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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 months

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Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 4: Read Between The Lines]

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, Jace is here unfortunately.

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

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

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It is your first week of basic training at Great Lakes on the north side of Chicago, and as you lie in the top bunk of your assigned bed you wonder what the hell you’ve done. You enlisted right out of high school, eighteen, no driver’s license, no work history, never been more than fifty miles outside of Soft Shell, Kentucky. The drill sergeants are always yelling and you’re bad at push-ups; you can’t understand the recruits from big cities like Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Detroit, Houston, and they don’t seem to get you either, and aren’t interested enough to try. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t signed that five-year contract, but where would you be if you weren’t here? Home is not words but textures, colors, fumes that still burn in your sinuses: cigarette ash on rose pink carpets, red embers glowing in the wood stove, Hamburger Helper and Mountain Dew, coffee creamer in Hungry Jack potatoes, laughter and heavy footsteps and slamming doors, scratch-off games, dogs barking, collecting coins from couch cushions for gas money, scrubbing clothes in the bathtub when the washer quits, Mama taking gulps from her favorite cup—plastic, Virginia Beach, filled with equal parts Hawaiian Punch and vodka—when she thinks no one is looking, blue shows flickering on the television, Family Feud, Maury, Good Morning America, WWE SmackDown. For as long as you can remember you’ve known you couldn’t stay. Now you’re getting out, but nothing in life is free.

You are at Class A Technical School in Gulfport, Mississippi, and even though it’s hotter than some noxious, volcanic hellscape—Mercury, Venus, Io—you are beginning to like it. You taste the salt of sweat when you lick your lips, sugar in the sweet tea they serve in the chow hall. There’s a magic in building something where there was only empty space before, in patching roofs and painting walls. Here being quiet and watchful is exactly what they want from you: head down, hammer striking nails, measurements and angles and long hours under the sun with no complaints. You’re not just running away anymore. You are creating something new.

You are sitting beneath swaying palm trees and a full moon on Diego Garcia, draining cans of Guinness with Rio, and he’s telling you things he shouldn’t, too personal, too honest: Sophie wants to try for a baby next time he’s home on leave, and part of him wants that too but he’s terrified. As thunder rumbles in the distance and raindrops begin to patter on the waves of the Indian Ocean, you tell Rio you think he’d be a good father. He wonders how you figure that, and you say because he’s not like any of the men from home. He gives you one of his crooked smiles—a flash of teeth, knowing dark eyes—and doesn’t ask what you mean.

But of course, when you swim up from the inky currents of sleep you are in none of these places. You are curled up on the floor of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio, cheap worn black carpet peppered with stars and swirls in neon green, pink, blue. You stretch out with a yawn. Someone has left a Lemon Tea Snapple within reach; you twist it open and guzzle it, hoping to extinguish the pounding in your skull, a rhythmic thudding of warm maroon, half Captain Morgan and half misery. The music isn’t helping. From the green Toshiba CD player, a man is singing in Spanish. Aegon and Rio are sitting at the nearest table and playing Uno.

Aegon says as he ponders his cards: “You know Enrique Iglesias, right Rio?”

“You are so racist.” Rio puts down a wild. “And the new color is red. Racist.”

“So what’s he saying?”

“Aegon, buddy, I told you, I was born here. My grandparents came over in the 60s. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You can’t understand any of it?” Aegon is skeptical. He plays a skip, a reverse, and a seven. “My dad never taught me a word of Greek but I can recognize plenty of phrases. Vlákas means idiot. Spatáli chórou is a waste of space.”

Rio sighs, relenting. He puts down a two. “The song is called Súbeme La Radio, Turn Up The Radio For Me. Bring me the alcohol that numbs the pain… I don’t care about anything anymore…You’ve left me in the shadows…”

“Damn, now I’m sad. Draw four, bitch.”

“When the night comes and you don’t answer, I swear to you I’ll stay waiting at your door…” Rio studies his cards. “What’s the new color?”

“Green.”

“Yes!” Rio slams down a skip. “Fleeing from the past in every dawn, I can’t find any way to erase our history…”

Everyone else is awake already. As muted late-morning daylight streams in through the small tinted windows, Aemond is weaving between tables, pointedly checking on each person. He glances at you, says nothing, turns around and walks the other way.

“That’s tough,” Rio says sympathetically, popping open the tab on a can of Chef Boyardee and shoveling ravioli into his mouth with a plastic fork.

Aegon gives you a smirk. “You want to fake date now?”

“I’ll think about it.” No you won’t.

Helaena appears, a prairie girl vision in a modest blue sundress and with her hair tied back with a matching scarf. She reaches into her burlap messenger bag and offers you a choice between a ranch-flavored tuna pouch or a silvery pack of Pop-Tarts. “Strawberry,” she tells you.

“I’ll take the Pop-Tarts.”

Helaena gives them to you and then shakes a bottle of Advil. You’re so groggy it takes you a few seconds to figure out what she wants, then you obediently hold out a hand. Helaena lays two tablets in the center of your palm and moves on, soundlessly like a rabbit or a spider.

You wash the pills down with Snapple. As you nibble half-heartedly on a Pop-Tart—trying not to look at Aemond, multicolored sprinkles falling down onto the carpet—your eyes drift to the tattoo on the underside of Aegon’s forearm. It’s not over ‘til you’re underground. You’ve spotted it before. Only now do you remember where you recognize the lyric from. “Is that Green Day?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says, enthused that you noticed. “Letterbomb.”

“I love that whole album.”

“Me too. I could sing it front to back if you asked me to.”

“I’m not asking.”

Aegon cackles and resumes his Uno game with Rio. Baela is wearing denim shorts and a crop top, slathering her belly with Palmer’s cocoa butter from Walmart as she chats with Rhaena and eats Teddy Grahams. Daeron is waxing the string of his compound bow. Jace is gnawing on a Twizzler as he scrutinizes Aegon’s map, annotated with Xs and circles and arrows in sparkling gel pen green.

“I’m going to be a thousand years old by the time we get there,” Jace mutters.

Aegon hits the table with his fist. The discard pile collapses and cascades, an avalanche of Uno cards. Rio, undisturbed, continues contemplating his next move. “You know what, Jace? The cities are full of zombies, the interstates are blocked by fifty-car pileups, if we bump into anyone else who’s still alive they’re just as likely to rob and murder us as want to be friends, and on top of all that I’m trying to do you the favor of preventing you from getting so irradiated you turn into Spider-Man. If you have a better route in mind, I’d love to hear it.”

“Spider-Man…? You’re such a dumbass, what are you talking about?!”

Luke says from where he stands by a window: “Aemond, someone’s outside.”

“What?” Aemond stares at him. “Zombies?”

“No. People.”

Aemond bolts to the doors, the rest of you close behind him. Rhaena turns off the CD player. You, Rio, and Aegon squeeze together to peer out of one of the windows. There are men—three of them, no, four, all appearing to be in their forties—passing by on the main road through town. They are armed with what are either AR-15s or M16s, you can’t tell which.

Rio whistles. “If you get shot by one of those, the exit wound will be the size of an orange.” Everyone looks at him. This was not an encouraging thing to say.

You elaborate: “Thirty-round magazines. Semiautomatic, assuming they’re AR-15s for civilian use. I guess they could have gotten ahold of M16s somehow. Those have a fully automatic setting.”

“So regardless, we’re out-gunned,” Jace says.

“If they know how to use them. Some men think guns are wall decorations, like deer heads or fish.”

Aegon recoils. “Fish?! What the fuck. I’m glad the colonies left.”

“Maybe they’ll keep walking,” Daeron says hopefully. One of the men stops and points at the bowling alley, saying something to his companions. They laugh and begin crossing the small parking lot. They are less than two minutes from the door. “Oh, great…”

“There’s an emergency exit in the back,” Baela says.

Aegon snorts. “Yeah, that we stacked about twenty boxes of bowling pins in front of to zombie-proof.”

“We won’t be able to get out before they hear us,” Aemond says. Then he abruptly orders: “Grab your guns, let’s go. Helaena, Baela, Rhaena, you’re staying here.” Aemond’s remaining eye—briefly, reluctantly—skates over you as Rio, Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Daeron scatter to obey him. “You too.”

“But I’m the best shot.”

“I don’t want them to know we have women with us.”

“I’m of more use to you outside.”

Aemond rips his Glock out of its holster, pointing it at the floor. His frustration is palpable, an electric shock, heat that refracts light rays until they become mirages on the horizon. “You’re going to stay here, and if a stranger comes through those doors you’re going to kill them. Okay?”

His urgency stuns you; his eye is blue-white summer storm lightning. “Okay.”

“Now get back.”

You soar to the nearest table, duck under it, reach for your Beretta M9 and double-check the clip, fully loaded. You click off the safety.

“Aemond, wait, let me go first,” Aegon is saying by the door. “I’m better at de-escalation, I’m less…uh…intimidating.”

“Less socially incompetent, you mean,” Jace quips.

“I’ll lead,” Aemond insists. “Aegon can talk. Rio, you’re up front with me.”

Rio pumps his Remington 12 gauge. “I’d be delighted.”

Jace is amused. “I’ve been demoted, huh?”

“He’s bigger,” Aemond replies simply, then opens the door and vanishes through a blinding curtain of daylight. The others follow closely; Daeron, the last one out—his compound bow in hand, the strap of his Marlin .22 slung over his shoulder—shuts the door behind him.

Very faintly, you can hear Aegon: “Hey, guys! What’s happening? How’s the apocalypse treating you…?”

Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are under the table with you. They deserve to have options. You tell them: “If you want to go hide behind the lanes or try to get out the back door, now’s your chance.”

Helaena shakes her head, clutching your t-shirt: black, Star Wars, pawed off a shelf at the Walmart. “I want to stay with you.”

“Same,” Baela says determinedly, gripping her Ruger. She barely knows how to use it, but she’ll try. Rhaena is shaking, her eyes filling up her face, small fragile bones like a bird’s.

You can’t hear voices from outside anymore, but there are no gunshots either. You keep your M9 aimed at the doors, your breathing slow and deep, your heart rate low. Your hands are steady. Your eyes hunt for the slightest movement, for the momentary shadow of someone passing by a window. Against your will, your thoughts wander to Aemond. I hope Aegon is on his left side. Aemond can’t see there.

“Rhaena, get your gun out,” Baela says sharply. “Come on. Turn the safety off. What if you were alone right now? What if we weren’t here to protect you?”

Rhaena nods, fumbling to free her revolver from its holster. “I’m sorry…I’m trying…”

Now there is a stranger’s voice, gruff and deep. He must be just beyond the door, the farthest one to the right. There is a creak of hinges, a sliver of sunlight. “That’s just too damn bad, fellas. You got a nice little hideout here, and you’re gonna have to share it—”

The door opens. Two unfamiliar faces, too shellshocked to raise their rifles in time. You close an eye, line up your sights, fire twice, and that’s all it takes: one headshot, one in the throat, blood like a fountain, spurting scarlet ruin, thuds against the carpet strewn with neon stars, gurgling and spasms as their brains send out those final electrical impulses: danger, catastrophe, apocalypse. Rhaena is screaming. Helaena is covering her ears with both hands.

You run to the doorway; there are more booms of gunfire out in the parking lot. You cross into the late-morning light to see the other two men on the pavement: one with an arrow through the eye, the other with a gaping, hemorrhaging hole where his heart once was. Rio is admiring his work, holding his shotgun aloft. He scoops a handful of Cheddar Whales out of his shorts pocket and shovels them into his mouth.

“Goddamn, I love Remington Arms Company.”

“Oh, that was awesome,” Aegon says, wan and panting, hands on his waist. “Yeah, that was…that was…” He bends over and vomits Snapple and Cool Ranch Doritos onto the asphalt.

“Everyone okay in there?” Rio asks you.

“Yeah.” Behind you, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are stepping through the doorway. Your thoughts are whirling sickly: I killed someone. I killed someone. “They wouldn’t leave?”

“We told them the bowling alley was ours,” Aemond says, not looking at you. “We asked them very politely to keep moving. They chose to try to intimidate us into letting them stay. They weren’t good people, and these are the consequences.”

You click on the safety and re-holster your M9. You’re wearing Rio’s on your other hip. They seem to weigh so much more than they did ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to be a killer. I’m a builder.

“Aegon, are you okay?” Daeron asks, a palm on his brother’s back.

Aegon retches again. “Shut up. You can’t even buy fireworks.”

“Zombies.” Luke is peering through his binoculars. “Not many, just two. Way up the road.”

“There will be more.” Baela’s cradling her belly; you don’t even think she’s aware of it. “They heard the gunshots, the sound carries for miles.”

“We’re leaving,” Aemond says. “Right now. Everyone get your things.”

As backpacks are hastily zipped and Daeron and Aegon stand guard in the parking lot, you kneel down beside the men you murdered and check their rifles. They are M16s, either stolen or illegally purchased: there’s a little switch by the trigger to choose between semi-automatic or the so-called machine gun mode.

“They barely had any bullets left,” you tell Rio. Just like us when we were trapped on that transmission tower.

“Yeah, same story for the other two guys. Four bullets in one magazine, a half dozen in the other. But it only takes once. We don’t have any ammo that will work with M16s, do we?”

“No, we definitely don’t.”

“Fantastic. Well, we’ll throw them in a Walmart cart and take them with us just in case.”

You’re staring down at the man you shot through the head. His eternal resting place is a puddle of blood and brains in a bowling alley in rural Ohio; surely no one deserves that. “He was a real person,” you say, dazed. “Not a zombie. Just a person.”

“Hey.” Rio grabs your shoulders and spins you towards him. From where he is helping Luke gather up the remaining food, Aemond’s head snaps up to watch. “You hurt him before he could hurt us. You did the right thing.”

“Sure.”

“I killed a dude too. I blew his heart right out of his chest. You think I’m going to hell for that?”

“No,” you admit, smiling. “And if you’d be there with me, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Rio grins, wide and toothy. “Well alright then. Let’s finish packing.”

The ten of you depart from Shenandoah, Ohio heading northwest on Route 603 just like Aegon marked on his map, Jace chauffeuring Baela in one shopping cart, Rio pushing another loaded high with food and M16s.

“It looks like rain,” Helaena says.

Everyone else peers up into a clear, cerulean sky, wondering what she means.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re a few miles north of Shiloh when the storm rolls in, cold rain and furious wind, daylight that vanishes behind dark churning thunderheads, jagged scars of lightning in an opaque sky. The road is only two lanes, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ravaged crops and untilled earth; it would look like the patchwork of a quilt if you were gazing down from an airplane, but of course the FAA grounded all flights over a month ago when the world went mad: Revelations, Ragnarök, the fabric of the universe unweaving as death burned through families, cities, nations like a fever, like plague.

“Maybe we should cut across one of these fields,” Jace says, pointing. He is soaked with rain; it drips from his curls, runs into his eyes. Baela is in her cart again; each time she tries to get out and walk, she’s gasping and can’t keep up within half an hour. You’ve all taken turns pushing her, much to Baela’s dismay. She’d be humiliated if she wasn’t too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

“Here, let me do it,” you offer, and Jace gratefully relinquishes the cart. Baela gives you a frail wave of appreciation.

