#pedro pascal x poc reader

[clubsoft]

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⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ACÉRCATE⠀ ⠀ , come closer . ⠀ ⠀ JAVIER PEÑA / AFRO - LATINA WOC ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀

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for · @gothcsz ( i hope i did it justice <3 ) taglist · @days1 / @mandaloriankait / @salingers / @letsgobarbs / @alfiestreacle / @dontlookatme121 / @joelmillerisapunk / @cuppajoel if u would like 2 be tagged in future moodboards pls just reply to this post ty :3

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[gothcsz]

Safety Net: Part I | ~13.8k wc | Co-Written with @ovaryacted | Series Masterlist

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Motivated by boredom, Marcus goes on a sugar dating app and lands himself a date with you, the only person that captured his attention.

CHAPTER TAGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. Modern AU. Sugar daddy Marcus Acacius/Sugar baby reader. Age gap [Marcus is 50/reader is 25+]. SMUT. Plot with porn. Kissing/Makeout session. Dry humping. Premature ejaculation. Oral (f! receiving). Multiple orgasms. Overstimulation. MARCUS THE MUNCH! Sexual tension. Flirting & banter. First date chronicles. Lots of plot & world building beforehand. Takes place in Chicago. Marcus uses a sugar dating app. Reader is explicitly described as a curvy woman of color: darker skin tone, curly hair texture, etc. Reader has feminine characteristics - wears dresses, heels, jewelry, & makeup. Reader is afab and able bodied. Marcus is recently divorced. Marcus comes from old money and is a businessman. Chivalry isn't dead.

A/N: This has been in the works for far too long but finally, we managed to lock in and cook up some straight heat! This is what happens when you put two yapping hoes on a doc, so we hope everyone who feens for Marcus Acacius as much as we do enjoys the fruits of our labor lol. Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated. Support your BIPOC writers 🖤

Another lone dinner, nothing but the gritty sound of the song echoing from his record player to accompany him.

Tonight was meant to be a small victory. Marcus had enrolled in a cooking class to keep busy after the divorce, and this meal was supposed to put those new skills to use. But as he chopped, cooked, ate and cleaned, the expected satisfaction never came. Instead, a quiet boredom crept in—maybe even isolation.

It was like his body was moving on autopilot, simply going through the motions.

He brings the rim of his glass up to his lips, eyes falling down to the city below. From his penthouse, the skyline sometimes blurs beneath a soft haze of clouds, making the world below look like a dream. The wealth, the view, the opulence—it’s everything people imagine happiness to be. And yet… loneliness seeps into his bones, slowly debilitating his already precarious joy.

He assumed that divorcing from his now ex-wife would help pull him out of this stupor. They were both in agreeance that their marriage had been nothing but one out of convenience—the best thing for the both of them at that time. No romance, no passion, just a practical arrangement that worked. At least, until it didn’t.

Marcus hadn’t expected her to fight for the marriage, but he also hadn’t expected her to fixate on the prenup. One night, in the midst of her moving out, he’d overheard her gossiping on the phone with one of her friends. It would’ve gotten a lot nastier if I hadn’t gotten what I was owed.

The words hit harder than he expected. On some level, he had loved her. Not in the way a husband should love a wife, but in a way that still meant something to him. There had been care, respect, even a kind of tenderness—out of duty, maybe, but real nonetheless. He even enjoyed being a stepfather to her teenage son.

No resentment was held, not when they were about to part ways.

She was entitled to a payout, and he made sure she got it, wiring the full amount before the lawyers could sink their teeth into the process. No use in dragging things out or turning something empty into something bitter. 

So they ended it quietly and swiftly. One last dinner as husband and wife, a toast to a chapter closing, and then the signing of papers that made it official.

It has been months since then, and Marcus is right where he’s always been. The same life, the same routine—just without the pretense of a marriage. He’s outgrown the bachelor lifestyle and has no interest in jumping back to it. He’s in fifties with a divorce under his belt, family business in his care, and more money than he knows what to do with. 

Most men in his position would see this as a rebirth, an excuse to run wild. He’s seen it plenty—divorcees burning through their wealth to impress women half their age, indulging in recklessness until, eventually, they wonder how the fuck they lost it all.

The thought makes him scoff slightly, shaking his head as he continues to lose himself in his own mind, still gazing over the city.

Ever since word got out that he was single again, the men in his social circle have been relentless. They want him to “get back out there,” find some young thing to do more than stroke his ego and remind him he’s still got it. Their concern isn’t for his happiness—it’s for their own validation. They want him to fall in line, to indulge like they do, to prove they’re all still kings of their own little worlds.

