like it’s shaking too, partly from the fury burning brightly in your eyes, but mostly because you love this stupid, arrogant boy so much it hurts. “I had to sit there, alone, and—and just hope that you came back—that you’d all come back. Ally died, Stiles. Boyd, Erica, Aidan—they’re all dead. It’s just a matter of time before someone else—before it happens again.” Your voice hitches, and you can't breathe, “You’re not allowed to do that to me, okay? You’re not allowed to—to fucking—to leave me behind like that. I can’t do it again—I can’t fucking—”

Even though he’s angry too, Stiles takes your hand and taps his heartbeat onto the inside of your wrist with his forefinger until your chest rises and falls in an even rhythm. Stiles looks down at your hands, layered on top of each other and trembling, before he speaks again. His voice is strained, his face stricken, “I can’t lose you.”

You stare at him, cheeks red and splotchy, mascara flaking underneath your eyes. Wrecked. And then you realize that he’s crying. His rounded eyes are wet and glossy, his chin trembles, and then that’s it. You can’t fight it anymore. You hiccup in-between your sobs and wipe your snot off on your sleeve, “And I can’t lose you.”

The car is silent again, and you can feel your heartbeat in your ears. “Don’t leave me again,” you whisper.

The words linger in the air, and Stiles cups your face, thumbs the tears and smeared makeup off of the apple of your cheeks—he's especially gentle with the fragile skin just under your eyes. He pulls you as close as he can manage with the gearshift in the way, moving your hair off of your forehead and pressing a tender kiss to each of your temples. He trails his lips to the corners of your fluttering eyelids, to the tip of your nose, one cheek and then the other. His final destination is your mouth. His tongue darts out, briefly tasting the salt of your tears, and then he kisses you. Three chaste brushes of his lips before he settles in for a real one, a reassurance that you’re both here. Breathing. Alive. The fact that he doesn’t respond to your demand isn’t lost on either of you.

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. It’s not an answer, but it’s enough for tonight. 

You sigh into his mouth and hold onto his wrist, fingers resting against his pulse, “I know.”

[pickledpet]

Perhaps it was a mistake to choose dinosaurs as your topic for your university's science fair. Perhaps you screwed up following the instructions or did not read them carefully enough.

You sat in your dorm, half your project done, sat on your desk. A little nest where you were going to present the replica dinosaur eggs, without its crown jewel however the eggs.

You rubbed your humongous stomach self consciously which has stretched to an unimaginable size. You were naked but there was no way you could see further than your gargantuan bullet shaped stomach littered with red and purple stretch marks and veins. 'Gives a whole new meaning to "ready to pop"' you thought to yourself. You squirted more oil you purchased from a dubious store (along with the egg kit of course) on your puffy pussy that you could barely reach and rubbed it in. It made you feel hot all over but still you dutifully resumed your nightly ritual.

The rubbing felt incredible, before you knew it you barely had any oil left and you were writhing beneath your stomach. You probably would've arched your back off the bed too if you weren't pinned against it by the weight. Then suddenly something shifted within you, you could practically feel your pelvis creak as a torrent of fluid flooded your bed.

You tried to at least get yourself up on your elbows to see in the mirror facing your bed, what was going on.

The bed was soaked alright and between your legs was something slimey and brownish.

"What the fuck..." you muttered to yourself, trying to at least somehow maneuver your body on your hands and knees. Was this it? Upon examining it closer, you realised what it was and your heart dropped just as an extreme wave of pain washed over you. It was the fucking mucus plug. But why was it so huge. How much would your cervix have to dilate if this was keeping it sealed. 15 cm? 20 cm?

You started to feel sick. Just how many eggs were there?!

The sudden pressure increasing tenfold halted your train of thought.

At least you were already on your hands and knees right, besides you had the whole night to yourself. You bore down gingerly and hoped that your huge stomach pressing against the mattress would help too. Nothing but more liquid came out and the pain and pressure was only increasing.

After 3 hours of rocking back and forth with 0 results you decided it was time to get serious about this. You steadied yourself, gripped the sheets and gave a huge push.

Nothing.

1 hour into birthing with all your might you didn't even notice how far apart your legs were and how much your lower half felt like jelly when finally you felt something behind your entrance. Encouraged by the progress you began pressing on the top of your stomach with one hand while gritting your teeth and bearing down hard. Something began emerging. Covered in a slimey substance a jelly like egg started poking through your aching cunt. You moaned and pushed as hard as you could, waiting for the relief of it plopping out onto the blanket so you could birth the rest but it never came. With the next effort you buried your face into your pillow, hopefully muffling your desperate screams. Every time you let up the egg would slide back, nestled deep into the warm slick of your pussy.

This went on for another hour or so when you finally gave a push hard enough that got the egg to a point it wouldn't slip back from. You almost felt relieved. It will slide out any second, right?

Your pussy was stretched to its natural limit as you panted and pushed. But this birth was anything but natural...your only luck was that you kept up your oil regimen because soon you felt something slick and almost gelatinous touch your inner thighs, even with your legs spread.

"Wh-what?!" You whined into the pillow.

Fuck.

No no no no no.

This was supposed to be several small eggs not ONE. Cold sweat covered every inch of your body as the realisation hit. How would this ever come out?! There was no way you could call for help, what would you say, not to mention that you were fully immobilised by the gargantuan egg spreading you open way past what should be humanly possible.

Back when you realised what was happening to you, you tried watching at least SOME birthing videos though you knew your experience would be nothing like that. You tried to think back to them hoping to remember anything from the ones where petite women would have to squeeze out a 10lbs kid. Although even those babies would seem like light work compared to whatever was stuck in you. The pain made it much to hard to think but then suddenly you had an idea!

Gravity would help.

You gathered all your strength to heave yourself up from your hands and knees only onto your knees you could hopefully get into a crouching position from there. However as soon as you glanced up and caught your reflection in the mirror, in a split second, before you could change the outcome you realised it was a huge mistake.

The egg was absolutely humongous and your pussy was stretched grotesquely around it, completely white and on the brink of tearing and worst of all you could not kneel down as the egg was so gargantuan. It was touching the mattress. Or at least you couldn't kneel down without the egg sliding back into your tortured cunt a few inches with a sickening squelch.

You held back the urge to throw up and fought until you were in a squatting position.

You didn't care about making noise anymore, you screamed while pushing down on your pulsating stomach that was urging you to expell the giant egg while with your other hand you reached down to rub your clit. The clit you could barely locate as it was practically flat against the egg with your pussy pulled so taut.

This seemed to be somewhat helping you progress however an earth shattering orgasm caught you off guard and you lost your balance.

You fell onto your back and with the sudden change of position your birth canal caused the hideously massive egg to practically be sucked in once more. All the progress you made was undone and the wind was knocked out of you at the ginormous intrusion. You screamed and thrashed on the bed, violently pressing down on your stomach and pushing with strength you didn't know where you got from.

By this time you were laboring for over 8 hours. You laid in bed and just felt wave after wave of contraction wash over you, the weight of the egg in your birth canal had to be about 50lbs and every 10 minutes or so you felt a dull sensation of pleasure course through you as the contractions were easing the egg out of you agonising by agonising millimeter and every once in a while it'd brush against your tortured clit just right.

You were just about to resign yourself to your fate when you realised the small bottle of oil was within reach in this cursed position. There was still some left, not that it'd make much difference now, you were probably going to die like this. With a humongous egg wrecking your lower half.

You picked up the bottle and with hazy eyes read the instructions again. This was your last hope. Maybe you missed something.

'MORE effective if orally taken?!'

Your eyes widened as you wasted no time gulping down the last of it. Too bad you didn't read another sentence which would've clarified that you only need droplets in a glass of water.

It immediately took effect and kicked your labour into high gear again, you screamed as you practically felt your womb and birth canal undulating, forcing you to scream and push like never before. You spread your legs nearly into a split while thrusting your hips into the air.

"Fuck! FUCK! My cunt will tear, fuck fuck my pussy!!!"

The egg slowly slid out and stopped at its widest point. This made you trying to hold your legs back an utter waste as the egg was already doing it for you. The pain made you unable to breathe properly. You took shallow panicked breaths but by this point you lost all sense of your dignity.

You HAD to give birth then and there.

You let out an animalistic scream and screwed your eyes shut. A vein popped out on your forehead and no doubt you burst a few blood vessels. You didn't care anymore, you used both hands to push down on your stomach and gritted your teeth hard enough to chip them

"FUCK, COME OUT ALREADY!!"

Then with a contraction that made you see stars, the egg erupted from your canal, not to mention the aftershocks of your final effort pushed out at least 5 liters of whatever fluid this was out of your pussy along with the huge egg, mixed with urine that you couldn't bear to hold any longer. Your bed was sopping wet and your cunt twitched and pulsated as one of the most intense orgasms of your life ripped through you.

Before you passed out you mustered enough strength to glance at the clock on your bedside table.

It was almost midday.

Didn't the science fair end at 11...?

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 6: I'm The Resident Leader Of The Lost And Found]

A/N: Be sure to vote in the poll pinned to the top of my blog AFTER you finish reading! It will be available for 1 week 🥰

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, RIP Jace...unless...??

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “St. Jimmy” by Green Day.

Word count: 8.2k (she's a little chonky)

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

What happens to the people who turn? You know because you saw it back at Saratoga Springs, an EO from Oklahoma named Greg Flurry—Equipment Operator, he spent his days driving a forklift, everyone called him Snowflake—who returned from weekend liberty with a bite on his left wrist that he said was a gift from some drunk girl who attacked him outside of a 7-Eleven. You had all laughed and taken turns poking at the wound, making him wince: a ring of tiny bruises, not deep at all, the skin only punctured in a few spots, corporeal gemstones of trapped-blood amethysts and sapphires and rubies. Snowflake rubbed it down with a splash of Grey Goose vodka—the same kind your Mama always drank—and didn’t think of it again for the rest of the day.

On Tuesday, he felt fine; but the bite mark, paradoxically, was not healing. On the contrary, it was turning dark and angry, maroon trails along the paths of veins that shuttle blood back to the heart. Snowflake got a shot of antibiotics at the med clinic and was back in the driver’s seat of his forklift before lunch.

On Wednesday, he had a headache and nausea that wouldn’t go away. Snowflake attributed this to particularly questionable chicken fried steak from the chow hall. At night he tossed and turned in his bunk, and when Rio went to check on him, Snowflake was burning up with fever, sweating through his sheets, staring blankly through pupils like pinpricks. You, Rio, and Parker carried him to the med clinic.

On Thursday, in the early hours of the morning, Snowflake began to decompose. But he was still alive. His skin turned grey and sloughed off, his body purged itself: vomit from his throat, diarrhea from his intestines, blood beading out of his pores like sweat. His corneas went cloudy. His lungs flooded with decay-dark mucus. Snowflake sobbed and shrieked as you and Rio sat with him and held his disintegrating hands, as the corpsmen phoned every hospital they could to try to get him transported. All the ambulances were unavailable. All the hospitals were already overwhelmed. They gave the corpsmen peculiar guidance: Palliative care. Prepare to restrain him if he becomes a danger to others. The virus appears to be transmitted via bite wounds.

“Virus?” Rio had said, dropping Snowflake’s hand. “What the fuck kind of virus does this to someone?”

The corpsmen had shaken their heads—We don’t know—and attempted to administer narcotics intravenously. Snowflake received no relief. His blood vessels were collapsing, dissolving, turning to a noxious soup beneath what was left of his skin. Becoming a zombie is not unlike radiation sickness. It rots you from the inside out, and you can feel everything.

As the sun was rising, Snowflake died. And by then you were glad; it was the most merciful outcome. The corpsmen covered him with a sheet and called around for a morgue. They were full too. As you all stood in an exam room trying to understand what had just happened to Snowflake here, what was going on in the world outside Saratoga Springs, the fresh corpse sat up on the table. You had screamed and clutched for Rio; he shoved you behind him. The corpse, still covered with the sheet stained with black and brown and red, followed the noise of your voice and staggered towards you, snarling and groaning, arms outstretched, teeth clicking as they gnashed beneath the sheet. The corpsmen tried to grab him, then shrank away when the ghoul clawed at them, putrefied fingers peeking out from beneath the linen. The zombie lurched closer, and Rio struck out: colossal knuckles to a soft skull, the monster sent hurtling headfirst into a wall. The body plunged to the floor and, enveloped by a puddle of its own bodily fluids, died for the second time.