“We stay on the road,” Aemond insists, flinching as rain pelts his scarred face. “Farmhouses have driveways and mailboxes, we’ll pass one eventually. If we lose the road, we might not be able to find it again. We’ll end up wandering around in circles in the woods.”

“Just like the Blair Witch Project,” Aegon says glumly, his Sperry Bahama sneakers audibly soggy.

“There!” Luke announces, spotting something with his binoculars. “Up ahead on the left. Past the bridge.”

You can’t see what Luke does until there is an especially brilliant flash of lightning: a farmhouse, old but seemingly not derelict, and with a number of accompanying buildings, guest houses and stables and barns and towering silos.

“Home sweet home!” Rio says. “And I don’t care if I have to kill a hundred of those undead bastards to get in, it’s mine.”

“Well, hopefully not a hundred,” you reply, in better spirits now that a sanctuary has been found. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as you push Baela’s cart. If he wants to say something, he’s doing a good job of resisting the temptation. “We don’t have that much ammo.”

There is a concrete bridge over a river, probably unremarkable and only five or ten feet deep normally but now torrential with rain. Water rushes by beneath, a muddy incline on each side as the earth rises back up to meet the road. A reflective green sign proclaims that you are only two miles from Plymouth, which Aegon plans to skirt along the edges of. It’s a decent-sized town; he thinks you might be able to find a car to steal there, something with gas in the tank and keys on a hook just inside the house.

“I call the master bedroom,” Jace says craftily, rubbing his palms together. You’re near the center of the bridge now, another ten yards to go. “Nice big bed, warm cozy blankets, and I was up for half of last night keeping watch so tonight I am off duty, I am a free man, it’s going to just be me and my girl and eight glorious uninterrupted hours of sleep—”

Rhaena shrieks, and then you hear it over the noise of the storm, pounding rain and rumbling thunder: moans, growls, hisses like snakes. Not one zombie. A lot more than one. They’re crawling up from under the bridge, from the filthy quagmire at both ends. There was a hoard of them waiting, aimless, dormant, almost hibernating. But now they are awake. They are grasping for you with bony, dirt-covered claws. They are snapping with jaws that leak blood and pus and bile as their organs curdle to a putrid soup.

“Get off the bridge!” Aemond is shouting. He has his Glock in his right hand, a baseball bat in his left. He’ll shoot until he’s out of bullets, and then, and then…

Rio helps you get Baela out of the cart, then opens fire. His Remington doesn’t just pierce skulls, it vaporizes them. When he’s out of shells—there are more in his backpack, but no time to reload—he yanks the M16s out of the other Walmart cart and empties each of them, mowing down zombies as the rest of you scramble across the bridge. All around you are explosions of gunshots, thunder, lightning, zombie skulls crushed by bullets and blunt force trauma. Baela is firing her Ruger as you half-drag her, one arm hooked beneath hers and around her back. When the last M16 is empty, Rio starts clubbing zombies with the butt of it. You’ve all reached the north side of the bridge, except…

“Fuck off, you freaks!” Jace is screaming. They’ve backed him up against the guardrail, a swarm of ten or more. His Remington shotgun is out of ammo; he’s swinging it wildly, but he doesn’t even have enough room to maneuver. There are still more zombies emerging from under the bridge. You can hear them snarling and groaning. You swipe an M9 off your belt and put a bullet in the brain of a zombie as its fingers close around your ankle, then you start picking off the ones mobbing Jace. You aren’t fast enough. As they lean in to bite him, teeth gnashing at the delicious throbbing heat of his jugular, Jace throws himself over the barrier and into the surging water below.

“No!” Baela cries. She careens off the road and into the field, running parallel to the river as swiftly as she can. You are helping her, steadying her, firing at any zombies you have a clear line of sight on. The others are here too: slipping in the muck of the flooding earth, shouting for Jace. He surfaces through the frothing current, flails pitifully, disappears beneath the water again. You glimpse a white hand, a shadow of his dark hair, a kicking shoe. There are more zombies on the opposite side of the river, trailing after Jace, lurching and slobbering viscous, gory saliva. They cannot swim, but they can follow him until he washes ashore.

Jace bursts up through the waves, gasping. “Help! Aemond…Aemond, for the love of God, help me…” He blubbers and then is dragged under. Aemond and Luke are continuing frantically after him. Baela is hysterical, sobbing, trembling with adrenaline. Aegon is yowling as he swings at zombies with his bloodied golf club. Helaena is darting around almost invisibly, always cowering behind Daeron or Aegon or Rio.

You glance north towards the farmhouse, growing not closer but farther away. We can’t leave shelter. We can’t leave the road. You lock eyes with Rio. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Aemond, we have to go,” Rio says, but in the midst of the rain and the turmoil it barely registers.

“Jace, we’re coming to get you!” Aemond swears. The ground is increasingly sodden, deep, difficult to trudge through. Jace resurfaces, coughing and sputtering.

“Jace!” Aegon wails. He caves in the skull of a zombie who was once a registered nurse as Helaena crouches behind him. “Jace, I’m sorry! I’m gonna miss you, man!”

Jace splashes in the rising river, his arms flailing helplessly. He is being swept away far faster than any of you can move on foot. “Aegon, you dumb bitch!” Jace manages, then slips beneath the water and doesn’t reappear.

“Where is he?!” Baela is saying. “Aemond, where…?”

You are trying to soothe her, to bring her back to reality. She was always so pragmatic before; you have to wake her up. “Baela, listen, we can’t stay here, he would want you and the baby to be safe—”

“Aemond! Aemond, we have to go!” Rio catches him, wrenches him around, roars into his face as driving rain pummels them both: “We have to go, or we’re going to die here too!”

It hits Aemond all at once; he understands, horror and agony in his sole blue eye. “We have to go,” he agrees. And then louder, to everyone: “Get to the farmhouse!”

Baela collapses into the mud, howling, tears flooding down her face. “No, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, we can’t leave him!”

You and Rhaena are trying to haul Baela to her feet. Now Aemond is here, pulling you away from her—his fingers tight and urgent around your wrist—as he and Luke take your place. “Go,” he commands. “You run. Don’t wait for us. Rio?”

“I got her,” Rio replies, grabbing your free hand with an iron grip. Gales of wind rip at you; every millimeter of your skin is soaked with rain. As you flee across the fields towards the farmhouse, dozens of zombies pursue you. More are still staggering along the banks of the river, swept up in the hoards chasing Jace and the promise of his waterlogged corpse when it reaches its final destination. Daeron has run out of arrows and is shooting with his .22, which is very much not his preference. Aegon trips, getting covered in mud as he rolls, and Rio stops to help him. While he is distracted, you look back at Aemond. He, Luke, and Baela are moving quickly, but not quickly enough. A drove of zombies is closing in on them. You have a spare few seconds at last. You yank your backpack off, grab a box of ammo inside, and reload your M9.

“Chips?!” Rio calls over his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

He knows you well enough to listen. The world goes quiet as your finger settles on the trigger. There’s a rhythm one slips into, an impassionate lethal efficiency. It’s easier to keep going than to stop and have to find it again. You fire over and over, dropping eight zombies. You sheath your M9 and whip Rio’s out of your other holster, the sights finding grotesque decaying faces illuminated by lightning. You pull the trigger: blood, bones, brains, corpses jerking and convulsing as they fall harmlessly to the mud. Aemond is here; when did he get here?

“I told you to run!” he’s shouting through the storm, furious. He’s shoving you towards the farmhouse. You resist him.

“Let me kill as many as I can—”

“Go! Now!” Aemond orders over the clashing thunder, and then sprints with you all the way to the front porch to make sure you listen. Everyone else is already there. Helaena has fetched a spare key from under the doormat and is turning it in the lock.

Daeron observes her anxiously. “We don’t know if it’s safe in there, Helaena.”

“Not in,” she says, insistent. “Through.” Through this building, and maybe through the next one too. The average zombie is not terribly clever. If they lose sight of you, without the benefit of the momentum of a hoard they are lost. Helaena opens the door. The living rush inside, and she locks it behind you. As you are bursting out the back door, you can hear zombies pounding their rotting palms against the front one. You soar through a stable full of dead horses and donkeys, leaving the doors open; this should keep the zombies distracted if they make it this far. Then you race to the farthest guest house. Luke, swiveling with his binoculars, spies no zombies approaching as you steal inside. There is no spare key this time; Rio punches out a first-floor window for you to climb through. Once everyone is inside, he and Aegon move a bookshelf to cover the opening.

You all stand in the living room, gasping and shivering, dripping rain down onto the rug and the hardwood floor. The air is dusty but clean of any trace of vile, swampy decay. Outside, thunder booms and lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the lightless house. The sky is so dark it might as well be nightfall. Baela sinks to her knees, clamping both hands over her mouth so she won’t sob loudly enough for a zombie to hear. Rhaena and Luke are beside her, both weeping quiet rivulets of tears, trying to comfort her in whispers. Helaena is rummaging around searching for candles; she has already taken a lighter out of her soaked burlap messenger bag.

“Daeron, bro, come over here,” Aegon chokes out. He embraces Daeron, clutches him tightly and desperately, doesn’t let go. Rio is reloading his Remington 12 gauge.

Jace is dead. Jace is dead.

Aemond says to you, his voice low but seething: “What the fuck was that?”

You blink the raindrops out of your eyes as you stare at him, bewildered. “You needed help.”

“I told you to run.”

“I’m an asset, I have skills that can keep you alive, why am I here if I’m not going to be useful—?”

“You’re not in the fucking Navy anymore!” he hisses. “When I tell you to run, you run, you don’t stop, you don’t look back, because I can’t worry about you and take care of everyone else.”

“Nobody asked you to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aemond,” Aegon pleads, waving him over. Aegon’s plump sunburned cheeks are glistening with rain and tears. “Man, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now. Please come here.”

“I’m going to clear the house,” Aemond says instead.

Rio raises an eyebrow at you—this is one fucked up guy, Chips—and then pumps his shotgun. “Me too.” He sweeps with Aemond through the main floor and then vanishes up the staircase.

Helaena is lightning candles she found in the kitchen and arranging them around the living room. Daeron starts gathering food from the pantry. Rhaena and Baela are murmuring to each other softly, mournfully. It doesn’t feel like something you should intrude on. Luke is peeking out of a window with his binoculars, vigilant for threats. Aegon sniffles, wanders over to you with large, sad, shimmering eyes, pats your shoulder awkwardly.

“Hey, Chocolate Chip. You doing okay?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah. Me either.” Then he flops down on the hideous burnt orange couch and lies there motionless until Daeron brings him a can of Dr. Pepper. Aegon pops the tab, slurps up foam, and then begins singing to himself very quietly, a song so old you can remember your grandfather saying it was one of his favorites as a boy: A Tombstone Every Mile.

When Rio comes back downstairs—heavy footsteps, he can’t help that—you meet him at the bottom of the steps. “The house is good,” Rio says. “And Aemond’s in the big bedroom on the right if you’d like to go up there and talk to him.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

“I could not disagree more,” Rio says with a miserable, exhausted smile. Then he goes to the couch to check on Aegon.

You pick up one of the flickering candles, white and scentless, and ascend the staircase. You find Aemond in the master bedroom, the same accommodations that Jace laid claim to when he was still alive. He is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, at nothing. Tentatively, you sit down beside him, placing the candle on the nightstand.

“Aemond…what happened to Jace…it wasn’t your fault.”

“Criston said I was in charge, that’s the very last thing he told me. They might be the last words I ever hear from him, and I just…” His voice breaks; he wipes the rain and tears from his face with open palms. “I really wanted to get everyone home.”

“I’m so sorry about what I said at the bowling alley,” you confess, like it’s a dire secret. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aemond, I…I want to help you. I can see what you’ve done for everyone here, me and Rio included, and I believe in you. I want to be a part of this.”

He nods, an acceptance of peace, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Can we start over? I’ll never bring it up again, okay? I wasn’t trying to guilt you or upset you or anything. I should have just dropped it. I overreacted. And I understand why being with someone like me maybe wouldn’t be…super appealing.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Aemond wrings his hands, shakes his head, at last turns to you, golden candlelight reflected in his eye, his scar cloaked in shadows. His words are hushed, clandestine, soft powerless surrender. “I’m already so afraid of losing you.”

He cares, he hopes, he wants me too? “I’m here right now, Aemond. I don’t know what else I can say. I’d promise you more if I could.”

He reaches out to touch you, to ghost his thumb across your cheekbone, wet with rain. Then he kisses you, so gently you cannot help but imagine the wispy borders of calm white summer clouds, the rustle of leaves as wind blows down the Appalachian Mountains. You don’t have to ask him what he’s thinking, what it feels like. You can read it in the startled, firelit wonder on his face.

You taste like the beginning of something, here at the end of the world.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n

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paradiseprincesss · 5 months

Note

any cillian murphy character with praise? thank you 💗💗

million dollar man - robert fischer x reader

hi anon! i hope i did your request justice - thank you for being my first request! i listened to million dollar man by lana del rey on repeat while writing this, hope you enjoy xoxo.

summary: robert takes you on vacation for your anniversary, and you give him a little late night fashion show in your beach home.

word count: 2k

a/n: if you haven't already noticed all my fics are based off songs LMAO im gonna start linking the songs each fic is based off of kk thats all

warnings: 18+ minors dni!! smut, swearing, kissing, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, sexual content ahead lol

the west coast was breathtaking, the palm trees, warm weather, the beaches - all of it was beautiful.

robert had taken you on vacation to the west coast to celebrate your one-year anniversary together. he paid for it all, of course, and you were ever so grateful for it.

currently, the two of you were speeding down the coast at sunset in the cream coloured luxury convertible he had stored at one of the beach homes he owned down here. the wind was blowing through your hair, his hand was on your thigh, and to tie it all together - the sun was gleaming down on you as it set over the shore.

robert glanced at you while attempting to focus on driving down the coast, but he found himself getting distracted - your beauty was breathtaking, and tonight, you were the only thing he could find himself focusing on.

dating a man worth more than just millions was new to you - but you had adjusted to it just fine over the last year. robert spoiled you, this shouldn't come as a surprise, though.

constantly showering you in gifts; he would buy you designer bags, shoes, clothes, cars, and jewelry - anything you wanted, you could have. at least, that's what he always said.

he gave your thigh a little squeeze as he raced down the road, eventually pulling up the beach house- no, mansion - that he had owned down on the west coast. the home itself was breathtaking, an oceanfront property that screamed luxury. as the car came to a stop on the driveway, robert took your hand and gave it a small kiss. he got out of the car, swiftly coming to the passenger side and opening the door for you.

"come on, honey, i have something i want to show you." he said, helping you out of the car. a curious expression painted your face as he took your hand in his, leading you into the home.

as he opened the door for you - you gasped.

in the large foyer of the home, there were bouquets on bouquets of red roses everywhere - your favourite. amongst the beautiful floral arrangements, there were multiple boxes and bags all with gift wrapping or ribbons on them, from designer stores - goyard, chanel, louis vuitton - you name it.

"robert..." you say softly, looking over at him with your hand still in his, and he smiles at you proudly.