The idea of dating brings a faint migraine thumping at his temples. No way in hell. He doesn’t have it in him to go through first date purgatory of asking the same grueling questions, only to have nothing in common with the person at the end of the night. And his work acquaintances aren’t suggesting anything so conventional, anyway. 

He’s lost count of how many times they’ve invited him to strip clubs or proposed outrageous tropical getaways filled with booze and paid company. They aren’t subtle about their misogyny, either. They brag about the escorts they’ve hired, the women they’ve bought for the night, offering him contact information like they’re handing out business cards. In case you get tired of using your fist all the time, they joke.

The detachment of sex is what he finds peculiar. It’s not about pleasure, it’s about seeking validation from other men while putting another notch at their bedpost. It’s why he rarely accepts their invitations. Avoiding their outings, distancing himself as much as he can… but only to a certain degree. Unfortunately, these men are his business partners, and in his world, he wasn’t exactly given the luxury of full separation.

The act of paying for sex isn’t the problem. He doesn’t care how they get their satisfaction, really, it only grates on him when their vulgarity spills into business meetings, when corporate lunches turn into competitions over who had the best night with the most expensive woman.

Take today, for example, when a longtime partner had sidled up to him as he was headed home for the day, practically shoving the phone into Marcus’s hands.

“Met this chick on that app I was telling you about and scored myself a date tonight. She’s hot.”

Marcus resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the way this grown man was waving the information around as if it were something to boast about. He barely glanced at the screen—a woman in a tight dress posing in front of a bar. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? Congratulations?

Before he had to give an answer, the elevator doors opened. A perfect escape. He handed the phone back and muttered a quick, “Have a good weekend,” stepping out and letting the doors shut on yet another conversation he wanted no part of.

Now he’s here, two and a half glasses of whiskey deep with a curiosity that feeds off his boredom. He retreats from his reprieve at the window, walking into the living room and settling on the couch. Flipping mindlessly through TV channels, nothing seems to hold his attention.

His fingers drum against the side of the glass cup before intrigue gives way, slipping a hand into the pocket of his sweatpants. He pulls out his phone, unlocking it with a swipe of his thumb, his whiskey resting loosely in his other hand. 

With furrowed brows, Marcus navigates through his phone at an infuriatingly slow pace. He squints slightly, trying to read the small text, and his large thumbs fumble across the keyboard, leaving a string of typos that have him muttering curses under his breath. He misspells the damn thing twice until finally, the name of the ridiculous app pops up in the search results.

The little loading circle spins, downloading the application to his phone. When the prompt to open it appears, he hovers, as if contemplating if this is even worth it. A few seconds pass before the liquor in his system decides for him, opening the app with a tap.

The first thing it asks is if he’s the benefactor or the beneficiary. He huffs, taking a sip of his drink, choosing his role as the sugar daddy before ultimately filling in the blanks needed for an account set up. It all feels ridiculous, but what does he have to lose?

Then he reaches the About Me section and stops. The blinking cursor taunts him, he can’t help but scowl at it, whiskey swirling in his glass as he thinks. What do you say about yourself when you don’t even know what you want?

Marcus A. 50+. Chicago. Business Owner. Not sure what to say here. First time trying something like this. I prefer a strong drink over small talk, but I appreciate good conversation with someone who has something to say.

Not his best work, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He skips through the rest of the trivial questions—religion, favorite movies, hobbies. The longer the list grows, the more tedious it feels.

Then comes the photo prompt. Somehow, this feels like the hardest part.

Marcus scrolls through his camera roll and realizes most of his photos aren’t of him at all—just landscapes from his travels, on-site projects, plenty from his trips back home to Italy, but few that actually put him in the frame.

He settles on a lone one from an important dinner a few years back. It’s stiff, formal, but at least it’s something. 

When he’s done, he studies the profile. Sparse. Impersonal. He’s not exactly proud of it, but he’s not here to impress anyone. He’s here to look—nothing more.

The next hurdle? Preferences. 

He frowns slightly, finishing off his drink before setting the glass on the coffee table. He sinks further into the couch, glaring at the screen.

He sets the minimum to twenty-five. Mature enough to have lived a little, young enough that he isn’t limiting himself too much. Local, of course. No sense in complicating things.

With that, he’s finally done.

Marcus isn’t sure what he expected, but the more he scrolls, the less interested he becomes.

The app is filled with beautiful women—plenty of soft smiles, sultry gazes, perfectly angled selfies. Glossy, curated versions of themselves, posed just right, filters smoothing away any perceived imperfection. He sees them in designer bikinis lounging on yachts, captions that all seem to blur together. No hookups. Fluent in sarcasm. Just here for the pay pigs.

That last one gets a quiet chuckle out of him.

Nevertheless, it’s all the same. It bores the hell out of him. He swipes left again and again and again…

He’s about to call the whole thing immature bullshit when he comes across your profile.