And Rio had glanced down at where Snowflake had been bitten—now indecipherable on his black, gangrenous wrist that jutted out from beneath the sheet—then turned to you and said: I guess it only takes once.

~~~~~~~~~~

You doze against Aemond’s shoulder as Baela drives the Honda Odessey across Indiana, goldenrods and dogwood trees, green weeds growing tall and wild, red bloodstains on pavement. Visions of the past come to you in spider-thread thin fragments of dreams.

Building dams of sticks and pebbles in the swamp-colored creek that runs along Kentucky State Route 1087. Balancing atop rusted railroad lines that once connected coal mines like ligaments link bones, bare feet, box turtles and milk snakes, autum leaves falling into your hair. Scratching black-ink battleships into the pages of your fifty-cent Walmart notebook as teachers drone on about things that mean nothing to you, things that will not take you away from here, Shakespeare, the Krebs cycle, the Tet Offensive, Spanish words for colors and animals. Mama glancing up at you as she scrubs dishes in a sink nearly overflowing with bubbles, too nonchalant to intend to be cruel: You’re lucky you ain’t too beautiful. Do you know what happens to beautiful women? Marilyn Monroe, Jackie Kennedy, Natalie Wood, Anna Nicole Smith? Horrible, horrible things. And then they die.

Once in a while you pass a car or truck or SUV coasting east as you roll west, strangers who wave and give you nods of grim, transient greeting. Good luck. I’m sorry you’ve lost people. I hope you live. At a Speedway outside of Kokomo, Aemond, Aegon, Rio, and Luke draw Uno cards to see who will attempt to siphon gas from the three vehicles you find there with closed fuel caps. Aegon loses with a blue four. The Kia and Toyota are empty; there’s almost a full tank left in the Ford. You refuel the Honda Odessey and scrounge through the convenience store for supplies. Helaena seems to have developed a sort of fixation with pain pills, hoarding Advil and Tylenol. Aegon finds a few more packs of Marlboro Golds. He puffs on them, windows down and breeze blowing, neon green plastic sunglasses shielding his eyes, as Baela skirts around Indianapolis. Even from fifteen miles away, you can see the billowing smoke from the fires, hear the manmade thunder of explosions.

“Bet people are having a great time there,” Aegon murmurs as he takes a drag, embers glowing and blonde hair thrashing in the wind.

Baela follows the course he plotted, swinging just south of Peoria, Illinois to avoid the nuclear power plants between there and Chicago. You cross the Mississippi River and into the southern tip of Iowa over the Fort Madison Bridge, the toll booth occupied only by a carcass that buzzards are pecking apart, a zombie that someone else already put a bullet in…or perhaps the man did it to himself. Maybe he didn’t see a point in sticking around to watch the dead inherit the earth. You cannot agree. Each day you find more reasons to stay alive in this treacherous new world. It’s like when you were back in Soft Shell, Kentucky. You can’t give up, you can’t surrender. The only way out is through.

The black Honda Odessey—a good soldier, having taken you six hundred miles and into the vast flat vacancy of the Midwest—at last runs out of gas as you are approaching Bonaparte, founded in the 1830s as a lumber mill on the banks of the Des Moines River. You unload the minivan and trek into town; you will find somewhere to spend the night and then in the morning head south to Route 2, which you will follow all the way across Iowa to the Nebraska border.

The first house you try is at the edge of town, eggshell-colored vinyl siding and an empty gravel driveway. Rio tries the front door—locked—then tells everyone to back up. He kicks it once, no dice, gets ready to try again. Then the door opens. A woman with wide fearful eyes stands there with two boys cowering behind her, maybe ten and twelve.

“Please don’t break the lock,” the woman says softly. “We need it. Sometimes they try to get in.”

“Oh hey, lady, I’m sorry about that. We didn’t know anyone was home. You okay in there?”

Her voice is so quiet you can barely hear her. “Please leave us alone.”

Aemond climbs the steps of the front porch, taps Rio’s shoulder to tell him to back up, and kneels in the doorway so he isn’t so tall. He asks the woman: “Do you need supplies? Food, medicine?”

“Please leave us alone,” she says again.

“My name is Aemond, and those two are my brothers Aegon and Daeron, and that’s my sister Helaena, my cousin Luke, and then Rhaena and Baela. The big guy is Rio, and the girl over there…” He smiles as he gestures to you. “We like to call her Chips. Everyone is healthy, and everyone is here by choice. We’re going to the West Coast, Oregon and California. Do you want to come with us?”

But the woman shakes her head almost violently. “We’re safe in the house. We have to stay. My husband is a long-haul trucker, but he’s on his way back to us.”

“How do you know he’s still alive?”

“Go away. Please just go away. Before they see you.”

The woman shuts the door and you hear her throw the deadbolt. You leave like she asks you to; but not before Aemond collects an armful of supplies you can spare and places them in a pile on the porch for them to take inside once you’ve vanished.

The sun is sinking into the west as Helaena lights candles in Bonaparte Baptist Church and Rhaena shakes out dusty, mothball-smelling tablecloths to use as blankets. Luke finds gallons of grape juice and bags full of tiny flat bread wafers in the cabinets of the kitchenette, once used for sinless communions. It’s Daeron’s turn to stay awake for first watch. If Jace was still alive, it would be his too; instead, Aemond takes his place and refuses all offers of relief. You lie down on a pew with thin violet cushions and are thinking that you’ll never get comfortable enough to fall asleep when you are abruptly swallowed by omnipotent, black nothingness.

You jolt awake sometime in the middle of the night, a bad dream you don’t remember and don’t want to. Daeron is perched on the altar and using a hunting knife from the cellar back in Distant, Pennsylvania to sharpen the sticks he’s gathered into arrows. Baela is sitting with Aemond, their backs against the wall and voices hushed so as not to wake the others. Aemond is telling her that everything is going to be okay, that he’s still here, that Jace is gone but he’s not going anywhere, and candlelight is flickering across his scarred face, and he’s afraid but he doesn’t show it. He can’t. Too many people need him.

Oh, you realize; and it doesn’t feel awful at all, doomed or apocalyptic, a curse or a plague. It feels better than anything you knew existed. I might fall in love with him after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Aemond, take a look at this,” Luke says, offering him the binoculars. You have walked several miles on Iowa State Route 2, an asphalt atoll in an ocean of emerald green flora, buffalograss and prairie roses, ash trees growing over defunct power lines.

Aemond peers through the binoculars. It’s a small farmhouse about a quarter mile off the road, rugged and weatherworn, besieged by a flock of zombies. There is something large and rectangular flapping in the wind like a white flag of surrender. “Hm,” Aemond hums sympathetically. “It’s a shame. Poor guy.”

“What do you see?” you ask, and he gives you the binoculars. The zombies, approximately thirty of them, do not appear to have breached the interior; they shuffle through the yard and up and down the steps of the porch, smack their palms against the wood siding, leave stains of gore on the boarded-up windows. None appear to be aware of you yet. The bedsheet that hangs from the attic window has a message painted on it in something dark and viscous, perhaps motor oil:

One alive inside

I can hunt, fish, and fix things

Please help me

God bless you!!!

“We should be able to get to Cantril before dark, it’s about twelve more miles,” Aegon mutters, pondering his map. “Boner-party. Who names a town something like that?”

Aemond stares at him. “Bonaparte. Like Napoleon.”

“Who?”

You pass Rio the binoculars, then say to Aemond: “We’re going to help him, right?”

“We sure as hell aren’t,” Rio replies as he studies the farmhouse. “You want to risk our lives killing all those bastards? I don’t.”

You turn to Aemond, incredulous, but he concurs with Rio. “It’s too dangerous.”

“What’s going on?” Baela says testily from where she’s sprawled on the pavement sipping a half-full plastic gallon of bruise-colored grape juice. She’s already exhausted, but you have no way of transporting her.

Rio points across the field. “There’s a sign saying someone’s trapped inside that house. Tough fucking luck, ain’t it?”

Baela stares at the farmhouse uneasily, her brow furrowed. Rhaena fans her with a paperback copy of Catching Fire. Daeron has wandered off the road to collect more sticks to sharpen and fill his quiver; Helaena is with him picking wildflowers.

“That was us,” you tell Rio. “We were stranded on that transmission tower and we would have died if we’d been left there. But we weren’t. Someone saved us.”

“Things were different then,” Aemond says, unemotional, uncompromising. “We had the Tahoe. Now we’re on foot, and we’d have to kill each of them individually. And there’s no way to make a fast escape if something goes wrong.”

“So we’re just going to leave him?” Aegon says doubtfully, his large ocean-blue eyes flicking between you and Aemond. He stuffs his map back into his shorts pocket and scratches at the tattoo on his forearm: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

Rio groans. “Come on, man, we don’t even know if anyone’s still alive in there! What if he’s dead already? What if he got bit or starved to death or fell down the steps and snapped his neck or something?”

“What if he’s not a good guy?” Aemond adds.

“There’s a Trump 2024 sign in the front yard,” Luke says. He has the binoculars again. Aemond opens his hands, an I told you so sort of gesture. Luke amends: “Not that anyone deserves to get eaten alive or transformed into a walking corpse. But, you know. I figured I’d mention it.”

You are not swayed. Had you stayed in Soft Shell, Kentucky, you might have believed the same things. “People deserve to have the chance to start over.”

Aemond’s eye is on you, narrow and seeking, desperate to understand. “Why are you so fixated on this stranger?”

“He hunts, he fishes. What are we going to do when we get out into Wyoming and Nevada where towns are fifty miles apart and there’s hardly anywhere to scavenge for food? What are we going to eat when the beef jerky and Skittles run out?”

“You said everyone hunts where you’re from.”

“Not literally everyone. I don’t hunt.”

“You can shoot.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know how to track animals. And even if I killed a deer, I wouldn’t know how to dress it.”

Aegon blinks at you. “To what?”

“To remove the skin and organs and everything.”

“Oh. Okay. That makes more sense.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Aemond repeats. Rio is nodding in agreement. Baela’s lips are pressed into a thin, thoughtful, rigid line. Daeron and Helaena have returned to the road to see how the discussion unfolds.

“There are about thirty zombies out there,” you say. “I can take fifteen. I just need you guys to do the rest.”

“Everyone here is my responsibility.” Aemond is severe, but he isn’t angry.

“Then you’re responsible for their humanity as well.”

“I can’t justify risking our lives for this.”

“I’ve killed people, living people, and I didn’t like how that felt. Make no mistake, this is killing too, just by omission instead of with bullets. We’ll all have to carry that weight. The man in that farmhouse hasn’t threatened us. He’s helpless, and he’s trapped, and if we don’t save him, who else is going to do it? What if it was you in there? What if it was me?”

Aemond, frowning, contemplates the house that has become a prison. Rio looks at you, one eyebrow raised. You gaze stoically back. He sighs. “Okay, what the hell, let’s rock,” Rio says.

Baela holds up her Ruger in one hand, slips her hammer out of a belt loop of her shorts with the other. “I’m on board.”

“You shouldn’t be on anything except bedrest,” Aemond tells her.

“I can take fifteen of the zombies myself,” you say again. “I have two M9s, thirty bullets total. I won’t need more than that.”

“I can take ten,” Daeron says.

“Shut up,” Aegon replies, though his tone is gentle. “You can’t even donate blood.”

“I can take ten,” Daeron insists, clutching his compound bow. “At least ten.”

Aegon swings his golf club around. “I can take…like…probably approximately three.”

Rio grabs his face and squeezes his sunburned cheeks as Aegon giggles and slaps at him. “You won’t get the opportunity, Honey Bun. Stay in the kitchen and bake apple pies until Daddy comes home from work.”

“You really think this is the right thing to do?” Aemond asks you. It’s not a challenge, only a question. He’s at war with himself, you can tell. He’s trying very hard to treat you like someone he’s not terrified to lose.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

He pulls his Glock out of its holster. “The gunfire will attract more of them.”

“Then we’ll have to move quickly.”

Aemond turns to Baela, still wilted on the pavement. “You, Rhaena, and Helaena will follow behind us with Luke and finish off any zombies we missed.”

Baela gives him a weak, acquiescent thumbs up, breathing heavily. “Got it.”

“Helaena, you still have your Ruger, right?”

“I won’t need it,” she murmurs, wildflowers tucked into her long blonde hair, watching a ladybug skitter across her knuckles. Aemond is exasperated.

“I’ll make sure she’s okay,” Luke promises. He’s using his binoculars to scout for any threats on the horizon, additional zombies or approaching strangers. Evidently, there are none.

“The grass,” Helaena says. “It makes it hard to see the snakes. Watch your step.”

Aemond replies distractedly: “I think we have bigger worries at the moment, babe.” As Rio pumps his Remington and Luke fumbles nervously with his Marlin .22 to make sure it’s fully loaded, Aemond walks a few yards away from the others and gestures for you to follow him. Aemond’s voice is low, the blue of his eye river-clear and blade-sharp. “I want you to stay near Rio.”

You give him a small, teasing smile. “So you won’t worry about me?”

“So I’ll worry slightly less.” He brushes a piece of buffalograss from your hair, his fingers lingering there longer than they need to. “Rio’s the biggest, he’s the best fighter. And if one of those things catches you by surprise, he’ll be able to crack its skull no problem. So keep close.”

“I’ll try, but sometimes it’s more complicated than that.”

“Please work with me. I’m giving you what you want.”

To be useful, to be merciful. “Thank you, Aemond.”

“Thank me by not letting anything bite you. Not today, not ever.”

“Well, except you of course.”

He laughs, the tension in his face breaking; he skates his thumbprint over your cheek and kisses your forehead, swift like a reflex, unthinking, instinctive.

“Good to go?” Rio asks with a grin, holding his Remington with both hands.

Aegon’s golf club is resting across his shoulders, and you have a sudden vision of Jace doing the same thing with a baseball bat, a vengeful ghost peering out from beneath his curls with cunning dark eyes and a smirk. “Yeah, Chipotle, you’re leading the charge here.”

“No she’s not,” Aemond says, striding to the edge of the road. Across the field is the farmhouse, the white bedsheet S.O.S. still whipping in the wind. “I’m in front. Everyone else is behind me.”

“Oh yeah? Then who’s gonna watch your blind side, huh?” Aegon jogs over and whacks Aemond’s left shoulder with an open palm, beaming up at him. “Don’t worry. You’ll still get to be the hero. I was born talentless.”

“You have talents, Aegon,” you say. “You can sing.”

“Not relevant in a zombie-riddled apocalyptic hellscape, Cow Chip.” He and Aemond start across the field, then you and Rio, then Daeron, darting around in your peripheral vision, nocking sharpened sticks like arrows. Luke, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena trail at a distance.

You have closed half of the gap between the road and the farmhouse—and Daeron has already felled several zombies—before the beasts begin to turn around and notice you. They do not understand danger; they only understand hunger, and they lurch towards you with teeth gnashing and claws outstretched, strips of decaying flesh hanging like sleeves from their arms. You hate the way they move, like they’re trying to imitate life, like they are receiving some sinister transmission that reverberates inside them, like they are soulless vessels to be used in the darkest ways.

You stop, plant your feet in the earth, and raise one of your Beretta M9s. Your eyes find the sights; your finger settles on the trigger. You are rusty at first: a miss, a bullet in a rotting shoulder instead of a skull. Then you click into a rhythm and the zombies drop as they stumble towards you, infected dark blood spewing, brains pouring out onto the soil. When your clip is empty, you shove the first M9 back into its holster and pull out the other.

Daeron is putting his makeshift arrows through eye sockets, Aemond is firing his Glock, Rio is erasing entire heads with the grotesque power of his Remington. Aegon is swinging his golf club around wildly. His Marlin .22 hangs from its strap across his back, but he’s hopeless with it; his aim quite literally could not be worse. You hear other gunshots too, maybe Luke. A stranger appears from the front door of the farmhouse: red flannel shirt, roomy jeans, tan work boots, long messy russet hair pulled back in a man bun, almost as big as Rio. He is carrying an axe and begins helping to cut down the remaining zombies. Rio realizes you’re no longer with him and turns around to find you.

“I’m good!” you shout, waving him forward. “Go, go!” Rio nods and takes off again towards the farmhouse, blasting his Remington 12 gauge like a cannon.

Your ankle snags on something, a gnarled root, an old piece of farm machinery. You fall hard, hitting the ground and knocking the air out of your lungs. Your M9 is flung from your grasp. You roll onto your back and sit up to see what you’re caught on. It’s the grasping hand of a zombie, an old man, long white hair and dead milky eyes, only a torso, nothing below the ribcage except a tangle of dirt-coated intestines. It is scrambling towards your legs, jaws rattling, teeth covered in the blood of the other people it has eaten.

You shriek and try to kick it away. You reach for the empty M9, rip it out of its holster, and hold it by the barrel so you can use the grip, the heaviest part of a pistol, to bash the zombie’s skull in. But you aren’t Rio; when you strike the zombie’s head, it keeps hissing and scrabbling towards your flesh that sings to it like a siren, irresistible, divine.

I can’t let it bite me, I can’t let it bite me—

There is a boom and the zombie drops face-down to the earth. You are saved; you are free. You turn to see Rhaena standing beside you, clutching her tiny Ruger in trembling hands…but her eyes are closed. Slowly, petrified, they come open, one after the other.

You gape up at her. “Did you aim?!”

Rhaena shrugs guiltily. “I don’t remember how.”

“Jesus Christ. Well thanks, I guess. Glad you missed my pelvis.”

She laughs shakily. “Yeah. Me too.” Rhaena holsters her Ruger and helps you to your feet. By now, everyone else has realized you’re in trouble and are sprinting over, including the new guy.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you say, holding up your arms and skimming your palms down your bare legs to show them you haven’t been bitten. “No need to despair. Rhaena rescued me.”

Aemond gets to you first. “Can I see?” he asks breathlessly. You give him your hands and with his fingertips, he reads you like Braille: palms, forearms, throat, jaw, gingerly turning your face away from him and then back again. He exhales, relieved. “Good job, Rhaena,” Aemond says, and she smiles. Baela uses her hammer to smash the skull of a zombie that’s still squirming. Aegon yanks a snarling toddler to its feet—Pokémon t-shirt, left leg missing, wearing one of those child leashes—and swings his golf club so hard its whole head pops off and rolls away into the buffalograss with sick wet thumps.

“I thought you couldn’t kill the kids,” you say.

Aegon spits on the corpse’s collapsed, headless body. “It’s different now. These monsters ate Jace. Fuck ‘em all.”

“I can’t thank y’all enough,” the axe-wielding stranger says. “I was sure I was going to die in there like a rat in a trap. There’s a hog farm on the property behind mine, and I think the…you know…all the meat attracts zombies. A pack of them saw me in the yard and followed me to the house, and when they’re in a group like that, they seem…well, I just couldn’t get rid of them. Alone they wander wherever, but a hoard has structure, it has a mission, and they were waiting me out. I didn’t have my guns, I didn’t have my truck…”

“What happened to them?” Rio asks.

“I got robbed, that’s what happened.”

“No!” Baela says. “Really?”

“A week ago, five men I’d never seen before broke in while I was sleeping. They must have drugged my dog, who knows with what—she slept for twenty hours, have you ever heard of something like that?—and locked me in my bedroom. By the time I kicked the door down they were gone, and so were quite a few of my earthly possessions. It was nice of them not to murder us, I guess. I have a couple boxes of ammo left, but that’s all. Mostly 9mm.”

“That’s exactly what I need,” you say.

The stranger gives you a curious, appraising glance. “I’m very glad to be able to assist you, ma’am.” Then he finally gets a good look at Aemond, who is glaring at him. “Lord almighty, what the hell happened to your face?”

“A piece of sheet metal fell on me.”