"i love you. happy anniversary." he says, wrapping his arms around you, and kissing you softly.

"i love you too." was all you managed to mumble against his lips - he spoiled you on a daily basis but this - this was something else; you'd never had a partner willingly give you this much for an anniversary before - but you also never dated a millionaire before. as you pulled away from the kiss, you look up at him with a doting expression, "how can i ever thank you for this, robbie? you're so good to me..."

he looks at you with love - and smirks, his voice dropping low.

"i still have one more thing for you upstairs, gorgeous." he whispers, hands snaking down to your ass - giving it a little squeeze.

you bite your lip and nod, as he gestures you to go up the stairs, following you. as you reach the master bedroom - you see even more roses littered all over, and a medium sized white box on the middle of the bed, adorned with a matching white bow, and little white card on the top.

you reached over to pick up the little memo, and it read:

happy anniversary, my angel. i adore you.

love, robert.

glancing down at the box - you read the label, it was from your favourite lingerie store, la perla.

carefully unwrapping the bow and opening the box, you peeked inside to see a gorgeous white italian lingerie set. you let out a shallow breath, and turned around to see him smirking slightly.

"i want to see my little angel dress the part," he says lowly, "why don't you go put that on and give me a little fashion show, hm? how's that sound, angel?"

you look up at him innocently, and bite your lip as you got lost in his icy gaze for a moment, "anything for you."

grabbing the contents in the box, you rush to the bathroom to go try it on for robert. closing the door behind you, you shed your dress and put on the lingerie - complete with a garter belt and straps. looking at yourself up and down in the mirror, you couldn't even lie - you felt so sexy.

the white set he got you was stunning, the white lace sat perfectly on your skin - and the little bow details on the set was the cherry on top. as you were about to step out from the bathroom, you slipped on the white heels that were in the box.

of course he wanted you to wear heels with it - he's just that extra. but hey, he paid god knows what for them, so...

as you opened the door, you found robert sitting on the edge of the bed, his tie visibly loosened now. as he heard the door to the bathroom open, he quickly looked over at you.

"my god," he breathed, "come here, pretty."

following his instructions you walked over to him, his gaze not once leaving your body; drinking your beauty in.

"c'mon, give me a little spin, honey." he coos, throwing pet names left and right at you. doing as you're told, you indeed give him a little spin, and he suddenly gets up, standing behind you.

"bend over the edge of the bed for me, honey." he softly tells you, and again - you do as your told, bending over the bed for him, your white lace panties leaving just about nothing to the imagination.

"god, your body is fucking lethal." he groans, pressing his hard bulge on your clothed cunt, making you moan in bliss at the feeling. "fuck, your moans are just as pretty as you are," he chokes, "my pretty girl."

"robbie..." you moan, and he quickly flips you around onto your back, pushing you onto the bed, making you slightly startled - but you giggle.

"love making you happy," he says, leaving sloppy kisses all over your neck, trailing down to your breasts, "i'd do anything for you, honey - anything. give you the world if i could, fuck."

his hands ghost over the lace and little bow adorning the bra, and the feeling makes you shiver. you were certain that you were already soaking through your panties, and you let out a whimper at the feeling.

he took his time with you - admiring you as if you were an art piece. eventually, he unclasped your bra, and he immediately took your nipple into his mouth. your hand went straight for his hair, and you started moaning breathlessly.

"fuck, robbie, baby." you say, out of breath, "please."

he didn't offer you a reply, instead, he just went straight to the other nipple, and teasingly nipped at it, all whilst snaking a hand down to your clothed cunt - fingers ghosting over your clit. the feeling made you moan and you needed him inside of you - now.

after giving a few more kisses to your breasts, he got on his stomach to lay between your legs, teasingly pulling your panties down and giving you absolutely no time to react before licking a stripe up your cunt.

"fuck." you moaned at the feeling, and you swore you felt him smile against you.

he ate you out as if he hadn't eaten for days - like a starved man. tongue licking every inch of your pussy, sucking your sensitive clit, as his name was falling from your lips like a mantra.

"god, you taste so good." he mumbled against your soaking cunt, and you felt your cheeks heat up at the praise, but he kept going, "pretty face, pretty tits, pretty pussy. you're the fantasy."

that got you moaning, begging - and you felt yourself get close.

"i-i'm, oh- i'm s-so close." you moaned, and he continued to dip his tongue into your hole all while sucking your clit - going back and forth between the two.

you felt that familiar sensation in your stomach, and you felt yourself tip over the edge - incoherently begging, whining and moaning his name over and over.

"you look so fucking pretty when you cum." he softly says, after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand - the sight making you dizzy. your slick on his now even pinker lips and chin, pupils blown out.

scrambling out of desperation, you helped him out of his white button down as he worked on undoing his belt.

"good girl, fuck-" he says as you help him out of his clothing, "you're so well behaved, aren't you pretty girl?"

you smile up at him, still dazed from the way he made you cum just a minute ago, and he pushes you back down on the bed as he stroked his now free cock.

he teased your entrance with the tip of his cock, making you whine. "be good, baby." he warns - but it was gentle, just teasing.

you pout at him but that pout is wiped right off your face as you feel him sink into you, stretching your cunt out completely. you let out an almost pornographic moan, and your hands fly to his shoulders for some sort of support - something to grab onto.

"jesus- fuck, how do you get tighter every time i fuck you?" he groans, fucking into your cunt at a fast pace, making you whimper and moan.

"right there, oh my goddddd." you say, breathlessly, the feeling of cock stretching you out causing you to see stars.

"right there?" he coos, brushing a strand of your tousled hair out of your face, "right there, pretty?"

you just nod frantically, hands gripping his biceps and shoulders - unable to reply from the levels of pleasure he was bringing you in that moment, cock pounding into your tight cunt at a brutal pace.

he felt you tighten around his cock and let out a noise that was fucking filthy - his moans were something you swore you could listen to on repeat, all day, all the time.

"good girl, good fucking girl." he praised through a moan, and you just moaned his name over and over.

"robbie- ah, feels so good!" you whimper, feeling the knot in your stomach about to pop.

"you gonna cum pretty girl? be good for, shit-" he moans, "be good for me and cum." he says in a saccharine voice, his gaze never leaving you, causing you to blush - even though he almost always kept eye contact with you while he fucked you.

his words caused you to scream his name, and you made a mess all over his cock, cumming so hard you felt tears stream down your face.

"look at you-" he groans, feeling himself close to release, cock still pounding into your cunt at a ruthless speed, "so fucking beautiful when you cry. shit, baby, gonna fill you up. stuff you with my cum.”

you found yourself crying under him, tears of love; tears from overstimulation.

"p-please," you weakly say, voice a little raspy, "cum i-in me."

"fuck, i will, good girl..." he groans, shooting his load into your cunt with a moan.

he pulls you into a rough kiss, which you moan into as you felt his warm seed being stuffed into your cunt.

he pulls away after a moment, panting and out of breath - a small smile on his face. after a few beats of silence, he puts his hand on your cheek, cupping your face gently - lovingly.

"happy anniversary, pretty girl."

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the-soliloquies-of-sadists · 6 months

Text

This is a direct follow up to Story #387, Story #389, and Story #394. It is strongly advised that you read those stories first.

#400

“There he is! Timothy Stone, get on up here!... Welcome aboard! Welcome to the Zelus. I see you are impressed with my tiny tugboat. Ha! Ha! I love looking at reactions of new passengers. You ever been on a yacht this big?

“It’s sixty-nine feet, and enough power to get us around the entire Bahamas and back here to West Palm Beach. It has four staterooms and two crew quarters. You get one of them. Sorry, with the entire executive team here each of us will get our own stateroom.

“Let me text Lloyd to take us out of the marina. All of us have been here for some time. No, don’t worry about it. I told you to be here at three, and it’s five ‘til three. No, we’ve been having fun with our new faggot we got tied up….

“You want a drink?... I have this cognac that I was given in Vegas the other day by a potential client. I haven’t tried it yet.

“Ahh we are moving. We should be out of the marina in a few minutes.

“Here you go…. Cheers! …Ahhh! Smooth. I’m not a fan of cognac, but this is pretty good. It should be. Courvoisier Mizunara is supposed to be one of the best out there. On the shelves it’s worth $2,500. But shit, I couldn’t tell that from a $100 bottle. Bourbon is more my thing.

“Growing up in Tennessee, my Uncle Jimmy used to make his own. Everyone in a five-mile radius of his home had a bottle of his bourbon. I used to help him out in his garage in the evening when his son went off to college. Uncle Jimmy showed me everything, but we always wound-up drinking. I was sixteen at the time. I’d plow his ass at the end of the night. After a few times, he didn’t even wait until we started drinking. He had one of the best pieces of ass I ever had.

“His bourbon lives on with my cousin once my uncle passed. I have a bottle of it here. I may break it out sometime during this trip. My cousin fucked it up when he went ran the company. It’s definitely not as good as it was before. Some boys just don’t have a mind for business.

“Speaking of boys in business, your son Michael is doing great. From what Lloyd was telling me, he’s really taking to his new role as intern. I know he finds it a challenge, but Lloyd, Ben, and Gary think he’s handling it better than anyone they have seen in a long time. Apparently, he has a gift for adapting, kinda rolling with the punches.

“What I like about him—I met him this morning—is his ability to take directions without complaints. That is such a difficult characteristic to find in boys these days. Lloyd and Gary were indicating they want to keep him around after his initial internship. I left him earlier working hard trying to impress me.

“…Oh you hear that cabin tone? That’s Lloyd telling everyone that we’ve cleared the marina and are out at sea. This is your first time on the Zelus. When we are in open water, we strip naked. All of us.

“I told you the other day when we were talking about promoting you to lead our European expansion, that we are a close group of men—of four gay men. We share our conquests, our lusts, our dark needs with each other. I trust these men like I would trust my brother, if not more. We have been in countless gang bangs tearing up some faggot’s cunt. I have seen their cocks and asses so much that it’s awkward to see them clothed. The other two on board are faggots. Naturally those two are going to be kept naked.

“So strip. This is not an option. You can jump overboard and swim back to shore if you would like.

“Good.

“You can leave them on the couch. Ben’s boy will put them in your cabin. If you go out on deck you can keep your sunglasses and baseball cap on.

“You have got to realize that the four of us have known each other for years. Lloyd and I go back to our time in the Corps. What connects us is our love for using and abusing faggots.

“Right now, as I was saying there are two faggots on board. One is Ben’s boy. While Ben has taken him on as a partner of sorts, he’s still a faggot at heart.

“…I guess I should ask, do you know the difference between a gay man and a faggot? A faggot is a gay man who has a need, an urge, a longing to submit to the whims of superior men. The more humiliating, degrading, cruel the better. Faggots live for the cum of its superiors. It loves to degrade itself in order for the man to be elevated. It needs the beatings, the piss, the bondage, the punishment to feel complete.

“I don’t know why you were hesitating about stripping. You have a great body, average sized dick, nice long foreskin, and holy shit… Those balls are huge! Let me hold on to them….

“Hey don’t hesitate. We are all physical with each other as well. Look, I’m standing here in front of you naked. I already saw you check out my dick. Yes, it’s very fat. If you want to touch it, go right ahead.

“You know, as a man who says he bisexual, you certainly seem apprehensive…. Or is it the fact that I’m your boss telling you to take a hold of my cock. I get it. If you are going to be a part of this team, you are going to have to drop those pretenses. When you walk around you should let those low hangers swing free and guide your every step.

“Let me check out your ass. Hey, what can I say? I’m an ass man. I’m going to see it anyways, might as well be now.

“Solid and meaty, just as I would have guessed. Nice and hairy. Faggots seem to love licking a hairy crack. You ever have your ass eaten out?... There may be some ass eating ahead.

“Speaking of which, right now that faggot is down below. It is tied down, blindfolded with a noise cancelling headset on, ass up. The four of us have already bred it. You will be up next.

“Your cock doesn’t seem like it wants to get hard…. Do you need something? We have Viagra, Cialis, Levitra, Muse, Tri-mix. Well, I need a shot of Tri-Mix. After this morning’s big load, I don’t think I could get hard again until tomorrow.

“You ever do Tri-Mix? I use it when I want to fuck for a long time. It keeps me boned up for a few hours. You want to try it? After a few minutes have passed you will be rock, and I mean rock hard.

“If you are nervous, this being your first time with me on the Zelus, just do it. Let me get it. It’s kept cold. Don’t worry, I have a doctor that gives me whatever I want.

“Just stand right there. Don’t worry. I’ve done this many times. Yes it’s an injectable. And it’s injected into the shaft. Aww, don’t turn into a pussy on me.

“I brought two syringes. Let me do it to myself. Here watch…. It goes in, I plunge, and it comes out. Like that. It’s over quick. Now a few tugs and I can already feel it working. I’m not going to get completely rigid for about 15-20 minutes.

“Look, you say you are bisexual, but I’m thinking that you are making up the gay side of it because you want to impress us. You want this promotion so fucking bad you are willing to fuck some faggot in front of us. You wouldn’t be the first straight man to shoot up his cock to fuck fags. There’s a whole term for it: gay-for-pay.

“You want to be part of this team, you are going to need to learn to love using faggots, that includes dumping a load into them. To do that you need to get hard. This injection will do that for you.

“Here feel my cock again. Grab a hold of it…. Feel that? It’s harder than a few minutes ago. Here let me inject you.

“Come here. Just look up. On the count of three. One! See, it went in…. And now you are done. Give it a few tugs and you will start to feel it.

“You’ll be hard for the rest of the night. Lots of fucking in your future tonight.

“When we had our conversation in Vegas, I told you that I was pissed off at your skimming the profits but was very intrigued at the process you used to do so. It took some serious creativity to pull that off. I was impressed. The guys too. We set this cruise out to a remote island in the Bahamas to get to know you—to get to know you as a fag fucker. Besides, the shit we do… man, we wouldn’t take on anyone who had a shred of decency.

“Do you feel your cock getting larger? I can see it growing. Yeah, once we go downstairs into the media room that doubles as a dungeon, you will see the faggot cunt secured to the sling or fuck bench. Your cock will slide into its cunt. And it should be silky smooth. Better than any woman’s pussy.

“We have been training this faggot for a couple of weeks. Lloyd secured him about the time when you and I went to Vegas. He was an easy target. What you probably don’t realize being essentially straight is that there are faggots out there that will do just about anything to serve men like us—brutal men like us. Lloyd has a good talent for reading a potential faggot. He says things that just seems to work on getting that faggot to be collared.

“Once that happens then it’s only a matter of time that they submit to whatever we want to do to them. And all it took was this. See this little fob? This is the tool we use. Here, press the number one button.

“Do it again. And again. What you did, is you sent a shock to the faggot down below. The collar we put on him is wired up, like a collar for a dog to get it to stop barking. Once they feel that, total submission is almost immediate. With this particular faggot, he turned into a whipping post for Ben and toilet paper for Gary in no time.

“Where we keep the faggot is wired up for numerous cameras. So we can see what the faggot is doing and send a shock from anywhere in the world. I even sent one from Vegas when you were looking up some number from some report.

“Look at your cock. It’s starting to get rigid. Damn! You are a grower!

“You know, let’s go see the faggot. The guys will be down there. We are certainly far from shore so Lloyd will have the autopilot on.

“This way…. Doesn’t it feel right to be walking around buck naked? Trust me you’ll get used to it, and soon enough you’ll be naked pretty much all the time. If you need to piss and you don’t have a faggot nearby, just aim off the side and go. The one thing you’ll learn is pissing with a hard-on will take some time, which is great for loading up a faggot’s toilet cunt.

“And here we are. Before we go in, I want to point out that you can see the men are enjoying themselves. In general, we casually use faggots’ holes. It’s about pleasure and not so much about busting a nut, although busting a nut happens a lot.

“Look at how the men are enjoying what’s going on. Ben is balls deep in his boy, while the boy is tongue fucking Gary’s shitter. Lloyd is pile driving the faggot over on the fuck bench, stirring up the cum stew.

“This is the life we created. This is what you are coming into. Let’s go in.

“Gentlemen! I got Timothy here. His cock has been shot up and he’s ready to fuck.

“Damn Tim! You really are a grower. I should have expected that when I saw your long foreskin. Now only the tip shows. Skin it back; I want to see how big your head is.

“Shit! Do you ever clean that thing? Look at that dick cheese…. Come here. Stick your dickhead in the faggot’s mouth. He’ll clean you off.

“The faggot is blindfolded and has noise canceling headset under his hood. He won’t know what to do until you use the handle on his hood to pull his head back. Then just shove your dick in his mouth. The faggot knows to clean off dick cheese; I’m sure Gary made sure of that.

“There you go…. I see that smile. Feels good, doesn’t it? Better than any woman. A well-trained faggot is better than anything a woman can do.

“Well you got Gary and Ben to stop and watch you.

“Oh you see his welts. Yeah, a well-trained faggot also takes a beating. We punish faggot slaves appropriately, but they also are made to understand that sometimes the beatings are for our enjoyment. Ben and Lloyd certainly like to have their fun.

“This faggot has been trained to do so much. He’s going to fetch us a good price. Yeah, we plan on selling him. There are men around the world that pay top dollar for a well-trained faggot slave.

“Pull out. I said pull out. I told you that you will enjoy this.

“Lloyd, move the faggot to the sling. I think Tim here is ready to fuck.

“While he’s doing that, care for another drink? Or would you like a cigar? No? Ok.

“Boy. Go upstairs and pour Tim here a glass of the Courvoisier Mizunara cognac. The bottle should be sitting out. Hell, bring the whole bottle down.

“That’ll help you adapt and sink into everything to come. So have you ever been to a gang bang, or fucked a woman who has several loads in her? The feeling on your cock is amazing. Yes it’s sloppy, but it also feels silky smooth.

“That’s a sight, isn’t it? That cunt has been trained to take cock after cock and still remain tight to give pleasure and loose enough to not cause your dick to struggle to fuck.

“Here’s your cognac. Might as well down it.

“Now go on. Step up. Slide it in. Trust me, this is going to be a fuck you will never forget.

“…Good. You ready?

“There you go! There’s the smile. Now FUCK!

“Give that faggot what he deserves. Slam into him. Faggots were made to be fucked not made love to.

“Hell yes! Look, we are all stroking our dicks for you. You have no idea how hot this is….

“Guys, gather around. You should see this up close.

“…Go for it! Don’t hold back. Breed the faggot.

“FUCK YEAH! FUCK!

“…You did it! In record time! Well done! Don’t pull out yet. Let the rest of your body calm down first. Savor the feeling. Savor the moment.

“You did good. Now, I need for you to pull out slowly. The faggot is trained to clamp down. Good. Good!

“Look at that slime on your cock. That’s all our juices. How do you feel? I know. Words elude you?... Ha!

“Get on your knees…. You heard me. I want you to look at this faggot’s cunt.

“Gary, pull apart the fag’s cheeks. Let’s really see that cunt hole.

“On your knees…. There you go.

“Ben. Lloyd. Now.

“…They move fast, don’t they? You have the same shock collar on you as the faggot does. Now pay attention. This is a level one zap.

“…Hurts like a motherfucker, right? There are ten settings, and you had the weakest. I don’t think another demonstration is needed. Do you understand your situation?

“…Shut up. I don’t want to hear your babble. That was a ‘Yes Sir’/’No Sir’ question….

“OK. You really thought you could skim money from us and be rewarded with a promotion? Please! You need some sort of punishment. That begins with your lips kissing the faggot’s cunt lips. Go on! Lean in.

“…That was level two…. There you go!

“Now keep your mouth open. The faggot may be wearing a noise cancelling headset, but we can speak to him. He’s going to be told to shit some of his cunt slop into your mouth. Do not swallow it. Nod if you understand. Good.

“Whew! That was a messy fart! Remember don’t swallow. Now pull back. Look up at us. Show us the load. Now gargle it. Like mouthwash!

“Two minutes ago, you were a man, but now you are a gargler of cum gobs. Now don’t swallow. Stop gargling.

“Get up and go share that in the faggot’s mouth. Get up…. You know I hate having to repeat myself. If I have to do it again, you will experience level three. Now go and have a deep passionate kiss with the faggot.

“Hold his head and swap spit. Pretend he’s a woman. Hell, pretend it’s your son Michael’s mother. I don’t care.

“Fuck yeah! I didn’t realize that you are an excellent kisser. Pull off. There will be more kissing. Get back to kneeling at the faggot’s cunt.

“You are going to repeat the process exactly the same, except for the gargling. You can skip that. Any hesitation will be met with level three for triple the length. You understand. Just nod.

“Good. Oh, I forgot to tell you one thing. You need to hear it before you go back to eating another splatter fart out of your son’s ass….

“…Oh yeah! The faggot here is your son Michael. This is the internship we set him up with. Oh yeah. Your son was a faggot before us. It was easy for us to pluck him.

“Now, remember level 3. You are to do the exact same thing with the same level of passion.... I'm fucking serious. Go!

“…Damn! That was close. A split second longer in hesitating and you would have been shocked. Keep licking. While you wait to receive your gift from your son’s cunt, Lloyd here is removing your son’s hood. He still has his blindfold and headset on. We will be removing those shortly. You probably won’t recognize him initially because Ben had removed all this body hair even on his head.

“Did you hear that? Gary just busted a nut watching you felch out our loads from your son’s cunt.

“Pull off when your mouth is full. Good. Now go French kiss your son.

“Just like before. Go on now…. Fuck yeah!

“This is so hot.

“Now go back to his cunt. But this time remain standing.

“Stick your slime covered cock back into your boy’s cunt. And fuck him. That Tri-mix I injected you with should keep you hard for a long time. You’ve already fucked a load into him. Now just fuck.

“You really should see yourself. Oh wait, you can. Look over at that TV. Yes, we have been filming you. See your face. There’s panic, fear, guilt, regret, and even a little disgust. All the good emotions. And over on the TV to your right, you can see how your son became a faggot with each of us. Oh yeah, he wasn’t coerced into being a faggot like you were. No, he was totally into sperm burping and pole riding. The fear you had that he might be gay turned out to be true in the most glorious way.

“DO NOT STOP FUCKING.

“And now, we get to see shame you have in him and in yourself, by taking the headset off first.

“Faggot, it is imperative that you do not say a word. If either you or the shithead fucking you say one word, you both will get shocked at level 3. This includes screaming. I want both of you to nod that you understand.

“Good. Now Tim, remove the blindfold.

“Look into your son’s eyes. Let him see just how much your fuck up has cost him. All this is because you had arrogance and ambition. You tried to fuck us over, you tried to steal from us, and you believed that we would be ok with it and promote you as well? Fuck that!

“Are you crying? You are!... Do not stop fucking your son.

“Faggots! That was level 3. Yes! The both of you got shocked. That’s how punishments will be going forward. One fucks up, then both gets shocked.

“Now get back to fucking your son.

“Here’s the situation. We still have about four hours to go. And you have a hard on that will last another three to six. You will be fucking him non-stop until we get to where we are going. Until then, you will not say one word to each other. Remember those shock collars we have padlocked on you were meant for barking dogs. If you say one thing, the sensors will register sounds and you two will be shocked. Also, that sling has a sensor that will monitor for movement. If that movement stops or even slows down—say due to stopping fucking—you two will be shocked. Tim, if your collar should go more than 6 feet away from your faggot son’s collar, you two will be shocked. If any one of us bring up one of our video feeds and see that your cock is not inside your faggot son’s cunt, you two will be shocked. I will free the faggot’s hands. I want the two of you to enjoy playing with each other’s chest. What can I say? I’m a nice guy.

“That’s a lot of fucking between the two of you between now and when we reach the island. But here’s one thing before we leave you both to go have dinner. That island is a small private island, about two to three acres. There’s a small dock and a metal shed to shield from the elements. The owner of the island always has a box stocked with water bottles and something to eat. Last time we sold a faggot there, they put in a hammock between two of the four trees on the island.

“Faggot, you will be left on the dock. The island owners will send carriers to pick you up either tomorrow or the next day. From there, they will arrange delivery to your new owners.

“Until then you are free to roam the small island. Swim. Whatever. If you want to swim to the next island, it’s about 7 miles in open ocean, and that island is about ten times larger, but still uninhabited.

“So that’s the life your dad has caused you to have. Look at him. He’s a failure, and he knows it.

“Well Tim. While you cry, keep fucking your son. This will be the last few hours with him. What do you have to say? Oh, let me turn off your noise sensor….

“…No we can’t simply forget all this. You stole a lot of money from us, it needs to be paid. We paid a lot in fuel to get us out here. We paid for a pick up on the island. They expect a faggot. Now, if you want to switch places with your son, that can be arranged.

“You want to do that? You want to be sold into sex slavery instead of your faggot son?...

“…Well fuck! I wasn’t expecting that! You didn’t waste any time in shaking your head no.

“Faggot, did you see how fast your dad just gave you up? Shit!

“These past weeks have been carefully planned. Every word, every detail. From the Vegas trip where we had our talk, to Lloyd convincing faggot here to sign up to be our intern, to the strip club dancer I paid to have sex with you so that a potential buyer could see you in action, to the tri-mix dose on hand, to the video feeds cued up, and to me handing the shock remote to dear old dad to get him to shock his son three times. The one thing I was expecting you to do was the fatherly thing and offer to go instead of your son.

“Nope. You chose to sacrifice your son. Didn’t even think twice. That’s fucking brutal. Just when I think you can’t be more of a piece of shit, you surprise me.

“No YOU are going to be sold, not your faggot son. Your new owner saw you fuck that stripper, and he wanted you. He’s into hairy middle-aged straight men as his sex slaves. He doesn’t want your hairless faggot son.

“So you are going to be sold. But I wonder. Hmm. I’m going to contact your new owner and see if he’s interested in the pair of you two as a set. Yeah, that is a great idea, to sell your son into slavery as well. If you had just offered yourself up instead of your son, he would have been spared. But no.

“If you have anything to say, save it. I just put your noise sensor back on. Get back to fucking your son.

“Gentlemen let’s go have some dinner. Ben, I see your boy is gone. To start cooking I presume. You are one step ahead, as always. Let’s leave these two have some private time. They have lots to talk about, too bad they can’t say anything. Lloyd, I know you have been eying that cognac. Go ahead and grab it. It’s yours for all the hard work you put in. Actually, you all did good. I’m proud of you all. That was fun.”

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roguekhajiit · 2 months

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Magats are so deep in the kool-aid bowl it's surprising they haven't drowned in it yet.

Trump has been recorded live, promising that Christians will never have to vote again so long as they get out and vote for him. Once they do that it will be the last time they ever need to vote.

"In four years, you don't have to vote again, we'll have it fixed so good you're not going to have to vote."

- Donald Trump at Turning Point Action's Believers Summit in West Palm Beach July 26, 2024

Everyone else sees his words for what they are; a threat to our very democracy. But his cultists simply grab themselves another cup of kool-aid and scoff. "Oh, you're just taking him out of context. That's not what he meant at all!"

So let's look at his other claim then, his promise to erase an important part of the 14th amendment.

Amendment 14, Section 1 :

All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside.

"As part of my plan to secure the border on Day 1 of my new term in office, I will sign an executive order making clear to federal agencies that under the correct interpretation of the law, going forward the future children of illegal aliens will not receive automatic U.S. citizenship."

- Donald Trump, May 2023

So he's gonna what, white out any part of the Constitution or its amendments that he doesn't agree with?

But of course, this plan to do away with birthright citizenship doesn't apply to him or his friends and family. No, because if he made it retroactive, that would mean his sons, his Dad, and even he himself would be stripped of all citizenship. Along with every other fucking white, non-native, racist fucktards who yell "Go back to where you came from" at any person of color they see at their local Wal-Mart. I guarantee they also have a "If this flag offends you, I'll help you pack" bumper sticker on their obnoxiously lifted, compensation prize, Ram 3500.

But his policy, of course, would never apply to himself and his precious white Christian cultists. No, it only applies to people of color. People who look like Kamala Harris and Barack Obama. People with naturally occurring melanin who, as a result, don't need to have a recurring appointment with a spray tan booth.

Of course, it only applies to people who look like his political opponents and their supporters. Why else would he and his cult continue to mail out political smear campaigns naming politicians WHO AREN'T EVEN RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT ANYMORE as the biggest threat to our country?!

Honestly, I think it's time to take a break from the Kool-Aid, folks. Barack Obama isn't living in the basement of the White House telling Joe Biden and Kamala Harris how to run the country. He doesn't have a back stock of Biden clones that he awakens anytime the current one expires. He's in his personal home office writing books.

The current threat to this country isn't Biden or Obama, or Harris. It flocks around a rotten peach and wears a red hat.

#maga is a cult #maga morons #maga cult #fuck maga #magats #never trump #trump is a criminal #fuck trump #deport trump #deport maga #save our democracy #birthright citizenship #vote democrat #vote blue #vote harris #get out the vote #they drank the kool-aid

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ladylooch · 2 months

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You, Me, and Mexico [Lucie x Connor] - Part 1

A/N: I mentioned this before, but want to re-iterate that this is basically a re-write of the beginning of Lucie and Connor's story. This happened because as I got to know the characters more, I didn't feel like what was written before accurately reflected their start. So here is a much hotter, achey, pining version of that story. ICYMI, you will want to check out this part first, which is mentioned in a few moments below.

Word Count: 5.1k

(Lucie)

The last time Lucie Hischer set foot in Mexico, she was ten years old. After that, family vacations revolved more around the Spanish and Italian areas of Europe. There was so much to explore within a short flight of their permanent home in Switzerland.

Everything about this trip is going to be different.

Starting with the sleeping hockey player on her left.

Since Lucie and Connor separated on New Years, she hasn’t seen much of him or Lio. The Devils skid continued the next few weeks, but a long, West coast road trip helped them turn everything around. Her desperate arms had clawed Connor into a hug at the airport this morning when she met Lio and him at the security line for their Allstar retreat. Lucie has tons of assignments and school work she should be focusing on this week. Instead, she’s throwing it all out the window for some fun in the sun. Hopefully.