“He stitched it up himself,” Luke says. “I watched. It was wild.”

The man is impressed. “You’re a doctor?”

“No, no, no,” Aemond amends. “Just an intern.”

“He’s basically a doctor,” Baela says.

“Well, you’ll be useful to have around, I expect.” The stranger offers his hand and Aemond, somewhat unenthusiastically, shakes it. “I’m Cregan Stark.”

“Aemond Targaryen.”

“Targaryen?! That’s a heck of a name, sir.”

“It’s Greek,” Aegon says.

“Where are y’all headed? Not all the way back to Greece, I hope. That’d be a hike. And a swim too, I guess.”

Aemond smiles tightly, polite but guarded. “Not that far away. We’re on our way to the West Coast, California and Oregon.”

“And you’re on foot?! You need horses.”

“We haven’t come across any that are still alive.”

“Do you want to travel with us, Cregan?” Luke asks amiably.

“I reckon I would, for now at least. I got nowhere else to be and no one to care for.” Cregan looks to Aemond. “That alright with you, doc?”

“Sure,” Aemond replies ungenerously.

“My folks got a trailer over towards Cantril, and a truck parked out back too if nobody’s stolen it yet. We can stay the night there if you want and then drive west in the morning.”

“Cantril! That’s on our route!” Aegon exclaims, he of the map and the gel pens.

Aemond narrows his eye at Cregan, suspicious. “If your parents are so close, why aren’t you staying with them? Why didn’t they swing by to check on you and see you were in trouble here?”

“Well, ‘cause they’re dead,” Cregan says, and Aemond is abruptly remorseful. “When all this started, I went over to get them and they were out in the front yard, just bones. All the flesh was chewed right off. But I found their wedding rings in the grass, and Mama’s pearl necklace that her Grammie gave her when she got married, Mama never took it off as long as she lived. It looked like a string of rubies.”

Aemond swallows noisily. “I’m sorry.”

“Ain’t nothing I can do about it now,” Cregan says, staring out over the field and biting his lips so they don’t quiver.

“Did your parents have guns?” Rio asks hopefully.

Cregan chuckles and shakes his head. “No, that’d be swell, wouldn’t it? Daddy got all his guns taken away when I was in high school.”

“Taken away…?” Baela echoes.

“Yeah,” Cregan says casually. “After the methamphetamine conviction.” He whistles, and a dog comes loping out of the front door of the farmhouse. It’s huge and mean-looking, fur the color of ashes or smoke. It goes directly to Cregan and noses his hands; you are reminded of how Aemond searched you fearfully for injuries. “She’s half-German Shepherd, half-grey wolf. Her name’s Ice.”

“Does she bite?” Aemond asks tentatively.

“My little princess?! Hell no! I wish she did, then maybe those robbers wouldn’t have gotten what they wanted. But she knows when those things are around.”

Aegon pats her angular, steel-colored head. Ice puts back her pointy ears and closes her eyes, basking in the attention. “Hey, fuzzball. I’m going to call you Blue Raspberry Icee.”

“You can call her whatever you want to as long as she’s allowed to come with us.”

“She’s welcome if she sniffs out zombies,” Aemond says.

Baela is struck by a thought. “Cregan, what kind of truck did your parents have? I hope it’s big. We’re a lot of people.” She’s resting her hands on her belly. And we’re about to add one more.

“A Chevy Tahoe,” Cregan says. You all begin chattering excitedly, then have to explain why.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Y’all like fishing?” Cregan asks. He’s cooking dinner for everyone with his dead parents’ Coleman butane camping stove, only one burner, each course prepared individually. You are all seated around him on the living room floor, sipping cans of Coke and Sprite—what Cregan calls “pop”—and eating turkey-flavored instant stuffing that came out of a cardboard box. Now Cregan is working on Hungry Jack mashed potatoes, tiny white flakes like snow that puff up in boiling water. Rhaena is staring at the pot with horror. Baela scarfs down her stuffing like she’s been starving to death. Flashlights illuminate the room in dim ocher like a setting sun, the roof vents open to let in cool night air. The trailer smells like cigarette smoke and dust and mildew. Piled haphazardly in corners are old newspapers, mounds of unfolded clothes, empty boxes and plastic bags, VHS tapes—Star Wars, 80s rock concerts, Clint Eastwood movies—and unwashed cups.

Aemond chuckles like it’s preposterous. “No.”

“Garth Brooks?”

“No.”

“NASCAR?”

“Who watches NASCAR?!” Aegon says.

You smile. “Everyone’s got a driver where I’m from.”

Cregan, vindicated, thumps a closed fist against his chest. “I was a Jeff Gordon guy. His car reminded me of a box of Froot Loops or something.”

“My brother Denver covered the inside of the garage with Dale Earnhardt Jr. stuff. I got obsessed with Juan Pablo Montoya for a while, he was cute.”

“So you chase the dark-haired fellas,” Cregan says, grinning, still stirring the potatoes. Everyone else’s wide, perplexed gazes fly between you and Cregan as they eat their Stove Top stuffing from Styrofoam bowls.

You titter nervously. “I don’t usually chase anyone.”

Aegon notices a taxidermied largemouth bass mounted on the wall, approximately fifteen pounds. “What the fuck,” he whispers, dismayed.

“WWE?” Cregan asks you.

“Oh, Rey Mysterio, no question. He was cute too.”

Cregan snorts. “He literally never took off his mask!”

“He was cute underneath it. I could tell, I have a sense for these things.”

“I’ll let you live in delusion.”

“I thought wrestling was real back then. When he’d get beat up and covered in fake blood, I’d start crying because I figured he’d die. Who was your favorite?”

“John Cena.” Cregan waves an open hand back and forth in front of his face. “You can’t see me!” You both burst out laughing. No one else gets it.

“It’s John Cena’s signature move,” you explain.

“Hm,” Aemond says, but he’s watching you and Cregan with deep grooves in his forehead and a solemnness in his lone blue eye, tapping his chin restlessly.

“Now, we might not have any butter…” Cregan picks up one of the containers scattered around him, a plastic jug of Great Value powdered coffee creamer. “But this makes for the best potatoes on the planet.” The others watch, stunned, appalled, as he adds several heaping spoonfuls to the pot.

You smile wistfully. How is it possible to be so nostalgic for a place you once believed was killing you, wringing you dry until all your blood dripped onto the floor and you were left a husk, a ghost, a myth? “My Mama always did that. She put it in mac and cheese too.”

Cregan serves you first, taking your empty stuffing bowl and returning it nearly overflowing with Hungry Jack instant potatoes. “Here’s a taste of home.”

And he’s right; you take a bite—hot enough to burn your tongue, smooth, rich, soupy in texture—and it’s just like being five or ten or fifteen again, when this was your idea of luxury, a good day, lounging on a sagging couch torn to hell by the cats and watching The Simpsons or Malcolm In The Middle with your brothers. Cregan scoops Hungry Jack into all the bowls. Baela digs in enthusiastically. The others, following your lead, take cautious tastes, shrug, and decide it’s tolerable for one night. Cregan grabs a new pot and dumps a box of Rice-A-Roni into it, along with the packet of seasoning, a bottle of water, and a single spoonful of coffee creamer for good measure. As the rice cooks, he distributes one can of barbeque-flavored Vienna sausages to each guest. Rhaena pops hers open and immediately begins retching. Aegon feeds his to Ice.

After dinner, Cregan compiles all the extra blankets and pillows he can find, then supplements with bath towels and bedsheets from the closet in the hallway. The trailer is small, only one bedroom; you all agree Baela should get it. She will share with Rhaena and Luke, as she always does now. She doesn’t like sleeping alone. Cregan offers to take first watch, a gift in return for being rescued from a slow death by deprivation. Aemond agrees, but only because Rio—with a wink and a knowing smirk—volunteers to stay up too. Rio will keep tabs on this almost-stranger; Rio is the only one big enough to knock Cregan around if such an occasion ever arose. Aemond tells them to wake him up halfway through the night so he can take over and let them rest. You say you want to do the second watch too, and this time Aemond doesn’t argue.

Helaena gets the couch and Daeron curls up on the olive green carpet beside her, Aegon claims the tattered old recliner, you arrange your pillow and blanket—thin, scratchy, a weak blue mottled with dark stains you can’t identify—against the wall on the other side of the living room. Rio is teaching Cregan how to play Uno on the small plastic folding table by the kitchen, only spacious enough for two. Ice is stretched out beneath the table with her grey muzzle resting on her paws. At the moment, Aemond is supervising; he’s still trying to decide how much he can trust Cregan.

Aegon wanders over to you then bends down, his hands on his knees. “This place is revolting,” he whispers.

“It’s alright.”

“Where did you grow up? Alcatraz?” You laugh, and Aegon gives you his pink CD player, Ava still written across the top in rhinestones. “Just in case you need to get away for a while. It’s wasted on me. I’m going to be unconscious about two seconds after my head hits the pillow.”

“I’ll take good care of it.”

“If you see any meth lying around, you let me know. I’m always in the market for new ways to shorten my life expectancy.”

“I’ll keep any such discoveries to myself. I enjoy you too much.”

Aegon recoils, lets that sink in, then beams as he saunters back to his creaking recliner.

“Hey, Chips?” Luke says, approaching you shyly. He’s holding his Marlin .22. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but my rifle was shooting way to the left today, and I don’t think my aim’s that awful.”

“No problem.” You take it and remove the remaining bullets so there’s no chance the gun will accidentally fire, then examine the sights. “Can you get me Baela’s hammer?”

“Sure.” Luke dashes off and then returns with it moments later.

“You said it was skewed to the left?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

You take the hammer and tap the rear sight a few times. Luke watches you, fascinated, troubled. When he speaks, his voice is soft and miserable.

“I’m sorry I’m so bad at everything.”

“You know, this is the only possible scenario in which someone like you is worth less than me.” You give him an encouraging smile. “I didn’t go to a fancy school. I work with my hands.”

“But you’re smart, Chips. You could have gone to college if you wanted to.”

How would I have paid for application fees, or to take the SAT? How would I have gotten Mama to fill out the FAFSA? What school would have given me a scholarship with my mediocre grades in standard-level classes? Who would have driven me to school and helped me move in? How would I have bought books, shampoo, tampons, a laptop? Where would I have gone if I had trouble finding a job after graduation? What if the people there saw through me? What if they shrank away from the frayed threads I’m built of? There is no point in saying these things. The gulf between you is too great; it will only confuse Luke and hurt you. “I wouldn’t have known where to start.” You reload the Marlin .22 and pass both the gun and the hammer back to him. “I think it’ll work better now.”

“I bet you wish Jace was here instead of me,” Luke says, and it shocks you. “Everyone does, except maybe Rhaena.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jace was a good fighter, and he was smart, and brave, and capable, and I’m just this…this weak scared loser who only knows how to write screenplays. And what goddamn use is that? Hollywood doesn’t even exist anymore! Scraps of Tom Cruise are probably stuck in some zombie’s teeth right now!”

“Luke, I’m glad you’re here.”

“I shouldn’t have left Jace,” he whispers, distraught. “I betrayed him. He was always protecting me and I couldn’t even save him once.”

“We did everything we could. And we all left Jace, not just you. It was me and Rio who said it first. You haven’t earned the blame.” If Jace’s ghost comes knocking, it won’t be your door he opens, Luke.

“Okay,” Luke replies softly.

“Baela is very, very grateful to still have you and Rhaena, Luke. She told me.”

Luke stares at you, doubtful, hopeful, wanting to believe. “Really?”

“I swear she did. I think you two are keeping her sane. The world, the baby, Jace…sometimes what’s most valuable to people are simple things, kindness, gentleness, compassion, support. I can kill zombies, sure, but I’ve never been good at knowing the right thing to say. You are.”

“Okay,” Luke says again, but he seems more at peace now; perhaps even the tiniest bit proud. “I guess I should go make sure Baela has everything she needs before I go to sleep.”

“That sounds like a good plan.”

Luke walks a few steps, then turns back towards you, smiling. “I think you know the right thing to say once in a while.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Luke insists, then disappears down the shadowy hallway and into the bedroom.

Aemond arrives at last with his blanket and pillow, arranges them beside yours, then joins you where you sit cross-legged on the floor. “You didn’t stay with Rio today when we rescued Cregan,” he says; not an accusation, a statement, a surrender of sorts.

“No. I didn’t.”

You must be visibly preoccupied. Aemond asks: “What are you thinking about?”

You decide to tell the truth. “How you were never supposed to meet me.”

“What do you mean?”

You point to him. “Rich boy with a beach house on a cliff.” Then you tap your own heart. “Poor girl who grew up playing with sticks and box turtles.”

“And that’s why you like Cregan so much.”

“It’s nice to have someone around who speaks the same language, sure. It’s nice to not have to explain things or think up lies so I can fit into other people’s idea of what the world is. But I don’t like Cregan more than I like you. Not even close.”

Aemond smiles, a warm glow like fire from under his scarred skin. “I’m glad I met you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Even if it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I’m sorry I’m not…” Someone sophisticated, seductive, experienced, bewitching. “I’m sorry I don’t already know how to do everything.”

“I don’t care. I would have liked you however you were when I found you.”

You look up at him skeptically. “Really?”

“Yes. Zero boyfriends or ten or twenty, I would want you the same way I do now.”

It hits you so suddenly you can’t stop the tremor in your voice, the shimmering tears in your eyes. “Aemond, please don’t die.”

“I’ll do my best.” He lifts the CD player from your lap and offers you an earbud. You accept it and slip it into your right ear as he puts the other into his left, then clicks the play button on Aegon’s pink Sony Walkman. What you hear are the opening ukelele plucks of Riptide, and you are spirited back to 2013: middle school, oversized hoodies and ripped jeans, hair you have no idea what to do with, the librarian letting you browse music videos on YouTube during lunch because you never cause any trouble, taking bites of your sandwich—one piece of Wonder Bread folded in half, a glob of Skippy peanut butter—and chewing slowly to make it last longer.

Aemond lies down and you rest your head on his chest as he covers you both with his blanket, circles his arms around you and pulls you in closer; and through the music you hear him mutter: “I wish this disgusting Hoarders trailer had two bedrooms.”

You laugh, burrow deeper into him, let his warmth and the drumming of his heartbeat lull you into darkness, still and serene, a place that exists beyond the world and the fear that it is ending.

When you open your eyes again, Aemond is up and speaking in hushed voices with Cregan and Rio in the kitchen, but he hasn’t tried to rouse you yet. I shouldn’t be awake, why am I awake?

Because someone is shining a flashlight directly into your face. You blink and swat at the blinding yellow-white gleam, your eyes aching, your vision hazy and distorted.

“He must check below the racks,” Helaena says. She is on her hands and knees and peering down at you like a bird of prey, like a goddess on Mount Olympus.

“What…?”

“He’s tall, so he won’t look, but that’s where it is. Below the racks. He must see it. Promise me you’ll make him see it.”

“Who’s tall…?” Aemond, Rio, Cregan?

“Promise me!” she hisses fiercely.

“Okay, Helaena! Okay. I promise.”

She crawls away without another word, climbs onto the couch, clicks off the flashlight, and tumbles back into the abyss of sleep with her back to you.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Chevy Tahoe—2001 instead of 2023, a dull rusty red instead of glossy dark blue—barrels down Route 2 past fields of soybeans ravaged by deer and rabbits, high feral weeds, tree branches entombing power lines and houses and barns, leaves freckled with cicadas and caterpillars, hay bales and archaic churches, life in shades of peridot and malachite and bloodstone and jade. Baela is driving, Ice has her big shaggy head hanging out of an open window, Cregan is examining Aegon’s map…and meanwhile, Aegon and Rio are singing along to the Enrique Iglesias song blasting through the speakers as one of the mixtapes spins in the Tahoe’s CD player, pretending to serenade and propose marriage to each other.

“Bailamos, let the rhythm take you over, bailamos

Te quiero amor mío, bailamos

Gonna live this night forever, bailamos

Te quiero amor mío, te quiero!”

Up ahead there is something in the middle of the road. No, not something; someone, parked across the double yellow lines on a small black motorcycle. As you approach, this person—made blurry by the distance—removes their helmet and seems to wait for you.

“What’s up with that?” Baela asks apprehensively, slowing down from her previously brisk eighty miles per hour.

Aemond frowns at the figure and then scans the fields on either side of the road. “I don’t know. Luke?”

Luke stands up through the sunroof to get a better look with his binoculars. “Oh my God, it’s…it’s…”

“Jace!” Baela screams, and slams on the brakes. She bolts out of the Tahoe before remembering to put it in park; the SUV rolls along sluggishly until Rhaena yanks the gear lever into the proper position. Now everyone is pouring out of the doors and rushing to him. Jace is laughing; he embraces Baela as she crashes into him and sobs into the curve of his neck. Jace is wearing jeans and a leather jacket despite the heat, safety precautions for the motorcycle. If he were to fall off, he’d keep most of his skin.

“I was hoping I’d run into you guys. I didn’t know if I was too far ahead or falling behind.”

Aegon gawks at him, sputtering. “How did…? How are you…?”

“You showed me your map, idiot,” Jace says; but he sounds relieved. “Route 2 all the way across Iowa, that part was pretty easy to remember. I figured if I could get here, I might be able to find you. If not, I’d just surprise you in California.” He grins, huge and teasing, ecstatic tears glittering in his eyes.

“The river,” Luke says, thunderstruck. “We thought you were dead…we left you…Jace, I’m…I’m so sorry we left you…”

“Hey, I get it. The bridge situation was fucked, there was no way you guys could fish me out. The river washed me miles downstream, way too fast for the zombies to keep up. I eventually got dumped on the shore near where some people had set up camp for the night. They were living out of a school bus, about fifteen of them. They heard me coughing and moaning, hunted me down, and dragged me back to the bus. Super nice, right? I told them about the zombies, and we relocated in a hurry. They were headed for a town up near Chicago, Rockville or something, so they took me with them and then one guy gave me his bike and taught me to ride it so I could go west. It’s a Honda Rebel 300. It can get 70 miles to the gallon. I’ve barely had to siphon any gas! And the siphoning hose my new friends gave me is the kind with a pump. No more Uno roulette, bitches!”

“I can’t believe you’re okay,” Baela whispers, tears flooding down her face.

“Don’t cry, I’m here, I’m back, everything’s the way it should be again. Now how’s my baby doing…?”

You, Aemond, and Rio exchange astonished glances. Luke snaps out of his shock and runs to hug Jace and Baela, and Rhaena follows him. Daeron searches the horizon for movement, for danger. Helaena rips the pristine white petals off a bloodroot blossom one by one.

For the first time, Jace notices Cregan. Ice stands beside the flannel-wearing Iowan on the pavement, wagging her long grey tail. She barks at Jace uncertainly. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Oh yeah, that’s Cregan Man Bun Stark,” Aegon says. “And his anti-zombie wolf Blue Raspberry Icee.”

[ghettogirly]

Can you create a one shot where Armando Aretas and o/c argue that Armando confesses his feelings?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝!𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

-> synopsis: seeing your bestfriend get engaged should be a happy feeling for you. Unfortunately, it’s not. Not when she’s stealing your man.

-> theme: angst and fluff.

-> format: imagine/story.

-> warnings: mentions of infidelity, mentions of trapping, mentions of manipulation, (if you squint).

-> authors note: i’ve had writers block, sorry for how long ive been away guys. Hope you enjoy! 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝🌸.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐈��𝐊 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄. You could hear the scraping noises of the suitcases that was being lugged to the cabin that was illuminated with a warm light, colours of orange and yellow pouring out of the windows. It was currently nighttime but there were structures of light that lit up the land around it.

Snow was pummelling down some mountains while some trees subtly moved due to the slight, cold breeze that cascaded over the group. It was a getaway with some friends, a ski trip. Well needed due to the busy lifestyle you have of being a fashion designer in Miami, the constant demand of clothes and the myriad of fabrics making your mind go crazy.

So when your friend, Miyah, proposed a trip you were more than happy to go. Well, that before you knew Armando was coming.

For all you know, you thought it was a girls trip but when you found out more people were coming… it wasn’t all smiles anymore.

Frustrated by the idea of Miyah and Armando even being together, you felt as if you were more deserving to be with him.

However, you pushed your feelings aside and settled into the cabin. Greeting your mutual friends around you. Walking around, you noticed the rustic theme within the house. The natural and organic vibe of the house, littered with logs and pure wood which was accompanied by the aroma of a slight cinnamon scent, making you feel at peace. Loads of your friends were beginning to go upstairs to unpack their things so, following their lead you begin to head upstairs.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The next few days were torturous. Quite the opposite of what you thought this holiday was going to be. Standing back while the others congratulated the couple, you couldn’t believe what was happening. The rose petals scattered amongst the floor while a white light illuminated from the fairy lights bunched along the wooden structure covering the people, a big fat ring sat on your best friend’s hand.

He proposed.

He really proposed.

Walking up with your lips tight, you hugged your bestfriend while she was rambling about how beautiful the proposal was. Glancing over at Armando, he dapped up his friends while his face was.. blank. Smiling every now and then to please people but you struggled to believe if he was truly happy.

Regardless, you felt sick at the whole situation. Happy faces that were spread out around you, loud talking and people jumping up and down caused the sickness in your stomach to bubble up even more. Excusing yourself, you retreat back to your bedroom before plopping down on the bed.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A knock was heard on the door, slowly moving, you sat up. With your curls flat at the back and compact, you realised you fell asleep as it was now dark outside. Another knock was heard causing you to now stand up, your throat being a bit groggy due to the mucus that now developed over the past hour. “Damn who the fuck knocking on my door like the police?!”

Opening the door, the tall, hispanic man now hovered over you. His eyes flashing a split second of worry before going back into his nonchalant state. “Can i come-“

Not even letting him finish his sentence, you shut the door on him before turning back and walking towards your bed. The door opened on response and was slowly closed by the male who didn’t want noise, not taking your rejection as a final answer. “No seas así.”

“Don’t talk to me in spanish, that shit don’t work on me like the other girls motherfucker.”

“It sure worked on you last time..” a whisper was heard from the man which made you whip your head around towards him.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing mami, come over here and talk to me.” Now walking towards you as you were laying on your bed, you rolled over backwards still wanting some distance between the both of you.

“Armando, what do you think this is? I can’t look at you in the face right now!!!”

“Stop being loud. Did you think i wanted to do this??”

“At this point, i don’t give a fuck what you didn’t or did want to do! I’m done with you and her. Clearly you don’t give a fuck about what us two have!”

A huff was heard from the male who slowly moved to your position. Reaching out his hand towards yours, however, your arms were crossed.

“Escúchame… i’m trying to buy us sometime. I’ll long out the process so we can sort our shit out and then we can just go, me and you. I’m doing this for us.”

“Are you? Or are you trying to please the both of us? I can’t do it anymore Armando!”

“¿Por qué me importaría complacerla cuando eres a quien amo?”

“Well it doesn’t seem like you-“

Failing to finish your sentence, you was pulled into a deep kiss from Armando, who was now sitting right next to you with his arm around your waist. The feeling of his soft lips touching yours dissipate the anger streaming from you, now turning it into calmness with a hint of sadness.

“Listen. I’m going to leave her baby, tienes que confiar en mí.”

“Okay Armando, i’ll trust you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[🌸] 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒:

“No seas así.” : Don’t be like this.

“Escúchame” : Listen to me

“¿Por qué me importaría complacerla cuando eres a quien amo?” : Why would o care to please her when you’re the one i love?

“tienes que confiar en mí” : you have to trust me.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[🌸] 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @milliumizoomi @shurisgf @5tarlan7 @armandosbabymama @tyneshaaa @dyttomori @sarcasticbitchsblog @believeinthefireflies95 @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @twinklestarlight @bootlegroach @deadpool15 @wizewhispers @amplifiedmoan @thedarkworldofhananerea @yeahnohoneybye

[the-witchhunter]

DP x DC: Let’s talk about the ghost of Gary Lester

You know, if the ghosts are still following around John Constantine, Danny Fenton would fucking hate the guy

Danny Phantom is a kids show, the morality of it is a lot simpler than the very dingy grey that Hellblazer is painted with. Sure Danny has moments where he has to learn to not use his powers for selfish gains, but let’s talk about the ghost of Gary Lester aka Gaz

Spoilers for issues 1 and 2 of Hellblazer, that’s right we’re going back to the beginning.

A little background on Gaz: childhood friend of John’s, dropped out of art school and started Mucus Membrane with John and becoming part of the “Newcastle crew” before the events at the Casanova club which he was present for. Sometime during the 80’s he became a heroin addict before the events of 88 that resulted in his death

Now what killed Gaz? Short answer is John. Longer answer is Gary accidentally unleashed an “African hunger spirit” on New York by deciding to ship a glass bottle with the thing trapped in it to John’s apartment in New York, resulting in it getting smashed in transport unleashing a threat of mass possession on one of the largest population centers in the world, a spirit that would consume its many many hosts resulting in the potential death of MILLIONS

John, putting the needs of the many ahead of the needs of the few, enlisted the help of Papa Midnight to trap the spirit in Gaz.

The sprit devoured Gaz from the inside, a process that lasted hours and hours of screaming before Gaz was devoured and the spirit devoured itself

Meanwhile John stayed by the entire time, there for every painful moment until the end. He did that, and he did that to his friend. There was a hell of a good reason for it, but he still did that to his friend

Yet John stayed the entire time

Gaz then joined the ghosts the followed John, becoming a reoccurring symbol for the price John’s friends pay

People around John get hurt, and it’s often his fault

And I think that’s what the truly interesting thing about Danny vs John. They both try to do good but others tend to pay the price for John. Meanwhile Danny would sacrifice himself long before sacrificing his friends. Danny hasn’t had to deal with quite the same moral choices John has, and I don’t think canon Danny is really at a place where he could understand what it’s like to make those choices

An older more mature Danny might, a very traumatized Danny might or might not, but base Danny would be unable to understand sacrificing his friend at all. Did it save millions of people? yes, but Danny is not the person that has had to make that difficult choice

And so literally learning this from the ghost that embodies John making that very choice would not endear John to Danny

[soft-mafia]

Buggy Headcanons (NSFW + SFW)

warnings: mentions of female reader, the NSFW isn’t separated from the SFW it’s kind of mixed in

a/n: I wanted to do some more Buggy headcanons to get my creative juices flowing loool

• The man stress eats(and drinks), when he’s frustrated over another encounter with straw hat, or a failed treasure hunt, he’ll sit on his throne or in his quarters and shovel food into his mouth. Whenever you’re sitting on his lap he can accidentally get a whole lot of crumbs on you.

• He’ll have days when all he wants to do is fuck. He’ll have sex with you for hours, until the room smelled like sweat and raw sex. His hairy torso pressed up against your back while he’s holding you down, grunting like a bull as he cums in you for what feels like the millionth time. Of course he takes breaks after every round, giving himself a breather while he either holds you close to him, or plays with your sopping pussy.

• The most annoying thing about sleeping with him at night is when he’s spooning you, he sometimes snores right into your ear. And it’s loud, especially when he gets choked on his own mucus and goes into a loud coughing fit.

• As soon as he gets into his quarters after a long day of pillaging and pirating— his clothes as off. As soon as that door closes he’s already in his underwear flopped onto the bed.

• He always makes sure that you’re eating. Even when you’re full or not hungry he’ll shove some food into your mouth or hand feed you a fruit or something. And he’d always do it at the worst times too, whenever you’re talking to one of his pirates about something, or if you’re talking to him, he’ll his hold a piece of food up to your mouth like you’re an animal(or his floating hand will just show up beside you) and he’ll expect you to take it, and if you don’t he’ll just shove it into your face again.

• Buggy loves grabbing your ass, especially when you least expect it, he’ll pull you into a firm embrace, and when you think he’s just being all lovey dovey— your eyes go wide when you feel his strong hands gripping your ass, your face going red as you feel his deep laughter rumble in his chest.

• He goes crazy over chin scratches, will literally go loopy when you scritch him.

• It’s hard getting all of his thick cock to properly fit into your mouth in one go, so he takes his time easing your lips around him. His muscled thighs twitching in his pants, grunts escaping him as he guides you through it. “Yeah.. that’s it, all the way down that pretty throat.” He chuckles gravely behind grit teeth, “You’d think you’d get used to it by now!” He laughs. Gently holding your head while watching your cheeks puff out with his cock is one of his favorite things about blowjobs.

• Gets jealous and protective whenever he’s around someone he sees as a threat to your relationship. It’s kind of a similar situation to his nose, where he’s so insecure he thinks everybody is out to steal you from him. You’re with him while he’s talking to somebody he sees as stronger and more attractive than he is(impossible), they’re speaking to him about something but he’s not listening to because he’s thinking about them stealing you and you running off with them. Buggy growls and randomly blurts out, “HANDS OFF MY GIRL, SHE’S MINE!” Which leads you, and the person in question confused.

• There was an incident where Mr. 3 sarcastically asked Buggy if he had to choose between Y/n and the one piece, Buggy just stood there with his mouth open, looking between you and 3, genuinely torn between the two options. You were rightfully pissed and didn’t speak to him for the rest of the day. While you were giving him the silent treatment, he was an emotional rollercoaster, going from whining, to straight up shouting at you. “Come on baby it was hypotheticalllll!!” “STOP BEING DRAMATIC!!” “At least look at me when I’m talking to you!!!” “LOOK AT ME Y/N!!!”

• Sometimes he does things to try and get you to laugh, and every time he does something that unintentionally makes a fool out of himself, and usually it always gets you to break and burst out into laughter.

• Buggy is by no means a 5 star chef but one time he tried to do something nice and surprise you with breakfast in bed. The typical bacon and egg smiley face breakfast. It was so adorable that you didn’t even complain about the burnt to a crisp, tasteless bacon.

• He lets you deal with his hair because it’s too much of a hassle for him, you have the honor of washing it, deep conditioning it, brushing all of the knots out of his hair(with the plus of him shouting and complaining at you during the entire process), and styling it into his hat.

• Buggy loves neck kisses, as if his neck isn’t just begging to be kissed. He’s a sucker for when you hold his jaw and lean in, then gently brush your lips over his thick, muscled neck before pressing a soft kiss to it, it makes him shiver and blush every time.

• You’re the only one who he has ever let touch his nose It’s a privilege you get from being his. He obviously doesn’t like it, and he never lets it go as far as a typical kiss or nose boop, he’ll turn away to grumble and frown about it, but it always leaves him flustered every time. It gets him to shut up as well, it’s like an off button, if you’re having a heated discussion with him and you know you’re right— just boop the snoot and he backs down.

[nshtn]

wesker washing the blood off of birkins hands

Birkin hadn’t meant for this to happen. It had all gotten away from him, everything; he was caught up in his need to prove himself, to be worthy of attention, of adoration… of something like the love his inner child could never find - the closest he could feel to it, anyways. He needed his peer’s recognition and was done in by it, the very thought of it trickling his sanity from him and leaving behind the crumbs of ideas and moral placations to inch him there.

After a while, Birkin had inched off the edge. A lemming.

2k, tags: blood, childhood trauma & c-ptsd, paranoia, umbrella's indoctrination mentioned, willsker theming

It wasn’t that Annette didn’t provide for him. She absolutely did, and he loved her in a way he could not fully express lest he drown in the thickness of it and forget himself along the way (and he couldn’t – he had to provide for Sherry). Alas, there was no cure to the pools of wrongness that Birkin had been bestowed by the malingering ghosts of the School. His waking mind screamed them as loudly as a blaring kettle at times, at others they'd sneak up and curl their tendrils around his conscious thought. The balm was a careful cultivar, an unstable see-saw of the clawing, raking need to be academically recognized – to be remembered, seen, his presence felt in every crack he wedged in another man’s mask.

To tear down the intellectual work of others was a way to prop himself up as much as it guaranteed he would remain useful and, thus, alive. It was in his best interest.

But with it came that ever-creeping madness, seed planted by the roots of a great, all-consuming rot. And, try as he might to escape it day in and day out of coffee-stained papers and statistics charts, he was not immune to propaganda. Umbrella's was a bitter poison, but Birkin had grown complacent to the downward spiral.

Who was he without his stressors? All he needed was a little push. All he needs is more coffee and more time. All he needs is more funds and more people and more coffee and more time. All that William Birkin needs is his briefcase and more funds and more coffee and more time.

A certain barrenness infected Birkin's candor as the hands of time grew weary of his burden.

He’d been working so fast and so angrily, prodded on by this need, until he’d let it catch up with him, this aching, creeping absolute. His colleagues in this had long abandoned him – seeing no more use in the particular, aggressive strain of T he'd been madly tinkering with – and, left with the blaring signal of his own hubris gone stale, he’d taken his anger out on the periphery of it: a test subject who had no brain activity suggesting consciousness, taken fresh off of life support.

“Live, damn you!” But they didn’t. “I need you… I need this!” His hands constricted them – no, it. It did not cry out as no breath snaked from its' lungs. But it made ATP! It produced mucus and saliva! Death would be a pity undeserved. It slipped away like water through his hands and he made that more tangible, fingers squeezing a lifeless neck until he looked at the blossoming red of them, ran them through the unwashed slick of his hair. The corners of his eyes pricked with tears, something deeply and wholly forbidden, and Birkin found that he was glad he was alone where he could let them fall.

“Fuck! Fucking god damnit fuck – all for fucking nothing. Nothing!” He laughed – and cried, face in his filthy, bloodied hands, falling to the floor as he wept, shoulders taut and shaking with the black hole of his need for support and direction. Who could ever see him for the visionary he was if he couldn’t even keep a subject alive? It felt like they always died if they were wholly his.

And if they didn’t die physically, they died mentally. Braindead, most of the stragglers. Only those whose brain stems scrounged for parts did so much as reach out and try to find something to sate their endless appetite.

It was not good enough – he was not good enough.

He doesn’t register when Wesker walks in. The signature clack of boots on white, pristine ICU tile doesn’t even register until he feels the gentle, blue-gloved hand at his shoulder, the scent of ozone invading the dark cloud of iron.

“You’re covered in blood.” An assessment.

“Yes,” he replies, as blankly as it lands. He can tell, now, practice making perfect, that Wesker is examining the situation without asking for painful context – because Birkin can see him, now, and his head raises a little as his vision sweeps. There are telltale crescent indents around the subject’s neck. The IV has been ripped out of the subject.

“You killed it.” The dehumanization is easy for Wesker – he doesn’t see the late subject as a human being. He doesn’t sound judgmental. Birkin is as relieved as he is furious that he doesn't sound much of anything, aggression redirecting.

“Don’t say it that way,” Birkin hisses, but Wesker has already come to know there’s no bite, and he lowers his towering body into a crouch, shoulders manually relaxing out of the tense state they’d been in before. His grip at Birkin’s shoulder is easy. He can see the way Birkin’s eyes are red-rimmed, but he doesn’t bark at him or punish him, no, not like Marcus.

Birkin expects a lashing or ten, and he receives none. He is an anticipatory porcupine, quills directed and ready to spear, but Wesker is like a thick, warm blanket over the eyes. He hears the other man let out a decisive, thoughtful ‘hm’ that betrays the lack-of in his voice before he feels it: a gentle shoulder two-pat, the request for him to stand.

It breaks him out of whatever road hypnosis he fell into like a sleeper agent, and he rises as quickly as his lab partner does. He has gone through similar before, though never with so much squelching, oozing red. It makes him sick, suddenly, and he makes a choked sort of noise.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Wesker says, grabbing the other scientist's unmarred coat cuff, leading him over to the lab unit's steel sink. Birkin can’t see the way his eyes flicker with the unmistakable recognition of where Birkin’s behavior, unhinged, ultimately leads.

There is a direction this madness follows - it is a dead end, a tornado's path of destruction until it tires of itself and disappears completely, swallowed into mother earth. The damage lingers for decades.

A stray animal, beaten until it has wept with the why, chained and made to act, then put down when it bites because it knows only infliction.

Though Birkin has yet to be put down, there is always the undercurrent of danger that Wesker and him both sense, and Wesker seems to be the only one who steps in to sort out the strands of genius among the discordance that twines evenly down the middle.

These days, discordance wins. It is a lonely victory that self-reports to Spencer - everyone else is always watching. Birkin is a high intellect, and for this there is a target on his back like a hunter tracks prized game.

Wesker turns the faucet on to warm with his free hand and stands there – dead body in the background of seemingly little consequence to him – waiting for it to heat up. His other hand slides from the cuff to inspect the man’s hair, and he lets out a clipped, stressed sigh that bleeds into the open air like a wound.

“Your hair is pink.” It isn't hair dye.

Birkin wants to shrink back with the mounting shame of his own loss of control, but he has nowhere to hide, so he just rolls with a whimper.

Something shifts in Wesker, because he drags his hand through Birkin’s cleaner hair as if to placate and lets it fall to his shoulder, keeping the disgraced scientist close with the strength of his grip as if he means to bolt. “It- it’ll wash out,” he says, voice cracking.

It is a deeply uncharacteristic sound. The tiny crack in his voice, a single stutter, gives way to more than Birkin could hope to read with his eyes. They’ve spent more than enough time together for him to learn Wesker’s minute tells.

“Are you afraid of me?” Birkin chirps, voice a grated warble. He feels like Marcus. The mere thought sends an unwanted shiver cascading down his spine, and he twitches in Wesker’s grasp as it leaves him like a changed man.

“No,” is the instantaneous reply, steadfast and strong as if accused of a crime Wesker did not commit, “it’s just… this isn’t like you.” The unspoken that’s all hangs between them. Wesker wants to say ‘What the fuck came over you?’ and shake him, but he restrains himself. This goes beyond both of them, and he knows it – this is the result of stressors they both know intend to break them into their lesser components, and Birkin’s psyche is fracturing at the edges.