Lucie glances to the left again, away from her book to Connor who sleeps with his big headphones covering his ears. His arms are crossed over his chest where he wears a dark grey sweatshirt. A well-worn Patriot’s hat sits on his head. His face is turned towards her so she can examine his features as the sunlight tries to collect on his lips from her window. His jaw flexes and he breathes heavily, almost like he might be dreaming. He looks so beautiful right now. Not even hot or sexy, just damn beautiful with his gorgeous and chiseled features. She’s almost disappointed that his closed lids hide those water, blue eyes from her.

Behind her, Lio taps her seat.

“Do you have chapstick?” He asks her, one eye peeking through the from her armrest.

“Yeah.” Lucie nods, rummaging round in her bag for it. She holds it behind her head for him to grab. A minute later, he is placing it back in her palm.

“Thanks. Hey, are you good to go to the beach tonight? Supposed to be a big party there. Lots to do. We are going to meet some of the other boys there.” A few other players Lio and Connor know from around the league are meeting up with them.

“Yeah. Sounds fun.” Lucie nods.

“Cool.” Lio leans back, leaving Lucie to go back to her book.

However, she quickly falls asleep, curled up in her seat, feet off the floor so her knees are basically a pillow. Her book falls down from her hand, collecting on Connor’s thigh.

“Luc.” She hears, then feels Connor’s hand slide around her ankle. He rubs his thumb across it, catching both her skin and her sock. He increases his pressure when she doesn’t respond. “Lucie, wake up.” His hand works it’s way up to hold her calf. His thumb presses into her muscle harder. Lucie slowly opens her eyes, looking at him with bleary brown orbs. “Hi.” He smiles sweetly at her. He moves his hand up to cup her cheek for a moment, then lets his hand fall. Lucie’s stomach does flip flops in her body. “We are landing soon.” He tells her.

“Okay.” She mumbles, letting her legs fall back to the floor. Connor hands over her book, already placing the bookmark in it so she doesn’t lose her spot. She puts her shoes back on, then works her dilapidated hair out of it’s scrunchie. She works the long brown strands back into a fresher, more contained style. The entire time she can feel Connor’s eyes on her. “What?” She asks, then shrugs when he shakes his head, finally looking away.

Lucie frowns. She can’t help but feel frustrated that her and Connor had this big moment and distance has iced out whatever had been building between them. It’s like yes, he kissed her, multiple times, but it’s not like he has been texting her or interacting with her when he was on the road. Maybe what she thought was happening wasn’t.

After a short and quiet cab ride, they reach their resort on the coast. They are greeted with sparkling water and limes, then check into their three separate rooms. Despite Lucie’s insistence on paying her own way, Lio paid for her entire trip, thus their rooms are right next to each other. Connor is on the same floor, but in the opposite direction.

“Let’s meet up in an hour?” Lio asks them both. Connor nods, then heads off to his room.

Lucie disappears behind the door to her room after a wave to Lio, then immediately runs into her room to jump on the bed. She sighs happily, curling into the cloud like bed and it’s soft embrace of her. She doesn’t stay there long. She knows if she does, she will fall asleep again. So, she focuses on getting ready for the evening. She washes her face, then re-does her makeup into a night out shades and coverage. Her eyes are smokey and her lips are subtle. Her hair has started to wave up in the costal humidity, so she uses her Dyson to encourage the waves more.

From there, Lucie unpacks her suitcase. She dresses herself in forest green linen shorts and with a pale pink bralette and a white shirt. She spritz on two more pumps of her perfume and rubs her wrists together before dabbing them behind her ears. She knows how good she looks. If Connor isn’t going to look then she is sure others will be.

After grabbing her crossbody purse and putting her sandals on, Lucie heads down to the lobby while sending a quick text to her parents that they made it to the resort. She sees Lio and Connor sipping margaritas in plastic cups with a few other men who must be hockey players. They’re all wearing different colors and patterns of tropical themes shirts. They should look dorky and unassuming, instead they draw attention from patrons all across the resort. She walks up to Lio’s left, avoiding Connor on his right.

“Hey! This is Lucie, my cousin and entirely off limits.” Lio introduces her to the group. Lucie rolls her eyes.

“Wow, what an introduction.” She purrs, extending her hand to the man on her left. “Hi, I’m Lucie, Lio’s very available cousin.”

“Nice to meet you.” He grins. He is entirely too blonde and skinny for her. The rest of them are all similar with various colors of hair and eyes. None of them are as big and filled out as Connor Wood.

“Want something to drink?” The one who introduced himself as Brandt asks.

“I got it.” Connor insists. Lucie looks over at him, seeing his hard set jaw and lowered eyebrows. He doesn’t look thrilled.

“I’ll go with you.” She offers. He extends a hand out to encouraging her to walk towards the bar in front of him.

“You shouldn’t of done that.” He says quietly from behind her.

“What?” She asks as they reach the outer loop of the bar.

“Told a group of hockey players that you’re open for business.”

“Why?” She laughs as she scans her eyes over the menu. She is pretty sure she wants a margarita but it’s always good to look.

“Because they’re going to spend this entire trip trying to get a taste of you.”

“That bother you?”

“You know it does.” He rolls his eyes. “You and your little games. Always playing some angle.” He scoffs quietly, putting his forearms on the bar, eyes zeroing in on the bartender. Lucie snorts quietly, then licks her lips with frustration.

“Says the guy who kisses me once and thinks he owns me.”

“Nobody owns you, Lucie. No one ever will.” Annoyed fire dashes through Lucie’s chest.

“Are you going to keep pretending like our kiss never happened?” She demands, frustrated that it’s been brought up and he is flinging it away like a fly. He looks over at her, blue eyes smoldering her in place.

“No. That’s the last thing I want to do. But we’re here with Lio. And a group of guys who are going to be falling all over themselves for a chance with you and your smart mouth.”

“Hey…. My mouth is more than just smart.” She smirks. She leans in, whispering in his ear. “You would die at the things it could do to you.” Her lips brush against the sleeve of his blue, tropical shirt. She puckers them, kissing his bicep gently as the bartender comes over.

“What can I get you?”

“A margarita. On the rocks. Make it extra salty on the rim.” She murmurs, not taking her eyes off Connor.

“On my tab.” Connor says. “Room 561.”

“Yes sir.” The bartender responds, then heads off to mix up Lucie’s drink.

“You can’t say stuff like that to me, Luc.” Connor says to her, finally breaking their stare down.

“I can do whatever I want.” Connor inhales heavily, then drops his shoulders as he exhales.

“Nothing has changed about Lio.” He reminds her.

“Sure, but everything has changed between us. And you did that. Don’t chicken out on me now, Woody.”

“I’m not chickening out.”

“Then what are we doing?” He stares at her, eyes tracing over her face in a warm caress.

“We’re in Mexico, Lucie. That’s what we are doing.”

The bartender sets Lucie’s drink on the bar top by her elbow, but it goes unacknowledged by her and Connor. Anxiousness and disappointment swirls in Lucie’s body. She was so hopeful that her and Connor would find themselves tangled up in each other. But his reserved look tells her that this week she really is going to be Lio’s unavailable cousin. Hurt bubbles up in her throat, so she stands up tall, shaking her hair over her shoulder.

“Well then. Have a fun trip.” She snaps at him, grabbing her margarita off the bar and heading back to the group. On the way, she sucks in two big, deep breaths to stop the stinging of her eyes.

She settles into her spot on Lio’s right while Connor slowly rejoins the group on Lio’s left. He is quiet, hands in his pockets, not laughing along with the rest of the boys as they razz on Sean.

“Ready for the beach?” Lio eventually asks the group.

“Yeah, it should be about that time for the wet t-shirt contest.” Brandt says.

“What?” Lio’s eyebrows knock up excitedly.

“Yeah. Hopefully the blonde from the pool is participating.” The boys all grin excitedly, except Connor.

Lucie walks perfectly in line with Lio to avoid any more discussion with Connor. Her chest feels bruised with anger and disappointment. Her brain swirls and she feels like clawing the skin off her lips so she doesn’t have a part of her that has touched him anymore. Why did he kiss her? Why did he open this door only to shut it in her face the next time he saw her? She thought he was good, nice, a gentleman. No, he’s like the rest of them- lying about what he can actually deliver.

Lucie slams the rest of her margarita, scanning the crowded beach. A DJ plays to the left on a big stage that has a bunch of people with arms in the air by them. People stand in groups, clumping together around a few high top tables. Some people wade through the water up to their knees. The group hits the bar again immediately. This time Lucie grabs two margaritas. Then they wander by a few carts selling amazing smelling food as they troll through the party, looking for their next adventure.

The group finds themselves close to a few more people their age. The gregarious hockey players immediately hit it off with a group of women. Connor engages Lio in conversation, leaving Lucie on her own for a few moments. This gives her plenty of time to down both of the cups in her hands. On her walk back to the group from the trash can, the tequila washes over her in a welcome, distorting heat.

A little more North, people cheer drawing Lucie’s sporadic attention.

“What’s over there?” She asks Lio, trying to see but not being able to even on her tip toes. A few of the hockey boys have disappeared in that direction.

“It’s the wet t-shirt contest.”

“We should go.” Lucie grins.

“No.” Lio shakes his head immediately, taking a sip of his drink.

“Lio doesn’t want to go see boobs?” Lucie scoffs then leans forward to put her hand on his forehead. “Someone call your mama! He’s dying!!!” She shoves his head. Then starts to walk towards the cheering.

“Lucie.” Lio groans.

“I know! I’m the worst! Making you go see tits for free.” Lucie giggles, turning to stick her tongue out at him while walking backwards. She accidentally bumps into someone, offering a sincere, drunk girl apology before continuing on.

Lucie reaches the outer edge of the crowd, looking up on the stage to see a handful of women in white t-shirts waiting for the contest to start. Lucie can’t really understand what’s going on, but pushes further into the crowd, losing Connor and Lio in the process. She can hear Lio’s half-assed call for her to come back. No. She doesn’t want to be anywhere near those two right now.

And she knows exactly how to get away from them.

She skirts through the crowd relatively easily. Everyone is drunk and focused on the stage. They don’t care for the random girl pushing forward to try to get up there. When she reaches the front, she scans for anyone who looks important. She sees a guy with a clipboard and grins, moving towards him.

“Hey!” She yells. He looks at her. “Can I get in on that?” He scans Lucie, then shrugs, nodding.

“What’s one more?” He tells her. Lucie smiles back pleasantly like the Hischier she was taught to be, then allows a security guard to help her over the small fencing. She smooths down her shirt as she climbs the stairs to the stage. The MC stops mid-sentence.

“Do we have another contestant!? Excellent. Come here, honey. Tell us about yourself.”

“I’m Lucie and I’m from Switzerland.” She drawls out. The lights of the stage are bright so she can’t see out, but can hear.

“Lucie from Switzerland, are you ready to show us your tits?” Lucie laughs.

“Sure.” She flirts back.

“I love girls with daddy issues.” He jokes. Lucie’s smile falters a bit. She doesn’t have daddy issues… She just has listening issues. “Get in line, sweetheart.”

Lucie complies, then looks to the contestant on her right.

“Hey, you probably want to take your bra off.” Lucie looks down at her bralette.

Oh yeah.

She shimmies off the straps then tucks it into the pocket of her shorts. She looks down, seeing the distinct point of her nipples already. She looks out towards the stage again, imagining Connor out there, watching her do this. A shivery thrill rolls down her spine. She swallows hard, seeing a handful of guys with buckets come out in front of them. She can hear ice swirling around in the plastic. She watches as one of them comes to stand directly in front of her. He smiles at Lucie and she feels a little claw of ick pinch her through her drunken, tequila haze.

Maybe she shouldn’t be doing….

Any other words she could think are slapped from her by the ice cold water hitting her chest. It splashes onto her face and legs too. Lucie and the rest of the contestants stumble back slightly.

“Oh my god.” The girl next to her snaps. “That’s not how they did it in Florida.” She wipes at her eyes, careful not to smear her mascara. Her hair got wet too, causing it to flatten out immediately.

“Jesus Christ.” Lucie hears muttered to her left. She blinks the water out of her eyes, then watches Connor’s approach. She instinctively reaches for him as a source of safety. Connor stands in front of her, chest heaving as if he was running or working hard to get here. “Are you okay?” He asks her. Lucie nods, then looks away, embarrassed as hell that she got herself into this moment. When she looks back, she can see Connor staring at her pink nipples showing through her shirt. He forcefully removes his gaze, turning back to her face. “I’ve got you, okay?”

“Dude, move we can’t see her!!!”’ Someone yells from the crowd. When Connor stays planted in place, the guy starts to boo. Others follow suit until the whole, drunk crowd is booing at them both.

“We want to see her boobs!” Another man yells. Connor scoffs, glaring over his shoulder. He shrugs his shirt off his shoulders and a loud female crowd starts to scream.

“Damn man, you should have entered.” The MC laughs. The crowd cheers louder. Lucie’s cheeks burn red as Connor wraps the shirt round her, ignoring everything else except for her. He puts his arm over her shoulder, then walks her to the edge of the stage. “Guess Lucie from Switzerland is out.”

The crowd moves on quickly, enjoying the sights of 10 other women with perky tits on display in front of them. Lucie shakes in Connor’s embrace as the wind whips against her wet clothing. She is soaked from her chin down to her mid-thighs. Beads of cold water trail down her legs, dripping off her heels. The couple comes up on the group they came with. Lio is flaming pissed. Lucie can practically see the steam blowing the top of his head off.

“I’ve got her, Lee.” Connor says as he pushes past, not even bringing them further into their group.

“Lucie, go to bed and sober up. I better not see you on this beach again tonight!” Lio snaps. She can hear the disgust in his voice, but when she looks at him, he has his arm around two women.

“You’re one to talk, asshole.” She calls back to him, rolling her eyes. He can fuck off with his misogynistic treatment of women. He’s going to rail two girls tonight but she can’t participate in a wet t-shirt contest? Or fuck any of the boys they came here with? Seems fair.

All Lucie can think about as Connor maneuvers her towards her room is that she wishes she was anywhere but here.

- - -

(Connor)

When Connor saw Lucie on that stage, he blacked out. He didn’t think about anything else but the fact that he has had a hard on for this beautiful woman for months, and now a hundred other strangers were going to see her perky breasts before he does. He didn’t think about how he was going to get her down, or how he was going to shield her and bring her to a safe place. It just happened.

But that’s what Lucie Hischier does to him. Everything just happens. Whether he wants it to or not. Now she is curled into his side, clutching the waistband of his shorts as she shivers slightly in the cool, beach breeze.

Since that cold water hit her body, Connor has been alternating between being angry and turned on. Why doesn’t she listen? Why does she always insist on pushing the limits between them and with everyone in her life who cares about her? What is she running from? What is she doing by throwing caution to the wind like that? Doesn’t she understand that people only want to protect her? No. Because she’s too busy chasing the thrill.