But he doesn't want to lose the only person who knows what he knows. A match with the same end goal - though perhaps they'd both reach the end of their flame before they did, he surmised weakly. It seemed almost as if Spencer paradoxically intended it. He was afraid to admit he didn't understand the man, and that maybe he didn't want to, because to admit this to one's self was to question one's very foundations. Umbrella's foundations. Wesker's purpose.

What came over Birkin could very well descend like a cloud over Wesker at any moment were it not for the alter ego he’d grown an unhealthy fascination with. The only thing holding Wesker afloat was the scant moments alone he got with Birkin when normalcy or more bumped into them both, or when he'd stay late at his office and hear the plucking, self-taught strings of Chris' guitar, infusing him with something like life.

Wesker’s mind had been unthreading, too, for a longer while than he'd care to pour over lest he poured himself out, though he fears he'll never voice it aloud or let it show past his nose. Ever since he, like a bloodhound, caught a whiff of what he believed was Spencer’s intentions with the Arklays, he’d been… he’d felt. He’d felt strongly. But he couldn’t say it – to say it is to open more wounds on someone so thoroughly covered that it would surely skin what remained alive.

Instead, he loosens his grip – and Birkin swears there is a hesitation – letting his hands slide down to both of Birkin’s, splaying them gently and coating his own in frothy, shared sanguine as he brings them to the warm water like a ritual.

It is, to him.

Birkin feels his own shoulders relax at his lab partner’s nonchalance, sighing meekly and letting the paranoia roll off and down him in waves with the water and the feeling of the other man’s nitrile digging into him, bodies huddled close as Wesker runs his thumb through each finger's gap, destroying the evidence of his upset with each practiced swipe.

Leave nothing behind. He'd seen it on a sign, once, when Annette showed him pictures from when she'd gone camping before this mess began unfolding. Time's inexorable march forward spared no seconds.

Next, wordlessly and in no need of it, Wesker's hands find the man's scalp, easing his fingers through and leaning him delicately forward as he cascades a rivulet of warm water over his head. This is a cleansing, and Birkin leans into the touch gratefully. They will burn the body together, he is certain.

A burden shared is a burden halved.

His paranoias drift down the sink as he stares at the suction generated by the drain and every tiny grill-patterned abyss stares back at him.

Wesker doesn’t hate him. Wesker isn’t afraid of him. Marcus isn’t coming. He’s not Marcus.

He just… he just got carried away.

Right?

[whenlostinthedarkness]

Afterglow: Chapter 4 - After

Lead Singer!Reader x Lead Guitarist!Ellie Williams

Summary: Confronted with the realization of what you and Ellie have done brings on conversations, unexpected outcomes, and flashbacks from the past.

Warnings: Angst, Infidelity, and super SUPER small amount of sexual content.

WC: 3.9k

A/N: This chapter goes hand in hand with the song 'After' my MUNA. Listen Here. ALSO, I made a playlist for this series that I will be linking below.

✮ Ways that you can help Palestine

✮ taglist: @diddiqueen

✮ Series Masterlist

✮ Playlist

Ellie POV

I could feel my bones shaking underneath my skin like a bird with a broken wing left to fend for itself in the dead of winter. 

The door was mere moments away, yet every move was agonizing as I relished in the feeling of my own stupidity and carelessness.

I always thought I was a selfish person. If things weren’t to my liking, I wasn’t afraid to change it regardless if that meant someone else was dealt a losing hand. I would often boil this down to me simply knowing what I wanted and not being afraid to set boundaries, which, I suppose in a way that’s what I was doing, but that didn’t dismiss the level of egotistical thinking that also came along with it. 

It’s funny. My selfishness got the better of me years ago when I broke the heart of the girl I was now ushering into the hotel suite where our infidelity took place. That very same selfishness was what drew me back to being entangled with her body last night with very little thought to who I was hurting in those moments..all I cared about was what I wanted.

As I closed the heavy door that spoke a moderate screech as it latched to the door frame, she began to sob. I didn’t know what to do.

I rarely cried because I didn’t know how to deal with my own emotions, and here, in front of me, was someone who I fucked everything up with- who was crying because of something that I initiated and something that I promised was going to be okay. I knew they were empty words, yet I wanted it so badly. I wanted her so badly.

I wanted all of it, I wanted the sex, the lack of clothing, the closeness..but specifically, I wanted it to all be with her. 

She was like an addiction that I couldn’t control when it was within reach which is why the distance we both silently agreed upon was working so well, until it wasn’t. Until it was dangled above my head within reach and I had no other choice than to grab it and devour every inch of her.

My mind exited it’s blur as I came into focus of her and the surroundings. On the very bed where I fucked this person, she was now sat down & desperately pulling manual breath after breath through her pursed lips as she tried to calm the tears that were running out of control.

All I could think to do was stand over her with a palm laid flat on her shoulder. It was the only comfort my mind could muster up enough courage to allow my body to display with another person.

Her hand was dampened slightly from her tears, yet I didn’t mind the way she grasped onto my arm that was connecting the both of us together.

“Please Ellie”, She choked out between sniffles and the clearing of mucus out of her throat. What was she pleading for?

“Please what?”

“Please just make it stop.”

The realization was now pelting me as the guilt and the emotions and the shame were building and building and building until I too felt a single drop of water trickle out from my eyelids. Of course, I was quick to wipe it away.

“I want to- I really wish I could.”

That didn’t seem satisfying to her, and hell, I would’ve rolled my eyes as well if someone who was a large factor in a mess like this was saying the obvious.

Still, her grip on my arm got more severe as her tears started coming back down with force and speed. My inability to handle emotions didn’t make me a monster, I promise. I knew when I needed to set my own discomfort down, even if I only did it for a select few.

She was my select few.

It was like a switch flipped as I sat down next to her with each arm wrapped around her sobbing body as she let her emotions drip down the front of my shirt. 

We rocked back and forth as I gave her the time to let out what she was forced to hold in all throughout the morning.

Envy was a word to describe how I felt as my eyes watched her empty out all of her harbored feelings, yet a single tear from my own eye made me feel like a fucking coward. I was pathetic.

“It’s okay,” I cooed against the side of her head as my hand came to cradle the side of her face against my chest- Something that made me feel safe and I hoped it did the same for her as well.

After several minutes, her eyes became dry and her sobs turned into sniffles.

I allowed my hand to relax against the top of my thigh as she blew her nose into a tissue that was in a box nearby. Her cheeks were as red as a mistletoe - I wanted to kiss it and make it all better.

But that’s foolish, right?

That’s incredibly stupid to think about engaging in that sort of intimacy with the very person who I caused fresh harm to and yet…the selfishness ensued. 

“Thank you”, she spoke with puffy eyes that avoided mine as she clasped her hands in the center of her lap.

I nodded in what felt like slow motion as I observed her like some sort of experiment that was teetering on the edge of explosion. Why didn’t I feel like she did? Why wasn’t I the one sobbing? I’m the one who's hurt not one, but two people who are very close to my heart and yet I couldn't feel what a person who did what I did should be feeling. 

All I could feel was remorse due to the pain I was causing to the beautiful daisy in front of me - I was plucking away the petals that she’d clearly worked hard to grow during our time broken up. 

“Sorry I uh..I lost it i guess.” She ended her sentence with a laugh that was so masked, even a stranger would’ve known she was lying through the pain.

“You’re fine. It’s uh-understandable.”

She nodded reassuringly as she slowly moved her body a centimeter away from mine. She didn’t think I'd notice, but she was all that was on my mind. 

She was pulling away from me physically and mentally.

“Sorry for how I was acting earlier-” She interrupted with a slow hand being waved, which made me pause my words.

“You have every right to act that way Ellie. What we did was..” she trailed off, obviously not wanting to say the sin out loud and I couldn’t blame her for it.

However, one thing I wasn’t going to allow her to do was take the blame.

“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have come on to you like that and put you in that sort of position.”

She shook her head fervently, “I wanted it to. I wanted it just as much as you did…I could’ve pulled back at any time, but I chose not to. This is something we both did Ellie.”

Now it was time for me to shake my head as both of my hands instinctively went to clutch around her still folded ones. “No..no. I won’t let you take the blame for this! I was stupi-”

“We were both stupid El!” Her voice rang out in contrast to how small and weak she looked.

I found myself chewing on my lip as I tried to think of what to say next. What could I possibly say that could make this thing magically disappear or feel like nothing…even though it meant everything.

“How about we just forget about it, alright?”

This clearly wasn't the solution she was looking for.

“Forget about it huh? Just like that?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” I grimaced as I shook my head. A surge of energy brought me up to my feet as I began to aimlessly pace the floor in an attempt to release everything that I was feeling inside. Except none of it worked. None of the pacing or chewing or mental swearing at myself was working and I began to convince myself that this was going to be my new normal.

“Do you think we should tell..”her voice trailed off as our eyes met. I could see the answer all over her face.

“Kat? You think we should tell Kat?!”

She joined me as she rose to her feet while her body visibly shook. “I don’t know! I don’t know what else to do and she deserves to know!”

Our bodies were parallel as we stood in front of the other.

I knew she was right, yet I didn’t want to say a word to Kat. I didn’t even want to think about her. “That’s my decision if I want to tell her or not.”

She groaned as her hands met her hips that were hugged nicely with a medium wash denim. My eyes couldn’t help but travel and remember the lust that my eyes got to take in last night.

“You’re kidding me right?”

I shrugged my heavy shoulders as my hands rubbed themselves together. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Ouch. The word made her flinch as if she had forgotten or was convincing herself of my life being different than it actually was.

I could tell she was furious as she tried to gather the words she wanted to say. “How could you not say anything to her about this?”

The way her mouth enunciated every harsh word- The way her chest moved as her hands spoke alongside her words- I found myself enamored again, just as I had felt last night.

“Because..” I felt the urge getting the best of me and I didn't want to give in. Instead, I allowed my body to move closer to hers; too close for the occasion between two people who’d engaged in immoral things the night before.

This made her eyes move up to mine as she held our gaze with a slightly gaping mouth. Her lips were taunting me.

I continued moving forward until we were almost touching which made her begin to move backwards until eventually her back was against the wall and my palm was moving past her shoulders to rest against the same wall.

Surely she could feel the warmth of my breath and the smell of the green tea coming off of my tongue. That’s how close we were as we watched the other in silence.

I could tell that she wanted to give in just as much as I did; The real question was who would have the guts to do it first?

She gave me a shock as she quickly moved towards me so our lips ran into each other. Without skipping a beat, I latched onto her mouth as her hand grabbed onto my bicep and mine on her waist.

This kiss was strong, yet so slow. Too slow for someone to consider it to be simple quick lust. 

However, I had already convinced myself that I just wanted a good fuck with someone who was familiar and close and she happened to be closer than ever and so fucking familiar. No matter how much I wanted to deny it, I could tell that there was something else there-some other feeling.

Our kisses turned hot as her mouth followed along with me. My tongue was buried deep down her throat as she shamelessly allowed herself to break the barrier of the hem of my shirt and rest her hand on my bare stomach.

Everything felt familiar and close, just like I had wanted, yet there was something missing and I wasn’t sure what. I figured continuing to practically fuck with our clothes on would suffice for now.

My hands were wandering every inch of the clothes that were set on her body as I pulled the fabric around her waist closer...until there was a knock on the door.

Our lips broke apart with loud breathing and all I could bother to care about was the way her lips were turned up in a smile I would allow to shoot me in the head had it held me at gunpoint. 

I smirked at her while my hands went to smooth down my hair and adjust my clothing that her hands had bunched up before opening the door to find the same person I had seen this morning at this very door.

“Sup D?”

Dina's eyes looked worried and they should’ve been.

“Me and Jesse are about to head out and I wanted to check if you guys wanted to go with us.” She spoke slowly as her eyes searched behind me while she, what I assumed, was trying to decipher what was happening.

“Yeah, yeah sure. I think I'm basically packed.” I spoke so casually, yet instantly my mind began figuring out how I could pack up my belongings that I hadn’t touched as quickly as possible.

“Okay”, Dina nodded, now searching my face for any evidence, but i’d never let her see through me that easily.

We both stood there with my hand silently still holding the door open and Dina continuing to look around the room. That is, until the girl behind me gave Dina the clarification that would put her mind at ease. 

I turned around to find her with a hand on the handle of her suitcase as she wore a warm smile. “I can head down now with you guys. Ellie, can meet us.”

My mouth parted as I nodded and licked my lips. “Sounds good.”

“Great!” she said with a voice so damn cheery, it was whiplash from how she had been an hour or so ago at breakfast when we were both acting as if the other didn’t exist and that what we did didn’t exist as well. 

Dina eyed her suspiciously, then glanced back at me as I moved myself to the side to allow her to exit down the hallway with our fellow bandmate.

“Don’t take forever El,” she said with a smirk that felt like an inside joke that was only between me and her. In some way, it was. 

I shook my head and flashed her a smile as I watched the way her ass moved with every step she made. No doubt she was teasing me by the over-exaggerated movements and I was buying into everything she was selling.

After the both of them disappeared down the hall I let the door shut behind me as I took in the silence for the very first time.

I should’ve felt guilty. I shouldn’t feel like a school girl with a little crush that no one knew about besides me and her, but I did.

I didn’t care that I was cheating on my girlfriend and entwining her in this mess and I certainly didn’t entertain the thought of this ending any time soon. Not as long as she was a willing participant.

. . . . . . . . .

The ride to the record store was nothing short of normal. You and Dina sat in the middle two seats & Ellie and Jesse took the very back ones just as usual.

The conversation between Jesse and Ellie was flowing as the noise of whatever video they were amused by played gently in the background. It was as if everything was right and neither of you had done anything wrong.

Usually car rides were your time to chat with Dina, except this time she was silent with her head resting against the frosted glass and her eyes gently closed. It felt odd.

The wave of paranoia was inevitable, but you tried to assure yourself that it was nothing to worry about. Maybe she was something as simple as tired or not wanting to do this signing. That’s what you told yourself in order for your face not to feel warm and your stomach not to feel a drop of dread.

“Are you ready for this?” You said in an attempt to clear the air and your anxieties, which seemed to work in some way.

Dina opened her eyes, “I guess? Not sure what to really expect honestly.”

“I assume it’ll be chill.”

Dina nodded, her hair getting smothered against the window that still held the weight of her dark hair that was laying in its naturally wavy state.

“We’ll see..do you think they’ll let us shop?”

You giggled, “Maybe if we beg.”

There was that smile that you were needing. That expression that Dina normally wore when something was humorous was much more to your liking than that indecipherable other one that was leaving you a mess.

The conversation between you and Dina began to go on as it normally would. The both of you discussing the latest albums you would want to pick up if you did in fact get some time to browse the store you would be signing at along with other current event topics. 

It felt normal. It felt like you could breathe.

Eventually the SUV came to a halt and you and the rest of your bandmates were piling out of the car and onto the sidewalk that was directly in front of the record store.

A long line greeted you with squeals and smiles as the people in single file wrapped around the brick building. Wide eyes looked at you and the rest of the band with an awe that you never got tired of seeing.

With a small welcoming wave, the band started walking their way to the front door which seemed to intensify the reactions of the crowd.

One person held their phone out to try to get a photo with any of the beloved members, another shouted out Ellie's name and how much they loved her..along with some other obscenities that you would be lying if you said you didn’t feel a tinge of jealousy from.

The group finally made it through the threshold of the front door that was unlocked by an employee that was waiting inside the empty record store.

The space was massive, something resemblant of an old warehouse, which it very well could’ve been considering the square footage and the large ceilings.

You looked around the rows and rows of thin cardboard that was contained in a shelf customized to hold the size of the covered records. The smell was comparable to a bookstore; you only wished you could bottle up the scent and turn it into an immortal candle.

Once the initial fixation of the place wore off, your eyes moved to Ellie. She was standing next to you with the biggest, brightest eyes and the most gleeful smile as she took in the space. It was like a kid in a giant toy store.

. . . . 

4 years ago

“God damn it Ellie”, you let out a deep breath as you set the heavy duty box on the ground a little too harshly for Ellie’s liking.

“Careful,” Ellie winced as she walked over to the box and set her hand on top of it as if she were giving it comfort.

You almost busted out laughing, but decided to hold it in as best as you could. However, Ellie instinctively knew you were masking the urge to chuckle at the amount of love she had for her vinyl records. You were always one to playfully taunt and she loved that about you.

With soft eyes, Ellie looked up to find your massive grin, one that she knew too well.

Her arms went around your waist as she lifted you a couple inches off of the ground and spun you 180 degrees. Both of your eyes held one another as the love you felt for this girl was throbbing red and raw and all the insanely wonderful feelings that came with being young and in love for the very first time. 

“Be nice.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

Ellie rolled her eyes, but still kept a friendly disposition. “I know you’re thinking about it.”

You shrugged your shoulders as your hip bumped the side of Ellie’s body. “You’re just cute is all.”

Ellie gazed at you with the same raw love as her arm wrapped around your body from the side as the both of you stood in silence.

The two of you stood in a bare apartment with nothing but a welcome mat set at the main door. People said that you both were moving too fast, that being together for a year was too short of a time to move in with each other, yet you both decided against everyone's opinions and scrutiny. Because you were in love for the very first time and being in love feels like the sting of a tattoo gun. You anticipate the needle punching ink into your skin, yet when you sit in the chair and the needle is buzzing in your ear you feel a sort of hesitation and fear, but at the end of it all you see the art decorating your skin and somehow the pain of it all was worth it. 

That’s how your love with Ellie felt. Regardless of the arguments and petty mumblings of words that both of you would regret, it was always worth it. 

“How about we christen this place.”

Ellie made her way over to sit in front of her beloved record player that sat in the corner on the wooden floor. She began thumbing through the box of her records, but she couldn’t quite find a record that would be fitting to this occasion-that’s when she got a better idea.

“Hey,” Ellie looked at you over her shoulder, “Come pick one.”

You smiled and set the plate back into the box you had began emptying as you exchanged unpacking for entertaining your girlfriend's little ritual.

“What genre are you thinking?”

“Whatever you feel drawn to. I want you to pick babe,” Ellie said as she plugged the turntable into the nearest outlet, meanwhile you couldn’t help but feel honored, not just to pick a record when you knew Ellie had stern music taste, but also because you were getting the opportunity to live with someone you wanted to spend your life with. 

“How about this one?” You pulled the record, that had become a favorite of yours, out of the box and held it up in front of your chest.

Ellie’s mouth turned up into a bright closed lip smile as she nodded. “It’s perfect.”

Soon the music began to flow through yours and Ellie’s new home as you both busied yourself with unpacking various belongings, not that either of you had very much to begin with. 

It felt like a home and that’s what mattered. It’s a shame neither of you knew what would become of your relationship in such a short time.

[holybibly]

Mistress, I was wondering if you can do a full length imagine of the experienced Omega Hwa & the innocent newcomer Omega reader next door. I need the details! ALL THE DETAILS! lol.

If you’re wondering which one is - The gorgeous and experienced Omega Hwa seduces the innocent and tender newcomer Omega next door with that stunning photo shoot of Seonghwa when he lifts up his shirt with the light cascading.

And is your requests still open? - 🧜🏽‍♀️

Oh baby, this will definitely be a full story in the future, but for now here is unholy hour. My requests are also open ✨

Your relationship with the gorgeous, experienced Omega Seonghwa grows deeper and darker, and you lose more and more of your innocent, tender side under the caresses of his skilled tongue and talented hands. Or Seonghwa may take you away for the weekend to a remote country house to corrupt you even more.

When Seonghwa told you that he had a special gift for you, you would never have guessed that it would be an amazing weekend at his secluded country house, where there is no one else around for miles and miles and where you can fuck and caress each other shamelessly, completely lost in intense, hot sensations.

You knew what to expect from this trip as soon as you got into his car. Seonghwa's long fingers right away slipped into your panties to lazily caress the soft, thin edges of your dripping hole. He did this all the way to the small, cosy cottage that completely reflected his's taste. The feeling of pleasure was so vivid and sharp that you almost begged him to stop the car and let you suck his pretty, thick cock while Hwa fingering you. You knew that Seonghwa was just as horny as you were, his hard-on was pulling the fabric of his trousers over his crotch, and you were sure that his hole was wet as well. It didn't help that you were both pre-heated and that you could almost taste the sweet, thick taste of the older Omega's slime on the tip of your tongue.

The other surprise he had for you was a shiny, new-fangled sex machine and a whole collection of all kinds of toys for the most dizzying kind of sex. Dildos, vibrators, plugs, clamps, magic wands and hundreds of the most depraved and slutty costumes he had prepared especially for you. You were especially thrilled by the anal plug with a charming fluffy cat tail on the end and a pink dildo with an imitation knot and a container for synthetic sperm.

Hwa has prepared for you a cosy, fluffy nest of blankets and pillows next to a large, roaring fireplace for the two of you to enjoy while you watch the film and eat the sweets. You're snuggled up against him, wearing only his soft, fluffy cardigan, and it would be a soft, cosy evening if your legs weren't spread wide for his pleasure, your plump, cum-filled cunt fully exposed as the veiny, pink dildo fucks you at a slow, almost lazy pace.

Every now and then, Seonghwa would take your slick on his long, graceful fingers to coat your nipples with sticky glaze and feed you some or lick it off his fingers and palm. You would suck lazily on each other's tongues and Hwa would spit into your mouth, watching you swallow the mixture of your slick and his saliva, then you stick out your tongue for him to do it again. It was almost impossible, but your body had begun to produce milk as you saw Seonghwa as a potential mate and breeding partner, even though he was an Omega.

Your tits are so heavy and swollen for him, full of milk, and you pull Seonghwa's head down to your chest so he can milk you with his sensual, soft mouth. His tongue tickles and teases your sensitive nipple as he drinks you down. Your excitement is so intense that your hips shake slightly and your mucus leaks out of you in a thick stream, causing the dildo to slip out of you. When the toy is completely out of your hole with a loud squelching sound, Seonghwa releases your nipple from his mouth and leans down to take the dildo covered in your juices into his mouth.

And this is exactly how Hwa taught you to blow him, demonstrating how to take his cock in your throat, rubbing it with your tongue and massaging it with your lips. The sight of his overly plump, sensual lips stretching around the sloppy, sticky dildo made you moan loudly and you pushed your fingers inside yourself, enjoying the sight of your lover sucking the fake cock sweetly. You always loved Seonghwa's lips, especially when they wrapped around your clit and pulled gently, making you squeal and wriggle as you squirted all over his face. You wished you had lips as skilled and fuckable as his's so that you could bring him to an orgasm just as quickly.

Since you were both Omegas, it was only natural that Seonghwa would get wet for you. In fact, it was pure luck for you - he had such a cute big cock and a delicious slick, plus his mouth and tongue did unimaginable things to you.

You loved it when he fucked you deep with his tongue, Seonghwa was always insatiable and took every opportunity to plug your hole with his tongue. Once you even fell asleep in his nest while he warmed your pussy with his mouth. It was an indescribable feeling - his mouth was warm and wet and sometimes he would kitten lick you, lazily suck on your clit or run his tongue over it, maybe just hold it between his soft, plump lips and smack his lips a little. Seonghwa also loved to rub his stunningly handsome face against your pussy, and you loved to rub your face against his thick, veiny cock, slapping it against your cheeks and tongue, rubbing the thick head against your soft skin until it was sticky with his precum, or until Hwa came all over your cheek, covering it with thick, milky cum.

You also loved sucking on his balls, so soft and full of his sweet cum, holding them in your mouth while Hwa writhed and moaned above you from the intense stimulation. As an Omega, Seonghwa was very sensitive, so he leaked for you from both ends, feeding you generously with his slick and cum. He also loved fucking your tits. You could kneel in front of him or he could straddle your waist while his cock slid between your thick, milky tits. It was one of his favourite positions. He would rock his hips lustfully, dripping his slime all over you, arching his back and rolling his eyes.

Seonghwa was a loud, sensual lover who loved dirty, wet and generally disgusting sex, and the fact that you were the complete opposite of him only made him hornier. By this time he had so washed your sweet, innocent brain that you firmly believed that no Alpha could fuck and eat you the way he did.

But not only was Seonghwa weak to your taste and body, your own desire for him was beyond comprehension, almost on the edge of instinct. So you were not at all surprised when an obsessive temptation to try him arose in you.

Later that night, you woke up to the rich, thick smell of strawberries and cream coming from Seonghwa, and you just couldn't help yourself. Something dark and evil had awoken inside you and before you knew it, you were between his slutty thighs.

Seonghwa awoke from his sleep, hot and sweaty, a sharp excitement running under his skin like lava. His hole pulsed with stimulation and he arched off the bed, lifting his hips and unconsciously pressing them harder against the source of his pleasure. And then he saw you, his sweet little omega, swirling your tongue around his hole, licking him thoroughly. He could have come just from looking at you, but then his eyes fell on the mirror opposite the bed and he saw you finger fucking yourself, your small, tight entrance already so red and wet and trembling, which meant you'd been doing it for a long time. And the sight makes Hwa cum right there, filling your mouth with viscous, sugary-sweet mucus and spilling his sperm all over his tight, flat stomach and chest. His hands are shaking as he tangles his fingers in your hair and gently pulls your head away from his ass. You look fucked, your mouth wet and shiny, your eyes so glassy.

He pulls you up to his face and you crawl up his body until your lips meet in a lazy, dirty kiss.

"I couldn't resist…" You almost apologise, whispering shyly against his lips.

"It's OK, angel, you did so well. Mommy is proud of you, it just proves how much you love me. Now let me kiss your pussy, yeah? I'm sure you need it. Or do you want me to warm it up with my cock? With my fingers or with my tongue as you wish, angel? Shall we try that new toy or shall I spank you until you come? Come on, angel, tell me how I can thank you for eating me out so well."

You moan, already imagining everything Hwa is telling you so brightly, and it's making your pussy ooze slime and you pressing it against his abs.

"I want it all, mommy."

Seonghwa just smiled lazily and wickedly at you, kissed you again and guided the movements of your hips with his hands.

This is definitely going to be a long and unforgettable weekend.

[azsazz]

Dead by Dawn (Part 19)

Azriel x Cassian x Reader

Summary: Zombie!AU: It’s been a while since the end of the world.

Warnings: Blood, gore, injury, graphic depictions of violence, poly!relationship, slow burn, undead, death, sex, anal, double penetration, fingering.

Word Count: 4689

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Part 11) (Part 12) (Part 13) (Part 14) (Part 15) (Part 16) (Part 17) (Part 18)

_________________________________________

Day 195 Part 5

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“What did you just say?” Nesta’s tone is flat, as if all of the emotion that was previously pouring from her soul miraculously disappeared as her walls slammed back up. It’s eerie, how she does that. She sounds like death incarnate, and not the undead zombie kind. Her face is stony, silver glare sharp as a blade, and the way she won’t stop staring at you makes your throat seize.

Maybe you shouldn’t have blurted the conclusion you’d come to upon examining Elain’s wounds. She’s surprisingly coherent for someone bitten by a zombie four weeks ago, and with the symptoms you noticed, her mucus changing from black in color to clear, her fever on the verge of breaking, coherent enough to form full sentences, she seems as well on the mend as she would be with any other sickness.

But how could this disease possibly work that way? Yeah, it seems too fucking simple, really, like an age-old gotchya! movie moment that’s going to kick you all in the ass later on. How could any of these creatives possibly have nailed such an ending like this? A cure for the zombie apocalypse? In the blood of a singular family? Well, as far as you can tell, anyway. Been there, done that, seen that in the cinemas three times over, but you ate it up every single time.

Now that you’re living it, you can confirm that everything about the apocalypse is not that exciting and not that cinematic.

The only sound in the room is Feyre’s soft whimpers of pain. She’s out cold, succumbed to the virus threatening to take control of her body, but she’s breathing, even if it sounds like she swallowed a harmonica. Her restless unconsciousness, at least, draws Rhys’ attention from where he’s still being stiff-armed by Cassian. You’re not angry with the way he reacted to your help…or lack thereof. You’re just as worried about Feyre as he is, as anyone in this house is, and you glance at your best friend as if you can will it into her to survive by looks alone.

It's hard to see her like this, but you hold firm to the notion that the Archeron family can defeat the odds stacked against humanity, and that she’ll pull through.

You give yourself a nod of reassurance and straighten your spine as you shift your gaze from Feyre to her oldest sister. Those piercing gray eyes are soul-sucking in their own way, but you know that Nesta is a terrified girl somewhere beneath all of that iron and nails. Not only has she almost lost one sister to a zombie bite, but now two? You can’t imagine how she’s feeling in a time like this, and you feel helpless that there isn’t anything more you can do.

“Your blood,” you answer, and are shocked by how strong your voice sounds. Even Rhys looks up from tenderly attending Feyre when you speak, stroking her damp hair from her forehead. You shake your head, continuing. “Look, I couldn’t even begin to explain the science behind my thoughts, but from what I’ve seen of Elain’s wound, it’s that the virus is no longer eating away at her. It’s like when her body finally began combatting against the bite, it just…” You trail off, chewing on your lip as you think. You begin pacing, sorting through your racing thoughts. You hardly notice Eris gently steer Nesta away from you and toward a chair, helping her lower into it. Her spine stays rigid, there is no admitting defeat in front of strangers.

“Froze,” she supplies, and a knowing look washes over her face. She’s still glaring at you with those sharp, silver eyes, but at least she isn’t looking at you like she’s actually going to slit your throat for your crazy theories.

“Right,” you agree. Feyre makes another weak noise of protest, like she’s reliving the nightmare of when she was bitten. How scared she must have been, out there alone with Rhys, searching for you, Azriel, and Cassian and a place to call your own. You should’ve never split up.

You tear your gaze from your friend, sliding it down to the arm you wrapped in gauze. You’re terrified to look, to see if the black of the virus in her veins is actively eating at her. The onyx blood polluting her veins travels from the site of the bite, winding all the way down to the tips of her fingers, the black leeching into an intricate spiderweb pattern of her veins. Slowly, carefully, you ease the sleeve of her shirt back above the wound and peek under. The release of breath you let out makes you realize how truly exhausted you are. The wound hasn’t crept any higher yet, hasn’t continued making its way toward her heart, so you take it as a good sign, for now. You’ll have someone monitor her throughout the night.

 “Whatever is in their blood is fighting back against the infection,” you explain. “I don’t know how, or if there’s anyone else out there who’s blood can do the same,”—that is a conversation for later, you note, noticing the weary glance shared between Nesta and Eris. You redirect the end of your sentence to Rhysand, who murmurs something softly in Feyre’s ear, his attention completely focused on what you’re saying. “But all we can do now is wait.”

You lean into Azriel’s side when he sidles up beside you, reading your wearied fatigue on your face. His body is solid and warm and you want to both nuzzle closer and step back, all too aware of how you might smell, the things you’ve touched today. It’s the first time you’ve felt this dirty in a long while. You’ve gotten used to the second, and third, and fourth layers of skin in the form of muck and grime. You ache to get clean.

Azriel doesn’t let you get far, sliding a hand around your waist and pulling you into his broad chest. You hope that the few layers of filth can cover the blush creeping up your neck. This still feels so new with him, the silent, stoic man who you’d figured wouldn’t dare show his rivals his weakness like this. Something must have happened while he and Cassian joined Nesta and Eris in finding your friends if he’s allowing them to see the intimacy between you two.

Public displays of affection are definitely more Cassian’s thing. Case-in-point, he’s grinning like his smile is going to split his face in two, hazel eyes sparking at the picture you and Azriel paint. It’s one that makes his cock twitch, the urge to drag the both of you somewhere private is strong.

He bounds over with a swagger that looks more like he should be striding shirtless down the beach instead of across a fancily decorated zombie shelter in the form of a man’s home that tried to kill you. You can’t take your eyes off of him, how his muscles jump with each long stride, right until he smothers the both of you in a warm embrace in which you easily accept.

“And what of Elain’s progress?” Nesta clears her throat. You open your eyes and catch Eris giving her a nudging reprimand that she ignores. That’s fine, because you don’t feel bad about being with your boyfriends, either. “She’s been like this for weeks. Borderline delusional, spouting lines like she’s a psychic. She may have been able to fight off the virus, but at what cost? Will we ever see our Elain again?”

It's the first tremble of fear you hear from the unfaltering eldest Archeron. And it’s the money question, the one that you have no more of an answer to than how their blood is stopping the infection from the bite.

You shake your head softly and Nesta’s jaw clacks as her teeth snap shut. She shoves up from the chair she’s sitting at and casts a longing look to Feyre. “Well, then. You’ve upheld your part of the bargain and brought my sister back to us, so you can stay.” It looks like it just about kills her to say it, but Eris looks proud. He even offers you a genuine smile. “We’ll take shifts monitoring her health. Until it’s your turn, you can sleep in the basement.”

You hide the instinctive shudder that spindles down your spine. You and basements don’t have a great record, but Eris’ accompanying words do sweeten the deal.

“There’s a fully stocked bathroom down there, with running water. Please, utilize it to your liking.” You don’t know if this is a polite way of telling you that you stink to the high heavens, but you don’t care. They have running water.

You almost sprint down the stairs on that promise alone, but the two men holding you close don’t let up when you try to squirm away.

Cassian grins at you, amused. You try not to pout, but you can’t wait to step under that clean water. You don’t even care if it’s warm, you just want to rid yourself of too many days of filth to count.

And the idea of showering with Cassian and Azriel…your brain almost short-circuits in your head. You’ll feel much more comfortable with their mouths on your skin if you’re freshly clean, which means that there will definitely be loads of fooling around tonight, if the exhaustion doesn’t drag you down first.

“I’ll take first watch,” Rhys says, already planting himself in a chair beside Feyre’s bad arm. He takes her hand gently in his, cradling it as he watches her face contort and sweat drip down her temples. You hurt for the both of them, wishing that there was more that you could do.

Azriel’s lips catch your temple in a long peck. You meet his gaze as he pulls away, and the look on his face tells you and Cassian to go ahead, that he’s going to speak to Rhys.

You nod and allow Cassian to guide you back into the depths of the home.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“I don’t know how the fuck we’re supposed to sleep under the same roof as that,” Cassian shivers and you glare.

“Cassian,” you hiss, swatting his arm. He winces, rubbing his bicep and shooting you an apologetic look. “Her name is Elain, and she’s clearly still alive,” you bite, because he’s being unnecessarily rude. Yes, she looks like she looks like the mother of zombies, but she’s still a person, or half of one, anyway.

And Feyre’s currently in the same boat.

You wanted to wait for Azriel to shower, you really did, but the enticing call of the clear waters and the steam when Cassian switched the faucet on was like a siren call. There was no denying yourself any longer, and if Azriel finishes his conversation with Rhys within the next hour or two, you’re pretty sure he’ll be able to join you.

For now, you have Cassian. Honestly, you would have taken a small bucket of water and a rag and made do. You were not expecting a luxurious bath in the basement of this luxurious home, and not only is the shower humungous, but it has multiple showerheads.

Multiple.

You think that your bad luck might finally be turning around.

“Sorry,” he shrugs, sheepishly, and you tug him closer to you by his forearm because the suds dripping down his face almost slide into those big hazel eyes of his with the way that his head is turned down to stare at you apologetically. Quickly, you wipe away the soap. You don’t need to hear him whining if it gets in his eyes, you’d like to enjoy the rest of your shower.

You tut, reluctantly accepting his apology. It’s much easier to when his large hands slide around your waist and tug your body into his. The both of you have refrained from touching thus far, much too interested in the running water and scraping your bodies free of dirt, but now that you’re significantly less dirty, you allow yourself to roam your eyes across every inch of delectable skin he has on show. And you mean every single inch.