He has a thrill she can chase. It’s hard and thick and will shut her damn mouth up if she ever wants it. Connor shakes his head, leading Lucie into the elevator. Fuck, he needs to stop thinking like that or his dick is never going to soften tonight. But really, Connor knows it won’t until he gets back to his room and strokes one out. He has no chance of a cold shower helping this. Not with the eyeful of her nipples he got on that stage. He about fell to his knees to kiss them there, in front of Lio and the boys too.

“Do you have your key?”

“Yeah.” Lucie fumbles around in her pocket, handing over the thin card to him. He knows what room she is in, guiding her there after they step off the elevator. “Connor, I’m sorry. I…” She trails off, looking up at him with sad brown eyes.

“It’s okay.” He shakes his head. “Lio’s being an asshole. You’re allowed to…” He widens his eyes, shaking his head again. “Have fun.” He ends with a smirk. Lucie stands in place, looking at him for a moment as he holds her door open for her to go inside.

“You should go in and make sure my room is safe…” She suggests. Connor can tell nothing about that request is innocent. But still, his feet enter her room. He makes a big show of looking around, even behind the glass shower door and in the small wardrobe. All he finds are her clothes.

“All clear.” He murmurs, turning back to her. She stands there with her bottom lip tucked in her mouth, brown eyes doey and seductive. And he knows he is so fucked.

“You can look here too.” Lucie huskily whispers, letting his shirt fall away from her breasts so he can see her still soaked through t-shirt. Connor’s jaw clenches as his eyes stay on her face. Slowly, she peels his shirt off her body that’s now wet from being connected to hers. It drops in a pool at her feet. Lucie’s arms drop to her sides, allowing him to see her fully. “What do you think, Connor?”

“I think you’re drunk, Luc.” His hands ball into fists beside his thighs trying not to reach for her.

“Is that why I’m wondering what they would feel like in big hands.” She drawls at him.

The change in the tone of her voice has Connor’s eyes slipping. When he takes his peek, he almost falls to his knees at how beautiful she is. Connor inhales heavily, cock twitching in his shorts as he traces the pink circles. He can see the texture of them through the wet fabric. His tongue gets heavy in his mouth, wanting to trace them for textural memory too. His lips part, blue eyes staying there as if he is painting them for his long-term memory. He steps forward, then trolls his eyes back up to her face. Desire swallows her brown eyes, reaching out to make his skin burn like wildfire everywhere they touch. He licks his lips, stopping in front of her.

“You still look cold, sweetheart. You need someone to warm those up?” Connor leans down, hovering over her face, lips mere inches away.

“I don’t need someone. I need you.”

Liquid lust rushes through Connor’s body. He doesn’t have a shot in hell of holding himself back. He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close so he can lift her into his arms. Lucie gasps in surprise, then brings her lips over his.

“Kiss me.” She demands. Connor smiles. This girl always knows exactly what she wants.

“I’ll kiss you when I’m ready. First, I wanna look at you.” He murmurs.

He sits down on the bed with her in his arms. They work together to get Lucie straddling his lap. Her wet breasts are directly below his chin, but his eyes stay on hers. Lucie rolls her hips into his lap, letting out a breathy, needy sigh as she feels his stiffness connect with her clothed core.

“Please Connor.”

That will get him. His big hand comes to the back of her neck, tugging her lips to his. Fireworks explode inside of him, and maybe outside, he can’t tell, but she tastes and feels like the best thing he’s ever had in his life. Connor groans against her mouth. His hands wrap around her higher now, covering her ribs on either side of her abdomen, thumbs brushing almost where they both needs him.

Lucie gasping against his mouth when his thumbs stroke around her tight peaks once, ignoring their center. His cock jolts, oozing into his boxer briefs. Fuck, he has barely touched her and he could cum right now. She circles her hips into him. Connor feels the plumpness of the underside of her breasts on his lazy trail down to her hips. He squeezes her tighter to hold her down on him firmly.

“Please, Connor. Please fuck me.”

He pulls back to look at her. She is wild under his hands. He has never, ever needed someone as bad as he needs Lucie Hischier right now. She watches him come closer. He drops his mouth down to the thin, still wet cotton and sucks her nipple into his mouth. Lucie’s hand crawls into his hair. She moans his name. Connor closes his eyes in ecstasy trying not to combust in his pants with her building friction rubbing her clothed pussy along his cock in sync with his suckles. Fuck, she is so needy. She would be like putty in his hands tonight, twisting and turning her every which way. Once wouldn’t be enough. He’d need her at least three times to get this painful twist out of his balls.

He pulls away again, shoving the fabric out of the way to get her bare flesh into his mouth. She squirms under his hands. He wants to lick her up and lay her flat on her back on this bed. Fuck her well into the morning and do all the things he’s been imagining with her. He can feel the heat from her seeping through her damp shorts. His fingers itch to move down, feel how wet he is making her compared to the water from the contest. He sets his fingers on the waistband of her shorts, then something makes him pause.

This isn’t a hook up. Or some random girl he met on the beach. This is Lucie. Lio’s cousin, Connor’s best friend, and he came up here to make sure she made it safely. Not take advantage of a drunk, Swiss hockey princess. When he takes her, and he knows he will, it isn’t going to be here, in the room next to her cousin where he is trying to get two women back to his bed.

Connor falls back with a pop of his lips as her breast falls out of his mouth. He looks at her blown pupils, swollen lips from his kiss, and as bad as his balls ache to release he knows they are done for the night. Gently, he cups her face.

“Not like this, Luc.”

Connor watches the excitement drain from Lucie’s eyes. They dull instantly. He sighs, rubbing his thumb into her hip. She begins to clam up in his arms, muscles going from loose and languid to ridging in seconds. She moves to get off him and he can see what’s happening.

“Luc.”

“Let me go please.” He does immediately, watching as she turns back towards the front of the room heading to where the bathroom is.

“I want to so much. More than I can even say.” He calls to her. Fuck, why is she so upset with him? He’s only trying to respect her and their relationships with Lio.

“Yep. Sure. It’s all good. Have a good night.” She calls as she goes into her bathroom. The door shuts with a definitive click. Connor collapses inward on himself. He looks towards the ceiling, closing his eyes. Why does he have to be a good guy? Why can’t he be more like Lio and just fuck her for his own personal pleasure and not care about anything else?

Connor runs a hand through his hair, sighing. He hears the water turn on in the shower. Knowing Lucie is naked in the next room, water dripping down her beautiful body, does nothing for the hard lump under his zipper. He adjusts himself, trying to focus on other things like Herbies or being yelled at by his dad.

Maybe he should have left once she got in the shower, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stays on her bed until she comes out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. It’s clear she thought he left. But there he is, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped together in front of him as he leans forward, ready to clear the air that staled when they pulled apart.

“I want to fuck you so bad right now.” He says immediately.“Want to peel off that towel. Kiss all over your sexy body. Want to mark you in places I can see tomorrow in your little bikini that I know you’ll be messing with in front of me on purpose. I want to grab handfuls of your ass while you ride me. You like to ride cock don’t you, baby? You’d love mine. Big and thick. Would split you open the way you’re begging for tonight.”

Lucie clutches the towel tighter over her chest, mouth dropping slightly open and she begins to breathe heavily.

“But the first time I have you is not going to be in some Mexican resort with your cousin banging two random chicks next door while you’re drunk off tequila and the high of disobeying. You deserve better. What we are going to be deserves better.” He stands up, reaching out for her, not wanting to cross a line if she is going to tell him to go to hell.

“Now come here and properly kiss me goodnight.”

Lucie’s bare feet shuffle quietly over the carpet. Then she collapses into his chest. He cradles her there, inhaling her freshly shampooed scalp. He rubs her bare back above the towel, then kisses the top of her head. She tilts her face up, letting him kiss her. It’s a soft kiss. Nothing like the ones they had been sharing before this. It aches with tenderness and a deep appreciation of each other.

“Thank you for saving me. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Probably not.” He agrees. “We’re okay?” Lucie drops her gaze to his bare chest.

“Yeah. Thank you for staying… to tell me that. It helps. Um, I don’t want anything bad to happen between us. But tonight, I just…. Forgot.”

“Trust me, I did too.” He nods. “You make me wanna forget it all.”

“But that’s not who you are.” Lucie nods. His heart warms at the way she sees that in him.

Connor leans down to give her one more kiss, then threads their fingers together so they can walk to her door. Lucie kisses his tricep as they come to stop by the door.

“Goodnight.” He says to her.

“Goodnight.” She responds quietly. “Dream of me?” She asks him innocently.

“Only you.” He murmurs, then kisses her quickly before heading down towards his room.

Read more Lucie and Connor here.

#lucie x connor #hockey fan fiction #NHL imagine #hockey writing

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say-al0e · 2 years

Text

Crash

Rating: M | This is smut, no one under 18. Minors, DNI!

Summary: Literally just giving Bradley head in the Bronco, on the beach. That’s it. That’s the plot. | Ft. “Breathe through your nose,” requested by anon.

Warnings: Exhibitionism, blink and you’ll miss it mention of anxiety/adjusting to life in California post TGM, male receiving head. (I think that’s it? Anything else, tell me and I’ll tag it.)

Pairing: Rooster x fem!Reader (I think girl is used once or twice?)

Word Count: 2.2k

Top Gun Taglist | Top Gun Masterlist

The late afternoon sunlight cast a golden hue over the empty stretch of beach. It was rare to have the place to yourselves, alone without a mass of people scattered about, but you were grateful for the relative quiet. The only sound to be heard was the crashing of waves, breaking against the shoreline, and the low hum of some soft rock song on the radio.

A soft breeze blew through the Bronco, warm sea air filling your nose as you relaxed, and you swore there’d never been a more perfect moment. It was easy to get lost in the beauty of your new home, in the sun and the sand and the warmth of it all, and you reveled in the peace as you leaned into Bradley’s side.

Warm fingers, calloused from years of baseball and work, brushed at the exposed skin of your arm. The weight of his arm around your shoulders, anchoring you to the moment at hand, was a comfort you would never tire of. He radiated warmth, always a few degrees hotter than the average, and though you’d worried it would be too much in the California heat, you found yourself seeking it out as a gust of sea air blew.

As Bradley pulled you closer, slid you across the seat and tucked you into his side, you took a moment to study him.

Bradley looked beautiful in the golden light, warm and soft and utterly breathtaking. The west coast sun had done him good, gave his skin a glow that had yet to fade and seemed to set him at ease in a way Virginia hadn’t been able to, and you made no effort to hide your awe as you studied him.

The moment the sun began to sink lower, he’d tucked his aviators into the collar of his undershirt. Soft brown eyes glittered in the sunlight, held nothing but a hard-earned contentment as he watched the waves crash onto shore, and you couldn’t help yourself as you reached out for him.

With a soft smile, you lifted your hand and gently traced the curve of his jaw, the few silvery scars that marred his skin. A barely there twitch of the corner of his mouth was the only indication he gave that he noticed and you bit back a laugh as your thumb brushed along the edges of his mustache.

Though the new assignment had been an adjustment - packing up your lives and moving across the country, Bradley getting used to working as an instructor and teaching students who seemed to have more in common with Hangman than with him, building a new routine - it was one that seemed to suit him. The set of his shoulders was more relaxed, the light had returned to his eyes, and he looked truly content.

It was truly a sight to behold, a wonder that reminded you just why you fell so hard in love with Bradley, and sent a pang of warmth spreading throughout your limbs. Something low simmered in the pit of your stomach, a desire to remind him just how much you love him, and you grinned as you brushed at the corner of his mouth.

“Roo?” The call of his name broke the delicate silence, sounded over the soft sound of crashing waves, but in no way felt unwelcome as he tipped his head to glance at you. When he pressed a soft kiss to your palm before smiling, gaze soft and so reverent it made your heart ache, you felt yourself melt further into his embrace as the warmth only grew more intense. “Can we break a rule?”

The jab was soft, poking gentle fun at his rule following nature - though, you’d gotten to see him break more rules than most, had gotten to see the wilder side of Bradley Bradshaw that others assumed didn’t exist - and he rolled his eyes fondly but laughed anyway. “What’d you have in mind?”

Instead of answering aloud, you shot him a saccharine smile and continued to brush your fingers across his sun-warmed skin. You trailed slowly along the curve of his jaw, down the column of his throat, and bit the inside of your cheek as you felt him swallow. Goosebumps began to erupt across his skin, despite the temperature, and you felt a sudden rush of pride at your ability to fluster the beautiful man before you as you continued your descent.

As your fingers trailed down his torso, stopping only to trace the band of his jeans and circle the button, Bradley inhaled sharply. He knew where this was going and a peek from beneath your lashes confirmed he’d taken a quick glance around, just to be certain no one was around. “Honey,” he began, voice low, “are you sure?”

This wouldn’t be the first time you’d done something of the sort. Back in Virginia, when the beaches closed for winter and tourists took a few months off, you’d fulfilled a few of your shared fantasies. Bradley wasn’t keen on the idea of getting caught - not when he knew the risks - but he had a bit of an exhibitionist streak. It was a quick shot of adrenaline, not quite the same rush as flying but close enough, and you’d grown to enjoy it, too.

Though there was an elevated risk - a handful of cars had come and gone, spending a few moments on the beach and shattering your illusion of privacy - and though your home was only a short drive away, you wanted to sink into the moment. Bradley had never looked more beautiful and was a giver by nature, generous and loving almost to a fault, so you found it only fair to give him something in return.

“I’m sure,” you assured him with a smile. When he pressed his fingers beneath your chin and tipped your head to look you in the eye, you batted your lashes at him. “Just wanna make you feel good.”

Bradley swallowed, eyed you as you shifted closer and trailed your hand to his thigh, and laughed quietly. “You always do, honey,” he promised as he allowed his hand to fall to his lap. He spared another glance at the deserted parking lot, at the beach devoid of any others, and dragged his tongue along his bottom lip. “We have to be quick,” he reminded you, brows furrowing as he hated to be demanding, especially in a moment like this. “Don’t wanna get caught.”

“I know. We’ve done this before,” you reminded him with a grin. A quiet laugh escaped him, acknowledging the truth in your statement. “Just relax, babe,” you urged, fingers gliding over the button of his jeans.

With a deep breath, Bradley sank back into his seat and shifted. His legs spread a touch wider, enough to accommodate the growing bulge in his jeans, as he removed his arm from your shoulders to give you a little more room to work. The moment he released you, you twisted in your seat to get a little more comfortable - as comfortable as you could, given the circumstances - and shot him a grin.

Though you were short on time, you still took a moment to drag your hands along his thighs, allowing your nails to rake over the denim in the same way they often did when you were given the opportunity to worship his bare thighs. Another quiet laugh, this one a little more confident - not exactly smug, but as close as Bradley ever seemed to get - drew your attention. When you glanced at him from beneath your lashes, Bradley lifted a hand to cup your cheek.

“You can ride my thigh when we get home, honey,” he promised, lips curving into a smirk as you sighed at the thought and leaned into his touch.

“Don’t try to bribe me into rushing, Bradshaw,” you teased after a moment’s pause to regain your composure. “I will hold you to that, though.”

As your fingers returned to the button of his jeans, popping them open and reaching for the zipper, Bradley laughed. “Bribe? I would never,” he declared, amusement lightening his eyes as he cradled your jaw. “But I’m counting on you holding me to it. You look so perfect falling apart on my thigh.”