Your breath catches in your throat as your body slides against his, leaving no room between you. Your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck where you play with it, enjoying the feeling of his body pressed against yours.

You can feel his cock filling with need. Despite the hot water beating across your back, your nipples pebble when your chests meet in a deep inhale.

“Cassian,” you breathe, fingers tightening between the strands of his hair. His eyes grow with need, the same need that’s coiling in your gut, begging for attention, for the friction pressed against your stomach.

“Yes?” He teases, but his voice is deep with need. You trail your fingers across his shoulders, unable to keep yourself from wandering. You’d press even closer if there was room to, but there isn’t, so you continue your path down his muscular arms, back up, and then trail your touch down his chest, right between your bodies where you can grip his cock.

Cassian hisses out a sharp breath as your fingers wrap around him. It’s been days since you last fooled around, and he’s never cared about cleanliness, but the fact that he can see what you look like not covered in grime and old blood…you’re fucking breath-taking.

“Touch me,” you beg softly. “I need you to touch me.”

Cassian doesn’t hesitate. His hands wind around your thighs and then he’s hoisting you up into his arms with ease. You wince, nails clawing at his shoulders while you worry about his leg but he shakes his head. He doesn’t even give you the chance to ask because his head dips low, his mouth capturing yours in a desperate kiss.

You part your lips for him, kissing him just as hotly, moaning when his tongue traces yours. You pour everything into the kiss, the emotions wearing on you from days spent locking them up. The loss of half of your group, Feyre being bitten, finding all this. It’s overwhelming in the best way, even more so when Cassian’s fingers skim across your slit, causing you to moan loudly, arching into his chest.

“Fuck,” he curses. His chest heaves against your own as he pulls away to drink in your features as he grips your hips and pulls you even harder against him. Your eyes roll into the back of your head at the friction of his cock against your soaked slit. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

“No, you,” you protest breathlessly, unsure if you’re even making any sense. It doesn’t matter right now, anyway, not with the way you’re dragging your nails down the muscle of his back, telling Cassian that you want more.

His laugh warms your body. It settles between your thighs, the ones that he looks like he wants to settle between. The door opens, stealing both of your attention.

Azriel steps through, running a hand through his dark hair. His lips are pressed in a firm line, his eyes downturned toward the ground. Whatever happened during his conversation with Rhys weighs heavily on him, you catch the flash of sadness in his eyes when he lifts them to meet yours before they fall down you and Cassian’s bodies, drinking in the way you’re entwined with each other.

And Azriel’s gaze heats. Makes you squirm in the best fucking way because you need him just as badly. You want him pressed up against your back, kissing at your neck with his fingers trailing possessively down your body and he and Cassian fight for dominance over you. As he worms his way into your ass, Cassian at your front.

You want both of them, and you want them now.

The words are stuck in your throat, but Azriel sees them. He always does, which is why he wastes no time at all shedding his clothes before entering through the glass door of the shower when you raise your hand to him.

His hazel gaze doesn’t leave yours, not even when Cassian gets back to work, growling deeply against your neck as he ravages you. You release a mewl of pleasure, one hand clamping around the back of his neck to keep him buried against your throat.

Azriel doesn’t stop under one of the many showerheads pouring water. Doesn’t pause at the warmth that drapes itself down his body in a way you could only wish to imitate with the flat of your tongue. He wears the water as well as he wears anything, and his stride doesn’t break until he reaches you.

He caresses your face with a firm hand to your jaw, guiding you right to his lips. He’s sinful with the way that he kisses, knows exactly what to do to make you fucking melt. Even Cassian pulls away to watch the both of you devour each other, and you can feel him growl lowly in his chest, pleasure spiking the temperature of the room to boiling.

You’re so dazed after Azriel’s kiss that you barely catch his words, too busy chasing the taste of his mouth to hear. “Let me wash up first, and I’ll be right here,” he explains, his fingers trailing scalding lines down your back. The tips of his fingers trail right between the crease of your cheeks, a teasing brush over your hole. You shudder with pleasure, automatically leaning further into Azriel for more. You whine when he pulls away, but he kisses you harshly before stepping away completely. “I’m filthy, sweetheart, and you’re all pretty and clean.”

“Make a mess of me, Az,” you keen as Cassian slips a thick finger into your cunt. It slides in with little resistance and you clench around his digit. The both of them threaten to overwhelm you already, and you don’t even have one of their cocks inside of you. How will you be when both of them are sheathed inside of you? “Please.”

“Fuck,” he groans, staring at you up and down. You look like a pretty doll all perched up in Cassian’s arms, ready for the taking. Azriel forces himself a step away, but his hot gaze doesn’t slip from yours. “Let me clean up while Cassian stretches you and I’ll be right there.”

You agree with a huff that shifts into a whine as Cassian teases that finger in a circle, brushing up against your sensitive spot. You hardly get to revel in the feeling before he’s moving further back, pulling out just to press the tip into your ass.

“Relax,” he murmurs against your cheek, peppering encouraging kisses to your face as he slowly works his finger inside of your rear. It’s a foreign feeling, but it doesn’t hurt. You focus on the feeling of his lips on your skin, craning your neck to find his mouth with your own as you force your muscles to relax. “That’s my girl.”

You shudder at those words, liking them all too much.

Half of your time is spent kissing the daylights out of Cassian while the other half of the time is spent ogling Azriel. The delicious curve of his body as he washes the sins of the apocalypse from his body, all so that he can revel in the sins of yours. You can’t help but watch him, the way his muscles contract and contort with his motions. You wish you were the bar of soap he drags down his abs. You swallow harshly when that bar of soap makes it to the vee of his hips and he circles his cock, cleaning himself.

When you rip your eyes away from the display, you catch his hazel ones, glittering with amusement.

You don’t think you can wait all that much longer.

“Quit teasing her, Az,” Cassian groans when you slide yourself against his cock again. It’s a lame attempt at trying to catch his tip so you can sink yourself on him, and when it doesn’t work, you find yourself reaching a hand between your bodies. You can’t wait any longer, you need something inside of you right now or you might burst, but Cassian quickly catches your wrist in his hand, drawing you away from your trophy. “She’s ready.”

You preen at his words, turning to look at Cassian eagerly. His grin is so fucking charming that it makes your heart skip in your chest and you can’t help but lift yourself up to catch his lips against yours, thanking him for being so gentle with you.

“You want to do this in here, pretty girl?” He asks, wiping a strand of hair plastered to your cheek away. His thumb strokes softly against your face, and his eyes are filled with adoration.

“Yes,” you plead. “Yes, yes, please. I want the both of you right here,” you shake your head profusely. Emotions well your eyes. You don’t think that you’ve ever been this aroused before, and not only by one man, but with his companion that has taken you so long to win over. It’s the best thing you’ve ever done and you would do it all over again if you had to.

You turn in Cassian’s arms, reaching for Azriel as he finally nears. He’s as squeaky clean as you are, and he looks utterly fucking edible, even more so when he falls easily into your kiss and plasters himself against your back, trapping you between him and Cassian.

“Please,” you whine again when his lips move from yours in favor of tracing down your skin. His fingers are hot, impatient as they glide across your body, gripping and squeezing every inch of you. Cassian’s doing much the same, and the feeling of the both of them against you is overwhelming in the best possible way.

Azriel hushes you, nipping at your earlobe. Over your shoulder, he makes eye contact with Cassian, who nods. Oh-so slowly, does Azriel take his cock in hand and tease it through your seam, notching the head of himself right against your hole.

“Do it,” you breathe, already arching backwards into him. Azriel doesn’t waste any time, and the both of you release a long, drawn out hiss as he slowly edges his cock into your ass.

“You okay?” He mutters into your ear, though he doesn’t think he could stop himself if he fucking tried. You’re too tight around his cock, if he doesn’t squeeze his eyes shut, he’s going to cum, and he hasn’t even given one full pump inside of you yet. Hell, Cassian hasn’t even worked himself inside of you yet, either. He needs to chill the fuck out.

“More than,” you groan in pleasure. Your fingers curl into the back of his thigh where you’re holding onto him for dear life. “Cass, baby, please!”

“Alright, baby,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your mouth, distracting you as he presses slowly into your cunt. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

And they’re so big. Gods, it’s like they’re fucking ripping you in half. You’ve never felt better though, being stretched by the both of their cocks almost makes the apocalypse and everything you went through worth it.

Azriel grunts at the feeling of Cassian’s cock grinding slowly into you. He can feel it through the wall of muscle that keeps him away from Cassian, and holy fuck, it’s better than anything he’s ever done before.

When Cassian comes to an agonizing stop, his hips meeting yours, there’s a stillness in the air. The three of you take a deep breath as one, and it feels like everything that has been waiting to click into place finally does.

It feels like you can finally breathe.

The three of you are attached as one, and you know that in this moment, that there is no leaving each other again. All for one, and one for all.

You love them, and they love you, even if no one is emotionally available to admit it in this very moment.

“Move,” you grit, before you take matters into your own hands.

Neither man wastes a fucking second, and you cry out loudly as they both begin jerking their hips into yours.

“Oh, my Gods,” you moan loudly, uncaring if the sounds you’re making seep through the floorboards to the floors above. You wouldn’t care if you took the mountains down with your pleas, with the noises they’re forcing out of your body as long as they keep fucking going. “Don’t stop!”

“Never,” Cassian agrees huskily, and you can hear the promise in his voice. He readjusts his hands under your ass, keeping you upright. He revels in the way your fingers drag down his muscle, how your other hand is thrown behind your head, keeping Azriel close as you kiss hungrily. Cassian watches, enjoying the view.

When you and Azriel break apart, it’s because your head is too busy falling back against his shoulder in pleasure. Azriel’s hazel eyes meet Cassian’s heady look. The both of them are sweating, beads mixing with the water that’s still pouring from the spout above. This is unlike anything either of them has experienced before, that either of them ever thought could happen. They found you, and you’ve all accepted each other. It’s a match made in fucking hell, but there’s nothing better.

Cassian can’t take it any longer. You cry out when he shifts forward, capturing Azriel’s mouth against his own. It’s a messy kiss, one where they grapple for dominance, but it’s so fucking hot that it has the pit of your stomach coiling. Their cocks drive into you even faster as they kiss, more teeth than anything, and you trip into your orgasm, gripping onto them as they continue to plunge into you.

Both men rip apart to watch your orgasm ripple over you. You’re so fucking beautiful, and you arch, preen under their heavy, hungry gazes. Fuck, you want their eyes on you always, you’ll do anything for it.

Your body tremors with pleasure, tightening around their cocks in a way that makes them release twin groans of pleasure.

“I’m not going to last,” Cassian pants, and Azriel agrees with a choked moan. That, and the way that your eyes flutter open, your face contorting with pleasure so quickly after your first orgasm, is Cassian’s undoing. He cums with a loud groan, jerking his hips into you once, twice, thrice more before he’s emptying himself inside of you.

The feeling cascades over Azriel last, and he cums, burying his head in your neck. You moan as his canines pierce your skin, harsh but not enough to break skin. You’d be worried about the feeling if you weren’t drowning in fucking pleasure, the feeling akin to what you’ve come to fear the most. Instead, you bury your fingers in his black hair to keep him in place.

“One more,” Azriel encourages softly, voice weighed down with pleasure. His hand snakes around your body and his fingers find your clit, rubbing in tight circles. Cassian groans when you tighten around them again, milking their cocks for all their worth. To help you out, Cassian dips low and sucks one of your pert nipples into his mouth.

You cum again with a scream that nearly shatters the glass shower door.

“There she is,” Cassian grunts against your wet skin, cuddling you close when you deflate into his chest. You whimper when Azriel slowly removes himself from your ass, and Cassian cradles the back of your head. “You did so well, pretty girl. So good for us.”

You can only nod, exhaustion weighing your limbs.

“Sleep,” Azriel encourages, and his hands find your body in a soothing motion as he helps clean you off. There’s a light press of lips against your cheek but you don’t know if it’s Cassian or Azriel’s doing. Maybe both. You let your fatigue carry you into a dreamless sleep, entrusting both men fully to care for you.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

DBD Taglist: @writingsbychlo @kemillyfreitas @5moremin @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @waggel36  @bionic-donut @queserasera @applepie02 @azrielsbabyg @arcadianmoonlight @pradaxstyles @illyrian-dreamerdreamer @reiincarnatiion @fuckthatfeeling @shadowsingersmate24 @poppyalice2001 @fallmyriad @sstrohma @tcris2020 @jeannineee @21stcenturytaegi @ochiolism @secretly-here @harrystylesfan2686 @i-am-infinite @lees-chaotic-brain @eternallyelvish @lilah-asteria @randombibitch @st4r-girl-official @nanisearchinginnerpeace @aemondsb1tch @chxosangxl @marigold-morelli @w0nderw0manly

[tom-foolery-incorporated]

I love the absolute ABSURDITY of the Autobot’s being pervy towards humans headcanon

You have some bots who simply have a deep appreciation for mankind and yeah, some fleshies are cute and soft, but they’re simply friends :D!

Then you other bots who’s processors are completely shot with whatever fleshie they are particularly interested in- cause yeah, they ARE cute and small and oh, so, so, so soft. It’s crazy, plus, the humans who aren’t afraid to actually put their foot down with these metal giants and get after them for their less than stellar behavior.

Love that dynamic- “Small partner bosses around big partner”

Pussy 👏 whipped 👏 robots 👏

Cybertronians are so big and powerful yet a little mucus filled fleshie can bring them to their knees begging?

I especially see Optimus being pretty pussy whipped behind closed doors. He has to be a leader, large and in charge, when in front of the Autobots but the second he sees you he’s all giddy and blushing. He puts on a real good poker face in public but everyone pretty much knows that if he had a tail it’d be wagging like crazy every time you two are in the same room.

For Optimus I think the second he’s able to get even an inch of his spike in you he’s going to shudder. Primus forbid if you comment on how big he feels in you. I feel like he has a size kink where he wants to be used by a smaller partner. Ride him and guide him. Tell him just exactly how he should fuck you.

I think Wheeljack would also be a big pushover for his human. Cute and squishy and so needy. He pretends like you’re a little pest in his lab because he doesn’t want you to get hurt but he needs to have you with him 24/7. He holds you like that big Looney Tunes dog and the little kitty. Ask him for anything and he’ll fold.

I feel like Wheeljack would have some slight brat tamer inclinations. Mess with him while he’s working and he might just yoink you up. Now shut up and sit on his spike since you need attention that bad. However he does eventually snap when you clench around him just right. He can’t help that you’re so soft and wet around him. It’s not his fault he has to hammer his spike into you until you can’t move.

[starrbitez]

Short fluffy one shot: sick fic

Rick is drunk and Morty has the flu. Rick has to take care of his grandson but he’s a little kinder than he wants to be.

Rick finishes his dozenth drink when Beth walks into the garage. She tells him that the rest of the family is going out for the weekend on some sort of vacation near a shitty lake, but Morty was sick and had to stay home. She knew Rick was drunk so before she left she simply rolled her eyes and mumbled an annoyed, “just make sure my son doesn’t die.” Rick was drunk as fuck, so the request had taken about ten minutes to settle into his brain. Right. His grandson was sick.

Rick stands up. His poor grandson. What? He’s so dizzy, and while trying to leave the garage he stumbles over the gap between the garage floor and the inside of the house. He growls harshly, looking at the missed step with disdain. He had to fix that. Stupid fucking step. What if Morty tripped on it? Or Beth or Summer of course. Rick rolls his eyes. He doesn't care that much.

While his mind is busy thinking about how much he doesn’t care, his body has him already heating up a can of soup in a pot, boiling water for some alien tea with virus killing bacteria, and gathering supplies like Tylenol, a cold towel, and water. Now one could say Rick could whip up a cure for this ailment in no time, but Rick would say that, a.) he was too drunk, and b.) it was better to let the virus go away itself than using a dangerous tool on his grandson. (He didn’t care that his grandson was sick, he just wanted to please his daughter by keeping her useless son alive).

Before he knows it he’s standing outside of Morty’s door with his body mod arms assisting him in holding that shit ton of stuff he was holding. He hears a heavy cough on the other side of the door, one that’s deep in your chest and hurts, one where mucus comes up in the back of your throat. Rick frowns. He hadn’t been sick in a long time, and he hated being sick. His grandson especially hated germs, and usually took showers that were nearly an hour long after every adventure. Morty must be in hell.

Rick opens the door slowly and cautiously (as much as he can in his drunken state), but instead he lets out a large belch that alerts Morty of his presence.

”H-hey-hey little-little buddy,” Rick slurs, moving to place the soup on Morty’s nightstand. The boy in the bed gives him a weird look. “W-What’re you- what’re you lookin’ at Morty?” Rick belches again.

Rick hands Morty the tea and the Tylenol, putting the glass of cold water on the nightstand too. He feels Morty’s forehead, which he approximates to be around 101 degrees fahrenheit. Poor kid. He places the cold towel on Morty’s sweating forehead with a frown. The boy is huddled up in blankets, covered up to his chin as he shivers. He’s looking at Rick with pained eyes and eye bags that neared the severity of Rick’s. The boy stared at the soup, unmoving. Morty makes a small whimpering noise.

”Ea-Eat, lil’ dude. You gotta eat.” Rick gestures to the soup, smelling it and slurring ‘mmm’ for dramatic effect, like he was talking to a picky toddler.

Morty shakes his head and holds the blankets tighter, shivering further.

”S-Sit up, Mort.” Rick commands.

Morty’s eyes widen, but he does as the man asks. Rick moves closer to his sick grandson, and he brings the fallen blankets back up around Morty, and sits on the edge of the bed next to the kid. Rick sighs as he picks up the bowl of soup, trying to exaggerate the extra work the boy was making him do, even though he was already doing him a favor. (Rick would be sitting here no matter what, he would be sober, too). Rick stirs the soup around with the spoon and looks at Morty, holding the spoon up and saying ‘aaa’. Morty’s eyebrows furrow in frustration and embarrassment, but he leans forward and takes the spoon into his mouth. Rick tries to match the angry and reluctant expression, as if both of them hated that this was the only option. there was nothing else they could possibly do so instead they glared at each other and scoffed and swayed together when Morty’s NyQuil hit in and Rick’s 13th drink punched him in the gut.

Every five minutes or so, Morty asks, “can you pass me a tissue?” And Rick, without fail, always does.

At some point, the duo starts playing Minecraft, but after thirty minutes Morty had fallen asleep on Rick’s shoulder, drool dripping from his mouth.

“Gross.” Rick pokes the boy’s cheek to see if he’ll move. He has to do more work? This kid sucks.

Rick carefully puts the laptop down on the floor, and gets himself up without waking Morty up. Gently, Rick leans Morty down to his pillow, tucking him into bed snugly. He makes sure to keep the window open for fresh air. Morty’s glass of water is full, there’s an empty bucket next to Morty’s bed in case the boy’s stomach acts up, and tissues are ready. Rick finds a random stuffed animal on the boy’s bed and tucks it into Morty’s arm. With a satisfied smile, Rick kisses Morty on the forehead, grabs the bowl of soup, and whispers,

”Goooodniiight, Morty!! Feel-Feel better lil’ buddy.”

Between the alcohol and cough syrup, both will find it hard to remember what happened last night or to figure out why they both woke up in good moods.

[skelitinonmyback]

short skirt/long jacket

pairing: poe dameron x fem!reader

synopsis: poe is a barista at the coffee shop you go to everyday, and he is absolutely head over heels for you. your femme fatale, business woman vibe makes his knees weak every time you come by. after pressure from his coworkers he put his moves on you. and you are more than happy to take him on.

content warning: SMUT 18+, dom!reader, sub!poe, oral sex (r!receiving), edging, male whimpers, grinding, teasing

word count: 3.9k

You were the only thing Poe looked forward to. His ears perked like a dog whenever he heard the bell at the front of the store chime at the arrival of a new customer, hoping it was you. His coworkers Finn and Rey caught on pretty quick by the way he turned bright red and stuttered everytime you came in. There was one time when Finn swore he saw Poe check his breath when you came through the door and he has yet to live that down.

That was the only reason Poe was putting on his apron now actually. The guarantee of seeing you was a greater motivator than the coffee they sold at the cafe. He clocked in and instead of being a good worker, his eyes were trapped on the door hoping to summon you. Maybe you were wearing a trenchcoat since the fall weather has finally started. God, you would look so good in a trenchcoat.

“You know staring at the door won’t make her get here any faster,” Rey shook her head behind him, the sound of her voice making him jump. 

“Fuck, don’t sneak up on me like that,” he pouted, not happy being called out like that.

She rolled her eyes, she was standing behind him for two minutes before she finally said something. “Why don’t you just ask her out? She totally checks you out everytime she comes in! She even asked where  you were yesterday when you didn’t work.”

“Did she really?” His eyes lit up at the idea, but he soon killed the flame not wanting his hopes to get up. “Whatever. If it’s so easy, why don’t you go ask Finn out hmm?”

Rey’s face turned sour and before she could scold him, Finn’s lovely voice came from the back of house. “What are we talking about?” His face appears from the doorway after his voice with a teasing look on his face. “Is he finally gonna ask her out?”

Poe’s face was starting to flush and he swore steam was coming from his ears with all the teasing he had to endure. He was racking his mind with ways to get back at his meddling coworkers but his focus was broken with the ring of the door bell. With the sound of your name coming from Rey he knew who it was. Didn’t everyone just have impeccable timing today.

“Wow, slow day today?” you questioned, surprised by the bare cafe on a Monday.

“Y-yeah, you just missed the crowd, haha. Get us a-all to yourself” Poe stuttered, turning a whole other shade of pink by your presence. He looked over to Rey for some help who just mouthed ‘smooth’ at him. In his defense, you looked good today, like how you look good everyday but more. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what made you look different today but he knew he liked it.

“Oh lucky me,” you giggled, always flattered by how flustered Poe was when you came in, it’s so cute. “Oh, Rey! I tried that lipstick you recommended. What do you think?”

“Oh my god, it looks so good! I knew that color would suit you,” she gushed. “What do you think, Poe?”

Suddenly, his throat closed up with mucus and he just didn’t know what words were anymore. “G,” he cleared his throat. “Good. I think it looks good.”

“Thank you, Poe,” you said, enjoying the way his eyes widened when you said his name. “I’ll just take my usual.” You set the exact change you’ve come to memorise down in his palm before heading to the end of the bar, talking to Rey who was making your drink. 

You guys were over there talking for about 5 minutes before Poe got suspicious. Before he could intercept the conversation you already had one foot out the door and a napkin that Rey had handed you. When Poe tried asking Rey about it, she just shrugged and said ‘what napkin’. It was stuck on his mind for the rest of the day.

It wasn’t until later that night when he got a text did he realize what hijinx Rey was up to.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hello, Poe.

POE: hello? can i ask who this is

You sent him your name and a little apology for not starting with that.

His heart dropped to his stomach and his palms got sweaty. Wow, you didn’t even need to be here to get him incredibly nervous.

POE: OH, hi! hope you dont mind me asking but howd you get my number lol

YOU: Rey gave it to me this morning. I hope that’s ok!

His face turned red, so embarrassed by his match making coworker. God, he hoped you didn’t blame him for her meddling, completely ruining his chance with you. 

POE: oh goodness, im so sorry abt her, i hope she didnt force anything on you :/

YOU: Oh, it’s no problem, Poe.

Even the way you texted was so sexy and sufisticated. It really shouldn’t be turning him on as much as it was.

POE: are u sure? if she was over stepping bounds id be happy to make it up to u

Be more desperate, Poe. Jesus Christ.

YOU: Well, if you do want to make it up to me, I am free tomorrow at 6:30 pm for dinner. I’ll be expecting something nice.

POE: oh sure i can do dinner tmrw. have u ever been to ogas grill

YOU: Poe, honey, it doesn’t actually have to be fancy. I was teasing you.

HONEY? God, you were going to give him a heart attack if you kept that behavior up.

POE: no its ok i like it :)

YOU: See you then!

Poe quite literally couldn’t wait. He could feel all of the cells of his body vibrating with excitement and he couldn’t fall asleep. Once he finally did, he woke right back up an hour later when his alarm for work went off. Oh he couldn’t wait to see you when you came in for your coffee as usual but this time you had a date planned. 

And as if time was flipping before him, he was already clocked in for the shift, 30 minutes before you usually come in. His demeanor was distant for he was drifting away in his thoughts that were occupied solely by you. He was distracted in the back, zoned out doing the dishes when Finn calling your name dragged him to reality.

Poe didn’t bother turning off the water before running out front to see you waiting for your drink at the end of the bar. He called out your name in a tired, breathless voice as if he just ran a marathon to see you.

“Hi, Poe,” you beamed with a bright smile that practically burned Poe’s insides.

“Hi, you’re here early,” he observed. “N-not that that’s a bad thing, I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before 7:30. NOT that I’m like keeping track of you or you know what I’m just gonna stop talking.”

“It’s ok, honey,” you giggled unaware of the way Poe gripped onto the counter to stop himself from falling to his knees for you. “I just couldn’t wait to see you today is all.”

Poe’s eyes went wide with awe and he had to hold himself back from jumping over the counter and kissing you. “Really?” is all his brain managed to come up with as he started planning out your entire relationship together.

“Yeah,” you laughed at his shock that you were infact excited to see him, gushing over the sheer cuteness that was him. Cutting off your moment together, Finn sets your drink down for you on the bar. “I’ll let you get back to work, but I can’t wait to see you wait at dinner, honey.”

“Me too,” he sighed, eyes dazed watching you leave the store.

“Dinner?” Finn gasped, perplexed by your words.

“Shut up.”

—

Later that day Poe was practically shitting his pants as he waited outside of your apartment. He brought flowers because he thought it was the right thing to do but as he looked at flowers he started overthinking about the casualness of everything. What if you just wanted to get dinner to know him better as a friend and you would laugh in his face and call him stupid for ever believing you would want to go out with him. So he settled on a bundle of baby’s breath and eucalyptus.

When you answered the door all the breath from his lungs escaped him and a stitch started forming in his side from just standing there and looking at you. You were wearing a dress, midi length, that hugged you in all the right places and revealed more skin than he ever thought he’d see on you. Your lipstick red and heels stiletto, doubling down on your femme fatale image.

“You know,” you start, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your apron on. It’s nice, you clean up well.”

Hi siliva stuck to the back of his throat at your compliment, causing him to roughly clear his throat. “Um, I got these for you, wasn’t sure what kind you liked so,” he said humbly, handing you the flowers with weak hands.

You thanked him, obsessed with how bashful he was, and turned back into your house to set them down on the counter before taking his arm and heading with him to his car. His palms were already sweaty simply from the grip you had on his bicep and when he opened your door to let you into his car he felt some relief of getting a little bit of distance from you, just so he could breathe again.

Luckily for him, Oga’s Grill was just a five minute drive down from your apartment, so he didn’t have to worry too much about making polite conversation and instead he could focus on regulating his breathing. It was unfortunate for you however. You loved watching him twitch and get nervous over a car ride with you. It made your imagination run wild, thinking about all the reactions he would have if you were actually trying to make him nervous.

The dinner was, well, awkward. Poe couldn’t stop getting nervous and accidentally knocking stuff over and it was honestly the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. You could tell he was immensely nervous more than anything but you couldn’t bring yourself to console him, loving how red he got from stirring in his own juices. 

When the check came, he felt panicked because the date didn’t go at all how he had planned. He was waiting for the moment he would gain the confidence to sweep you off your feet but it never came. He put his card in the checkbook, hands shakier than ever, not knowing how to rebound after making himself look like a complete buffoon.

When you guys got back in the car, Poe didn’t put the key in the ignition, instead he just stared at the steering wheel in front of him. Excitement sparkeed in your abdomen, thinking he was finally going to make a move. He swallowed every nerve crawling up his throat so he could get out this sentence.

“I’m sorry for my… behavior today. I was just so nervous, I kept on embarrassing myself, I guess,” he said, too ashamed to look at you.

For the first time that day, your heart actually tugged at the way he struggled to communicate so you officially needed to put his worries away. “Hey, it’s ok. I thought it was cute.” He scoffed at you and you had to double down. “Honest. Really, I think it’s kind of… sexy.”

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline and for the first time in the whole evening he made eye contact with you and you could’ve crumbled right there. The way his eyesbrows pinched together and his mouth pouted with confusion was slowly chipping away at your patience. And the sound of his voice when he said “really?” was practically begging you to go on.

“Come on, you can’t look at me like that and pretend to be confused about what I find attractive about it all.”

“Wait, you’re being serious?” His voice was weaker and he faced his body towards you, the best he could in the car, and you wanted nothing more than to kiss that surprised look off his face. 

“As a fucking heart attack, Poe, I swear I was wet for that entire dinner,” you admit, throwing caution to the wind.

Embarrassingly so, Poe choked on his spit, awed by the words you just said about him. He shook his head, not completely understanding what you meant by that. Frustrated by all the back and forth, you grabbed his hand and shoved it up your skirt to where your thighs parted, where you had undoubtedly soaked through your panties. The sound of a whimper passing through Poe’s lips made your thighs clench around the hand you brought between them.

“Feel what you do to me, baby?” you questioned with a pout. Completely dumb by everything around him, he just nodded, eyes boring into yours. His finger tips twitched, running along your clothed cunt purly on intsinct. “Why don’t you take me home, huh baby?”

You didn’t have to ask him twice. He ripped his hand away from you and forced the car into reverse and maybe went a bit above the speed limit to make it home. You weren’t making it easy for him to focus on the road either. You had a hand on him the entire time, running your manicured nails up and down his thigh and he could feel himself twitching and lurch in the confines of his pants.

When you got to the parking lot of your apartment you werre sure he was going to hurt himself with how fast he got out of the car. You couldn’t help but laugh at his eagerness when he was already to the front of your apartment by the time you left his car.

“C’mon now, honey, don’t want me to think you’re desperate,” you teased, completely joking. But when you saw the way his eyes twinkled and lips stuttered you knew he was taking you seriously, and liking it. You clucked your tongue at him and shook your head before letting him into your apartment.

You kicked off your shoes in the foyer and he did the same, mimicking all of your actions. Poe was very nervous, he wasn’t really the type to have sex on a first date so he didn’t really understand the protocol or what would be expected of him. You felt his nervousness and knew that he didn’t really know what to do with himself so you threw him a bone.

“Why don’t you go sit on the couch for me, baby?” He immediately followed your instruction, walking the ten paces to took to get from your front door to your couch. Satisfied by his obedience you called him ‘good boy’ that gave you a harsh sigh and a stuttered step in return. You were willing to call him good boy every second of every day if it got you that in return.

“Aww, you like it when I called you that?”

His eyes were wide and lips were parted when he nodded back at you, sitting incredibly straight on your couch. You stood in front of him and shook your head, disappointed with his response. “I need to hear you.”

“... yes.”

“That’s a good boy. You answer all of my questions when I ask them, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am,” his voice hoarse in response.

Your spine tingled at the new nickname he developed for you and your control almost faded away completely. But, you didn’t want to scare him away by pouncing on him so instead you settled for sitting gently on his lap, lining his hips with yours.

“This ok?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeated, his voice higher, whinier than before. The sound of it made you roll your hips against his and the jagged gasp he let out had you doing another and then another until he was heavy panting and his nails dug into the fabric of your couch.

“Sorry, pretty boy, you just look so good everytime I do it,” you huffed, unable to straighten out your breathing.

“I’it’s ok, ah,” his voice strained when you started grinding down on him harsher and more frantic. “F-fuuck, oh fuck. Stop, please I’m gonna, gonna cum, oh.”

“Already, baby?” Your hips stilled as you looked at him with curiosity. He nodded and you could tell by the way his jaw was dropped, eyes barely open, and neck completely flushed he was lying. He began to writhe under you, subconsciously looking for the friction that’ll have him finished. “But, you haven’t even touched me yet.”

“Can I,” he cut himself off, looking at the ceiling embarrassed.

“Can you what baby? Come on, use your words.”

“Can I eat you out?” he admitted, bringing his chin down so his eyes could search yours. His desperation grew when you didn’t respond to him right away. “Please, ma’am, wanna taste you so bad. Just wanna make you feel good, baby, please”

“Shh, of course you can, baby,” you muttered. Soon you were yelping when he picked you up to switch positions, setting you down on the couch with your ass to the very edge.

Without any other words, he kneeled down in front of you and fuck was it a sight to behold. He didn’t look up at you, all of his focus was on your legs as he rolled up your skirt with furrowed brows. You felt the scrap of teeth and a tug, realizing that behind the skirt pooled around your thighs was Poe, taking your panties off with his fucking teeth. He reappeared, panties between his teeth. He looked at your face and seductively took them out from between his teeth and settled them on the couch next to you before diving back in.

You inhaled sharply and cursed and the sudden ravaging against your cunt. He wasn’t kidding when he said he wanted to eat you out because his tongue was lapping against your hole like a fucking dog and his nose dug into your clit. You lifted your skirt up enough to grab ahold of his hair and keep him at work tight against you.

“Fuck,” you groaned, “Good fucking boy, ugh, feels so good.” Your voice was deep and raw and the sound of it tagged him on further, making his lick and nudges harder. It didn’t take long for a spring to break in you and Poe clenched his nails into your thighs when you started shaking, trying to get him off you with the intensity of your orgasm. 

Finally calming down, you used your grip on his head to manivuer him back so you could get a good look at him. You wished you could take a picture of him and frame it from the way he looked now. His hair unruly, face bright red, and chin completely damp with your essence was a sight to behold. His chest heaved from the air suddenly rushing back to his lungs.

You pull him up to sit next to you on the couch and you take apart his pants. He lifts his hips so you can pull down pants, boxers following. Soon his cock laid up against his stomch, bright red, leaking, and twitching like he was fighting off an orgasm. Unable to help yourself, you ran your finger nail up the underside of it. His hand darted forward to try and stop you, a hiss escaping his mouth.

“Uh uh, you let me touch what’s mine,” you tsked. When he let go of you and returned his hand to his side you hummed “that’s right,” before wrapping your fist around him. 

Immediately, strings of fuck’s and oh god’s were piling out of his mouth. His hips were jerking along with your movements and precum dribbled onto your hand as a natural form of lubricant.

“Shit, I’m gonna c-cum, I’m gonna,” his rant cut off as you removed your hand away from him. He looked over at you with wild eyes like a puppy you just kicked.

“You only get to cum inside me, ok?” you were stern with your words and he had no other choice but to nod along with them.

You kicked your leg to the other side of him and brought your lap down to his, this time you were touching each other’s most intimate parts bare and the stimulation made Poe light headed. You knew Poe wouldn’t last long but you didn’t mind, completely satisfied with the orgasm he brought you earlier. 

You reached under your dress where you two met and pulled his cock up, lefting your hip with it. You teased the tip over the slit of you, making him bunch the meat of your hip into his fist and whine. You swore you saw tears form in his eyes as he pleaded for you.

Breaking him from his misery, you slowly sid down his length. Thank you, thank you, thank you fell from his lips as he was consumed by you.

It would’ve been embarrassing for him if he could think about anything other than the warmth of your cunt. It only took five more ruts of your hips before his legs tighten, hips spasmed and hands flailing to different parts of you. You knew he was on the brink of cumming but for some reason he was denying himself. He was waiting for you.

“Go ahead, baby, cum for me.”

His eyebrows furrowed and abs tighten with the focus of hold himself off. “But, you haven’t.”

“It’s ok. Wanna feel you cum inside me. Can you do that for me? Can you cum for me baby?”

That last push was all he needed and soon enough he was whining out profanities and thank yous and he shook beneath you. You moaned at the feeling his hot cum coating you inside, at the way his eyes rolled back, at the way he choked on his breath. You gave it a few beats before you made a move to clean up.

“We should probably head back to my bed huh?” you said through the fit of giggles you found yourself in.

“Yeah,” he sighed, head resting against the back of the couch. “Just give me a minute.”

You got up from the couch, cum dripping down your leg, and extended your hand for him to take. “Come on, big guy, let’s get cleaned up.”

He followed your direction and eventually you ended up nice and clean, cuddling up in your bed. He looked over your shoulder at the alarm clock next to your bed and groaned. “What’s wrong?”

“I forgot I had work at 5:00 am tomorrow,” he whined, and it being midnight meant that was in five hours.

“Don’t worry about that now. Just go to sleep and I’ll give you a ride, ok.” Very happy with the sentiment of your statement he drifted off to sleep. He didn’t even consider the inevitable questions Finn and Rey would have for him when you kissed him on the lips and told him to call you when he was off.