The warmth that had been simmering in the pit of your stomach spread throughout your limbs, burning out of control, and you pressed your thighs together in search of a moment of friction as you tugged Bradley’s jeans down just enough to free his cock from the denim. “Flattery will get you everywhere, babe.”

Before he could retort, some witty quip about being exactly where he wanted, you leaned in and traced the vein running along the underside of his cock. The words died on the tip of his tongue, lost to the crashing of waves, as his hand shifted from your jaw to the back of your head.

Bradley made no effort to control your movement - he rarely did - but you melted under the weight of his touch all the same. The angle wasn’t the most comfortable but you’d learned how best to deal with it and shifted just enough to make breathing a little easier as you wrapped your hand around the base of his cock.

A plea for urgency was on the tip of his tongue, you knew him well enough to feel the tension in his his thighs and the way his fingers flexed, so you took mercy on him. You wrapped your lips around the tip and swirled your tongue, lapping at the precum beading there.

“Fuck.” Bradley’s sharp exhale carried over the breeze, filled your ears and spurred you on as you slowly took more of him. Though you had only just begun touching him, he sounded well on his way to wrecked, desperate and eager for more. “Feels so good, honey.”

His praise shot straight to your core, had you shifting in your seat in search of relief, and the thought of slipping your free hand between your thighs crossed your mind, only briefly. You knew that it would only distract him, encourage him to pull you onto his lap and make a mess of you both before you made your way home, and you wanted to focus on him, if only for a moment.

Refraining was difficult, but you poured your focus into Bradley.

In the beginning, taking the entirety of his length was difficult - a skill that had to be learned through practice, though you couldn’t complain as Bradley always reciprocated - but it had gotten easier. You pulled away for a moment, took a deep breath, before slowly taking him all.

Bradley swore lowly, a deep exhale that was accompanied by a flex of the hand at the back of your head, and you reached to tap the back of it - a signal that gave him permission to guide your head as he saw fit. “Breathe through your nose, honey,” he reminded you, voice rough and low with lust, “just like that. Fuck, take me so well.”

The hand he used to guide your movements was gentle, never pushing too far as you began to slowly bob your head. You listened to his advice, breathing through your nose and attempting to calm your gag reflex, as you glanced up at him from beneath your lashes.

Though you often imagined he couldn’t get more beautiful, Bradley looked otherworldly in the throes of passion. A crimson flush began at his cheeks and spread down his throat, disappeared beneath the collar of his undershirt, and his typically warm eyes were dark with lust. His chest heaved gently, rising and falling with each shaking breath, and his lips parted with low noises of pleasure.

A combination of the pleasure and adrenaline - the rush of being in public, in the Bronco with little to hide you from prying eyes - had Bradley on edge far quicker than usual but you knew that, in this case, he didn’t exactly mind. Instead, he used the gentle hand on your head to guide you just a touch faster, to take him just a bit deeper, as he chased his high.

The tension in his thighs, the way his fingers pressed into the material of the seat, the weight of his hand pressing against your head all told you that he was close. You doubled down your efforts and hollowed out your cheeks, seeking to push him over the edge.

Bradley came with a low curse, words spilling from his lips and melding with the sounds of the beach around you, and you eagerly swallowed all he had to give. He took a moment to ride out the aftershocks, milking his cock completely in the warmth of your mouth, before gently pulling you away.

With a teasing grin, you pressed a final kiss to his hip before sitting up and batted your lashes at him. “You good, Roo?”

“More than,” he promised as he quickly slipped himself back into his jeans without bothering to button them. “Let’s go home,” he urged, voice rough with lust and still a touch breathless. “I can’t wait to watch you fall apart for me, honey.”

The promise in his voice was more than enough to have you on edge, eager and ready for what awaited you, and you knew that whatever he had in store was more than worth the risk you took.

________________________________________________________________

Author’s Note: This scene, specifically (the one from the gif) inspired this. I’m so upset about that scene. He looks too good. Anyway. Happy New Year.

Taglist: @lulu-noodles, @holachicos, @getmyprettynameoutofyourmouth, @withakindheartx, @ssprayberrythings, @verin93, @totalwitch2, @malindacath, @alexparkxr, @hangmandruigandmav, @alexxavicry, @calicokel, @jaymum, @dracosluvbot, @little-wiseone, @specialk6802, @mandylove1000, @xlynnx07, @julesclues, @archetypesoflife, @oliviah-25, @benhardysdrumstick, @caatheeriinee07, @prettymucheveryothernamewastaken, @yvespoems, @chloereidwayne

#rooster x reader #rooster smut #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw smut #bradley bradshaw x y/n #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster x y/n #top gun one shot #top gun smut #top gun maverick imagine #top gun maverick smut #top gun maverick x reader #v's fics

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hoonzsn · 11 months

Text

LAST LOVE — “i’ve loved you for as long as i can remember.”

✦ SYNOPSIS — in which two close friends say their hidden feelings for each other at a supposed hangout.

PAIRING ୧˚ — best friends to lovers, mutual pining — jungwon x reader.

GENRE *ೃ — pure fluff, comedy (ish), oneshot

WARNINGS ｡˚ — slight cursing

WORD COUNT . ୭ — 1128

SONGS ⋆.࿔ — is it over now - taylor swift, get you - daniel ceaser, kali uchis, perfect night - lesserafim, cool with you - new jeans, hurt - new jeans, what you heard - sonder, a night to remember - laufey, beabadoobee, night train - milena, seasons - wave to earth, les - childish gambino, la leçon particulière — francis lai, christen gaubert, could’ve been - h.e.r, bryson tiller, blue - the neighbourhood, void - the neighbourhood , west coast - lana del rey

TAGLIST ₊⊹ — @ohsjy

The beach ripples crashed softly against the white sand, causing each time it did so to make a light “splish” sound. The comforting aura caused him to walk closer to the scenery, his mind racing to someone special as he did so.

The moon ever so slightly shone on the ocean, the darkest of the gloomy blue water suddenly turning into a majestic silver field. The specks of silver sparkles on the sea, catching his attention.

With every step closer he took toward the mesmerizing scenery, he wished more and more for her company. A low and deep breath left his lips. He contemplated whether he should call her and invite her, or just leave it be.

A few moments of complete silence went by before he slowly took out his phone from the pocket of his jacket. His cat-like eyes scrolled up and down in search of the contact he had saved her number with. Freezing as he found it.

It was never like this.

He never knew he’d feel overwhelmed by calling his closest friend over to the beach. Although he did feel nervous around her sometimes, but that was explainable, right? Of course, he had to try and ruin their friendship of five years due to his stupid crush.

But that is what jungwon does. He had to let it out, tell her how he felt whenever he saw her flirting with some other boy who wasn’t him. He wanted her to at least know, whether it be she had the same feelings for him or if it was merely to let her understand how he felt about her.

His finger lingered a slight moment on top of the call button, pressing it after a little while. As he heard the line ring for a few seconds, he could hear someone picking it up and answering it with a short and confused “hello?”

Clearing his throat, jungwon answered back, internally face palming as a stutter left his lips. “Hey”

A smile tugging on his delicate lips, yet knowing she couldn’t see him. “Are you free tonight?” he nervously inquired, thinking about the multiple replies she could give him.

His cat-like eyes widened in surprise as he immediately got the response he’d been wanting from the girl on the other line. “No, im free. Why?” Hearing those words come from her made his smile grow bigger.

“Oh, I just wanted to know if you wanted to hang out.” His lips parted in hesitation before continuing what he was about to say. “I need to tell you something.” A few moments went by before he could hear slight shuffling coming from the other line.

“Yeah, sure, where should I meet you?” She asked back, putting on her zip-up sweater as she did so.

He thought for a few moments before speaking. “I’m at the beach right now, but I can come to your place.”

Earning a light giggle from her side. He could feel a slight blush rise on his cheek due to the melodic sound. “Alright won, I’ll see you then.”

The walk to her home was quite short since she lived relatively near the beach. Causing Jungwon to be more excited than usual to see her.

As he saw the familiar house in front of him, he came to a stop. Seeing the girl already waiting for him in front of the gates. He walked in front of her, watching her as she looked intently at the device in her hands, mumbling some incoherent words every few seconds.

“What are you doing?” he asked once he stood in front of her, causing the girl to curse in surprise.

“What the fuck! You scared me” Her startled expression made his smile form again, the deep dimples on each side of his porcelain cheeks visible as day. Earning a smile from her too.

“Sorry, not sorry” He chuckled, causing her to roll her eyes and lightly hit his arm. A slight frown appeared on his lips as she did so, making her hang her arm around his neck.

“Let’s go, hm?” she started roaming the dark streets with the company of the boy beside her.

Once they were finally back, both of them had each of their ice creams as he’d bought them on the way back. They enjoyed their little treat quietly as they walked back.

Jungwon's eyes ever so slightly gazed at her as she was enjoying the ice cream he’d bought her. Her eyes looked straight ahead as they crinkled up due to the grin plastered on her lips while watching the ocean water crash against the white sand.

“So…” she started, looking at him now. “What did you want to tell me?” Her head tilted to the side, noticing that his breath had hitched.

“Um..” thinking for a short while, jungwon decided not to tell her, as he was too afraid of all the possibilities of her reaction.

A frown formed on the girl's lips after he said so, her eyes squinting at him in an intimidating manner. “Tell me won, come on.” She whined, trying to get a response out of him.

His brown, shiny eyes lowered to look down at his feet caressing the beach sand with his shoes, before mumbling out some incoherent words she could quite frankly not make out.

Confusedly, she had tilted her head to the side watching as his lips were continuously moving yet she could barely make out a word. “What did you say?”

Watching him as he slowly shifted his attention from the ground to her, she furrowed her brows together.

“jungwon, what did you say-“ Her words got cut off, by the loud tone of the guy in front of her.

“I love you.” His eyes lingered on hers, watching in anticipation of what she would do next, not daring to let out a breath due to the tension between them.

The air between them became suffocating as he watched her chest slowly heave up and down. Her eyes widened in surprise at the sudden confession.

“I have loved you for as long as I can remember, yn,” he added to it, slowly moving closer to her as he gently tried to hold her hand, still not getting a response. As he slowly starts getting more anxious by the second, he suddenly lets all his feelings out to her.

“It makes me go insane whenever I see you with some other guy that’s not me, and I know I don't have the right to, but,—” Without a moment to think, he could feel her soft lips collide with his, gently moving together in sync.

Slowly pulling away, she looked at him, a smile already evident on her lips.

“I love you too won.”

AUTHOR NOTE; im alive bbgs!!! wow what can i say… my first oneshot that i finished😭 are u guys proud😏 ANYWAYS IM KINDA PROUD OF THISS its cute 🥰 if u guys have any scenarios or any specific like oneshots u guys want me to make just message me or say them here and i’ll be sure to make them!!! <33 also tysm for 54 followers thats literally crazy ALSO I DIDNT FORGET ABOUT PICKY PICKY AND SHRIEK.. im working on themmm i’ll do my best to hurry!!! so for now you guys are getting shorter oneshots and scenarios😏

#enhypen #enhypen fluff #enhypen drabble #enhypen x reader #jungwon enhypen #enhypen fanfic #jungwon fluff #enhypen jungwon #reader x jungwon #beach #taylor swift

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kendrene · 1 year

Note

For your mini fic: Ava and Beatrice, things you said in the grass and under the stars

Beatrice leaves Europe all-together, after.

She tries not to. Lingers for a while. Drifts from city to city, country to country, but the sun shines too brightly over Venice's canals and Paris - which Ava had said they should visit together after the war - well, Paris is a haunting.

An ocean later, another landmass crossing, Beatrice hits the West Coast, slowly working her way north where pliant sand gives way to a jagged coastline. Basalt cliffs against which the waves rage. Incessant. Hungry. The sea a low roar in her ears, never too far. Persevering even when she wanders inland, past jasper-studded beaches, and into the woods beyond.

The forests themselves are old, teeming with life both new and rotting. Fog never quite lifts off of the trees, a layer of it, gossamer-thin, persevering even on hotter days.

Beatrice settles down, and grief settles alongside her, the one companion she can tolerate in newfound solitude. It's a worn blanket. A beloved jacket she cannot bear to leave the house without. She grows new habits, easy when all of her days look the same.

She spends a lot of time hiking, getting a feel for the land. Brings books down to the beach to read; in the sun when she can, under a piece of tarpaulin hastily erected in between two trees if it rains.

It nearly always does.

Sometimes Beatrice reads aloud. Imagines it is Ava she is reading to, all the stories and facts about the cosmos Ava didn't have the chance to discover for herself. She reads until her throat is dry and sore. Reads until her voice is drenched in loss, and her heart bleeds for all the things she's lost.

Reads until daylight gives way to the first smattering of stars and the words on the page are blurred by lack of light, perhaps by tears, into a smudge.

The air is wet and salty, whips like the edge of a sharp knife against the soft skin of her cheek. Beatrice packs her book, rolls up the tarpaulin. Picks the now familiar way back in total dark.

She stumbles. Trips over something yielding. Something that snags at her ankles and brings her down to her knees, a rock catching the heel of the hand she throws out to steady herself, cutting open her palm.

It's debris, Beatrice thinks. A large piece of wood. Maybe seaweed.

It is not.

It's a body.

It's Ava. And she's not breathing.

"No. No. No.' Beatrice has prayed, she has begged for Ava to come back but not like this. Not to lose her right away again. "You can't die, please." A sob rips from her, unchecked, even as she turns her over. "I can't lose you again." Beatrice will not think of her as a corpse.

Ava's skin, her lips tinged blue by the frigid waters of the ocean and not divinium. Beatrice's mouth seeking. Ava's tasting of saltwater and the abyssal things that cannot stand to be brought into the light. Ocean waves crashing around them and over. The tide coming in - a bitter, a cold a cruel baptism. Her hands red with the cold and hurting flat to Ava's chest, pushing, pushing while her mind falls into mechanical routines.

"Breathe, goddammit." Bea's own lungs burning, alight with the effort of wrangling life back into another being. "Please Ava don't go."

"Not...going." A cough. Water sputtering down Ava's chin. Her own hand rises weakly, slick around the curve of Beatrice's cheek. Light, molten gold, shearing through the night to wash over them both. "Not going anywhere." Ava's other hand grips Beatrice by a shoulder, tugs her down to sprawl rather inelegantly over her chest. She's not exactly warm, but she's not cold anymore. The Halo brightens to a shine that makes a mockery of dawn. "I'm home."

#warrior nun #avatrice #ava x beatrice #ava silva #sister beatrice #avatrice reunion #dren writes

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justinspoliticalcorner · 5 days

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Mary L. Trump at The Good In Us:

Donald Trump loves violence, especially when it’s committed on his behalf. It makes him feel powerful in a way only humiliating other people can. He knows that violence begets violence; fear begets fear; rage, rage, and so forth. He revels in his ability to set fires that spread—except, of course, when they jump the line. On Saturday, there was another alleged assassin attempt on Donald (the second in two months, which itself practically beggars the imagination) at his golf club in West Palm Beach. It was only a couple days before this that Donald refused to condemn the bomb threats, school evacuations, and general sense of terror in Springfield, Ohio that he and his running mate have unleashed by their vicious targeting of Haitian immigrants who live and work there. He claimed without conviction that he didn’t know anything about it. And then he doubled-down on his baseless attacks, as he always does. Two more Springfield elementary schools had to be evacuated on Monday morning.

This kind of development is nothing new; it is, indeed what life in Donald Trump’s America has become over the last nine long years. Threats of violence and actual violence from the right are now a regular part of our political discourse and behavior—Donald makes sure of that on an almost daily basis. He is the primary proponent and promulgator of it—it was only a matter of time before he became its target, too. In the early days of his 2016 campaign, my uncle encouraged his rally-goers to assault protesters and claimed that “when the looting starts, the shooting starts,” as if that was either an accurate description of what was unfolding or a reasonable response to protests with which one disagreed.

Before and during the assault on the Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021, Donald encouraged and stoked violence and people listened. Others listened to his anti-immigrant hatred, his racism, and his anti-Semitism as well, like the gunman who killed 23 in El Paso simply because they had brown skin, or the one who killed 11 Jews at the Tree of Life Synagogue. The man who broke into Nancy Pelosi’s home looking to murder her, attacked and assaulted her husband, Paul, with a hammer almost killing him. Donald has since made Paul Pelosi the butt of his jokes, much to the delight of his rally attendees.

This is the America Donald Trump is rooting for. Whether from violence inspired by his rhetoric or doctors’ failures to give pregnant women health care when they’re bleeding out, people are dying. And if we don’t change course, people will continue to die. Every day Americans pay the price while Donald sets the world on fire with his provocations and then spends the day playing golf, completely insulated from the chaos he sows—until this summer. We know he won’t change—there is no new tone, no evolution in his future or ours. He has no self-awareness, no insight to himself and he believes that the only way to maintain his grip on power is to keep us divided, angry, and afraid.

Mary L Trump’s latest Substack piece on Donald Trump claiming to be a “victim” when he is the perpetrator for division in America is on point.

#The Good In Us #Mary L. Trump #Donald Trump #2024 Trump Assassination Attempt II #Paul Pelosi #Assault on Paul Pelosi

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mightyflamethrower · 3 months

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WEST PALM BEACH, FL — The Trump campaign announced Monday that the former president had begun preparing for his upcoming debate with Joe Biden by visiting nursing homes and arguing with dementia patients.

"George, you're wrong about lime JELL-O. Nobody likes it," Trump said as he argued with a 94-year-old dementia patient who claims to be constantly observed by Russian spies. "It doesn't taste good! Everyone's telling me all the time how much they hate it and you're telling me they should serve it every day? On DAY ONE I will ban lime JELL-O."

"And Mexico will pay for it!"

Elderly onlookers applauded as Trump slammed the dementia patient after suddenly picking a fight with him during dessert time.

"It's like he's saying what we're all thinking," said Constance Woodrow, a 78-year-old Alzheimer's patient.

In another instance, Trump screamed at a WWII veteran until he started crying.

"Greatest generation? More like lamest generation," Trump quipped, invoking laughs from orderlies. "You complain about loud music when people — good people — are trying to listen to jazz. You make me sick, to tell you the truth."

"But thank you for your service."

In this, and many such cases, a crowd of old folks erupted in cheers for Trump as he blasted one dementia patient after another.

Trump's debate prep is a distinct departure from previous campaign years when he spent time studying government policy and took part in mock debates against former New Jersey Governor Chris Christie.

"I spent all my time arguing against a fat man about bridges or something," Trump said, reflecting on past debate missteps. "It didn't prepare me at all. Biden is thin and he hates bridges!"

Sources close to the Biden campaign confirm the president is concerned about this new development leading up to Thursday's debate.

"Oh no, my ice cream," Biden reportedly whispered as his wife led him away.

At publishing time, sources confirm that if Trump fails to win the presidency he will be welcome at Shady Oaks Assisted Living.

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husheduphistory · 2 months

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Lena Clarke: The Mail, Murder, and Madness of West Palm Beach

It was a Monday evening, August 1st 1921, and Orlando Police Chief E.S. Vestal had an interesting story presented to him. The woman seated in front of his desk was Lena Clarke and she was insisting someone needed to go to a hotel downtown, specifically to room number eighty-seven, and arrest the thief inside. She identified the criminal as Fred Miltimore, and she promised if they went they would find him there. After making a phone call and verifying who she was, there was no reason for Chief Vestal to not believe her. When he sent the officers out he had no way of knowing what was about to unravel.

By all accounts Lena Marietta Thankful Clarke was a completely normal and highly intelligent child. Born in Vermont in 1886 to a well-known theologian, she, her two sisters, and brother moved around frequently until settling in West Palm Beach, Florida. The family was very successful and Lena, who began reading books on philosophy at the age of six, went on to volunteer her time working with the Red Cross, helping at her local church, and selling war bonds. As they grew older one sister became the West Palm Beach City Librarian, the other opened the first flower shop in Orlando, and her brother had a successful career working for the West Palm Beach post office for eight years until leaving in 1918. 1920 should have been a happy time for the family, but the end of the year marked the turning point in the life of Lena Clarke when her brother unexpectedly died.

After leaving the post office in 1918 due to severe hearing loss, her brother took to becoming an amateur taxidermist and a snake collector, losing his life two years into this new pursuit after being bitten by a coral snake on Christmas morning 1920. The loss would have been shocking to everyone, including his former coworkers at the post office. From 1911 to 1913 Clarke’s brother not only worked there, he was also the postmaster and when his predecessor left the job in 1920 the local businesses began to look to the familiar name of Clarke to fill the roll. Lena had already been working at the post office as an assistant, but a petition was written up for her to be appointed the new postmaster for West Palm Beach and soon thereafter thirty-five-year-old Lena Clarke had the job.

Lena Marietta Thankful Clarke. Image via findagrave.com.

Managing the workings of the post office presented many different tasks and challenges including handling all the mail and postage, war bonds, and money orders, all of which meant there was always a large amount of cash circulating in and out of the building. On July 26th 1921 it seemed it was business as usual when Clarke had two registered mail sacks full of cash sent off to the Atlanta Federal Reserve Bank, but when the sacks arrived in Atlanta and were opened, there was no cash to be found. Instead of the money, between $31,000 and $42,000 depending on varying accounts, the bank found mail order catalogs cut down to the size of dollar bills. Today’s equivalent of almost half a million dollars was missing.

Understandably, Clarke was one of the first people questioned about the disappearance of the money. After all, she was the postmaster of the West Palm Beach post office where the shipment originated from but she insisted she had no idea what had happened to the money. She went home that night and resumed her life until the following week when she hired a driver to take her to Orlando where she checked into room eighty-seven of the San Juan Hotel.

What exactly transpired in the hotel is only known to Lena Clarke and Fred Miltimore, but the version of events that Police Chief Vestal was hearing was as strange as it was simple. Lena checked into the hotel under a fake name and met with Miltimore, a former coworker who once worked as a postal worker with Lena and was now the owner of a restaurant in Orlando. She claimed that she suspected her former coworker of the theft of the money that left her post office on the way to Atlanta the previous week and she confronted him about the crime. This was all interesting but Vestal had one very important question, if he sent officers there how did she know Miltimore would still be in the room and not on the run after their confrontation. Clarke told them she knew he would still be there, because she drugged him with morphine before coming to the police station. When officers arrived at room eighty-seven they did in fact find Miltimore, but he was dead with a bullet to the chest and a gun laying beside him.

When the officers returned to the station Clarke was still there and she was immediately questioned about the dead man in her hotel room. At first she denied that she shot him but she eventually admitted to the killing, claiming that it was Miltimore who stole the money from her post office and that he was going to frame her for the crime so she simply did what she had to do and shot him. Within days Clarke was in jail and charged with first degree murder.

Headline about the murder of Fred Miltimore frpm the Chicago Daily Tribune. Image via newspapers.com

Due to her job and family Lena Clarke was a well-known figure in West Palm Beach but when she was jailed for murder the only thing that soared higher than the shock was her popularity. Her jail cell became more of a sanctuary, and she decorated it herself with some of the many flowers, gifts, and mail she received while in prison. She was even permitted to paint her cell as she pleased and was given a small typewriter to pursue her writing ambitions, eventually taking up poetry and writing her autobiography that she sold through local newspapers for twenty-five cents each. But, for every person sending her flowers there was also a critic and newspapers took to printing cruel commentary on her appearance:

“Lena Mary Thankful Clarke, if you please, is a queer combination —a bundle of contradictions. In personal appearance and dress she is far from attractive. Her figure is heavy and uncorseted and her clothes smack of the backwoods.

Her shoes are generally without heels and her stockings of cotton. Her skin is very fine in texture but covered with large, disfiguring freckles. Miss Clarke’s only assets in appearance are her hair, which is decidedly Titian and naturally wavy, and her eyes, deep blue in color and absolutely straight and unwavering in their gaze.”

Headline about Lena Clarke writing poetry in prison from the New York Times. Image via palmbeachpast.org.

Despite the criticism she seemed to be rather calm and comfortable for an alleged cold-blooded murderer, but that part of her story changed. Lena recanted her confession, now claiming she never told the police that she was involved in the death of Fred Miltimore and that in reality she was so worried about the missing money that she at one point considered taking her own life. The stress of the situation was so bad that she said she could not remember exactly what transpired between the two the night of the murder. And what of that missing money? That story also changed multiple times. After her initial confession Lena later told Chief Vestal that in 1918 while she was working as an assistant to the postmaster there was a shortage of $38,000. She claimed she had always suspected Miltimore and feared he would somehow blame her for the theft in order to ruin her chance at one day becoming the new postmaster. She then told Chief Vestal that this recent theft of money was her fault, that it was done to cover the lingering debt from the 1918 money that she suspected Miltimore of taking. Somehow, this very convoluted story led up to her being in a hotel room with Miltimore, confronting him about the initial crime and begging him to sign a statement that he was in fact responsible for the 1918 theft which he refused to do before ending up dead. In another version of events given later while she was behind bars, Lena reportedly stated that this recent theft was a standalone crime and that yes money was stolen in 1918 but a man named Joseph Elwell loaned her enough money to cover up the loss. There were some major problems with this story, one being that Elwell could not be questioned because he had been shot and killed in New York City in 1920. Another issue is that the missing money that was replaced in the mail sacks with cut up catalogs a week before the Miltimore murder was traced directly back to Lena and her bank accounts.

The story of a man named Joseph Elwell helping Lena at some point was interesting to the police, not because of Elwell personally, but because it supported a theory of theirs. During the investigation multiple people tried desperately to find “who else” was involved in the crime for a simple reason, they could not believe that Lena had forged this plan and committed murder on her own because they felt very strongly that this could not have been carried out by a woman. Multiple leads were followed trying to rope a male accomplice into Miltimore’s murder but eventually they had to admit there was no evidence. Whatever transpired in room eighty-seven of the San Juan Hotel was committed by Lena and Lena alone.

Newspaper article showing Lena Clarke and Fred Miltimore. Image via newspapers.com.

The trial of Lena Clarke was bound to be unusual, but what unfolded in the courtroom was outright baffling. Lena’s family came together and hired multiple law firms for their daughter and their defense of insanity was hard to argue with once Lena herself spoke. As she took the stand she placed an item down in front of her, a crystal ball, and she began to tell her bizarre story. In this lifetime, yes, she was Lena Clarke but this was not her first time here, according to her this was her thirteenth life here on Earth.

Those seated in the courtroom listened as Lena gazed into her crystal ball and described in detail her twelve previous lives including when she was the goddess Isis in ancient Egypt, the lifetime that ended when she was eaten by lions, the time where she was friends with Shakespeare and inspired the character of Ophelia, and of course her first life where she was present in the Garden of Eden alongside Adam and Eve when the universe was created. This may have been her thirteenth life, but she also knew it was going to be an eventful one. She already knew she was going to be found not guilty because next for her was serving as the Vice President of the United States before becoming President after the death of the head of the Socialist party President Eugene V. Debs. The subject of Lena’s sanity was part of many conversations about the crime and many, including Miltimore’s daughter, expressed the belief that Lena was “subject to hereditary insanity.”

In order to clear out the thick speculation, three psychiatrists were brought into the case to professionally evaluate Lena’s sanity. They were split on their decisions. Two believed she truly was insane, the third believed that she did know right from wrong when she chose to end Miltimore’s life. It only took the jury three hours to decide. On December 3rd 1921 Lena Clarke was found not guilty of first degree murder by reason of insanity and was to be committed to the Florida State Mental Hospital at Chattahoochee. Upon hearing her fate Lena was distraught, stating “I would rather be hung and buried here than go to Chattahoochee.”

Lena entered the Florida State Mental Hospital, but she did not have to mourn her fate for long, in less than two years she was released and she moved back home to West Palm Beach with her sister Maude and their mother. The remainder of Lena’s life passed by quietly. She did work for her church and the Red Cross with her name appearing in various newspaper articles about relief efforts in the 1940s and 1950s and she continued writing poetry and various works on church history. Her name, once emblazoned on newsprint next to words like “murder” and “insanity” remained largely out of the spotlight. She kept to herself, taught Sunday School, and continued to live with family members before passing away in 1967 at the age of eighty-one years old.

Today Lena Clarke lays at rest next to her sister in the Woodlawn Cemetery of West Palm Beach, Florida.

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Sources:

Bisbee daily review. [volume] (Bisbee, Ariz.), 14 Aug. 1921. Chronicling America: Historic American Newspapers. Lib. of Congress. <https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn84024827/1921-08-14/ed-1/seq-7/>

Kleinberg, Eliot. “Florida History: The Story of West Palm Beach’s Murderous Postmistress.” The Palm Beach Post, Palm Beach Post, 9 Jan. 2022, www.palmbeachpost.com/story/news/2022/01/09/lena-clarke-mysterious-murderous-postmistress-west-palm-beach/9084494002/.

Morrow, Jason Lucky. The Murdering Postal Woman, Lena Clarke, 1921, Historical Crime Detective, www.historicalcrimedetective.com/the-murdering-postal-woman-lena-clarke-1921/.

Pedersen, Ginger. “Going Postal, 1920s Style - The Strnage Case of Lena Clarke.” Going Postal, 1920s Style – The Strange Case of Lena Clarke, Palm Beach Past, 30 July 2021, palmbeachpast.org/2021/07/going-postal-1920s-style-the-strange-case-of-lena-clarke/.

Schiefer, Christine, and Em Schulz. A Haunted Road Atlas: Sinister Stops, Dangerous Destinations, and True Crime Tales. Andrews McMeel Publishing, 2023.

The Washington times. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]), 08 Aug. 1921. Chronicling America: Historic American Newspapers. Lib. of Congress. <https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn84026749/1921-08-08/ed-1/seq-3/>

#husheduphistory #featuredarticles #history #forgottenhistory #strangehistory #truth is stranger than fiction #tragictale #florida history #truecrime #famouscrime #weirdstory #weird history #famoustrial #history class #tragic history

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