No forced captions, no excessive filters, no painfully obvious attempts to curate some idealized version of yourself. You have a natural confidence, an ease in the way you present yourself. The way you talk about your interests—travel, food, new experiences—it doesn’t feel like a list of things meant to impress. 

And then there are your pictures.

Your hair is thick, wild with curls, framing your face in a way that makes you look like you belong in the kind of old-world paintings he admires when he’s abroad. Your brown skin, kissed with warmth, glows under the soft light of a restaurant where you’re pictured, hands wrapped around a glass of wine, a knowing, almost amused look in your eyes. There’s another shot of you at a market, caught mid-laugh as you react to something just out of frame. 

Marcus exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

Damn.

He doesn’t message you. Not yet. 

He told himself that this app was just for curiosity, just to look and pass the time. He hadn’t expected to actually come across someone that made him consider.

The whole damn thing feels ridiculous. He’s a grown man, successful, established. And here he is, sitting alone in his penthouse, scrolling through an app designed to find a sugar baby of all things. What the hell is he even doing?

Without thinking about it, he taps the Super Like and immediately closes out the application.

You probably have a dozen other prospects already lining up in your messages, throwing out their best lines, trying to capture your attention. He’s just another name in the mix, another notification you might just skim over before moving on. 

So be it, he got it out of his system—whatever that was. Some passing curiosity, a distraction fueled by whiskey and boredom. By tomorrow, he’ll be preoccupied with work, meetings, actual obligations, and the whole thing will be nothing more than a brief lapse of judgment. Maybe he should save himself the trouble and just delete the damn app now, wipe his profile along with it before he even has the chance to regret it.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sighs, pushing himself up from the couch, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders before making his way toward the bedroom. His night routine is as methodical as everything else.

Yet, as he settles into bed, he finds himself thinking about you and how for a moment, he had felt something he hadn’t in a long time—intrigue. 

The next day flies by quickly for Marcus, swamped with the countless meetings lined up for him at the architectural firm. Overseeing a new development in the city took whatever time he might’ve thought he had, his poor assistants making multiple trips to the coffee shops nearby as the day progressed. He was already greatly familiar with the boost of caffeine running through his veins, growing more on edge with every file that lands on his desk.

By the time he got home, he was damn near slumping against his front door, tossing his keys in the trinket tray by the foyer, tugging off his blazer and throwing it over the edge of the couch while dragging his tired feet to the kitchen. Yanking on his tie and popping it off with one swift pull, he removes his cufflinks and folds the sleeves of his button down up to his forearms, plucking a few of the buttons from his collar to finally allow himself to breathe.

Reaching over to one of the cabinets, he grabs himself a glass, dropping in some ice cubes and taking his favorite brand of whiskey, filling it halfway. The headache building at his temples ebbs away as he gulps down the amber liquid, palms resting on the granite countertop under him. He merely stares at the stone, eyes blank and now deep in thought. A frustrated exhale leaves his aquiline nose, running a hand through his graying curls as the stress of the day radiates through every cell in his body.

He knows he should probably just order something for dinner tonight over cooking, his mind too fried to put together an ingredient list, and the thought of washing dishes was enough to force the decision for him.

Marcus refills his glass and takes his phone to the living room, turning on the TV and leaving the news to play for some background noise as he sorts through his options of what he might be able to stomach.

What was he even in the mood for? Italian? Korean? Chinese? Some lo-mein sounds good, maybe with an egg-roll or two? Yeah, that sounds about fine.

He calls his order in, finding some spare cash and picks it up from the lobby. He didn’t bother to remove his leather shoes when he took the elevator 50 floors down for the handoff, coming back up the same way until he was munching into an egg-roll covered in duck sauce on the couch.

Food long gone and the glass coffee table now cleared of his takeout, the gold watch on Marcus’ wrist reads 10:30 pm when he finds himself weary of the late night news turned mediocre comedy segment. Grabbing his phone and pinning a few emails for him to read over in the morning, he swipes to his apps menu, spotting the new dating application he had completely forgotten about since setting up his profile the night before.

Fuck it, what the hell.

With no thought, Marcus opens the app for a second time, watching the icon load on the screen before he lands on the main page. Swiping to the chats section, his screen explodes with the 99+ Super Likes he had gotten over the past 24 hours. Yet, he could care less of the other profiles he has to sort through. The only match that loads on his screen is from your account, an unread message he had gotten no notification of despite it sitting idly in his inbox for a day. Nervously, he taps at the message box, your icon popping up on the screen along with what you had sent last night.

“So you’re just going to super like my account and not say anything?”

The corner of his lip twitches when he reads that over, his eyes scanning over the sentence more than once with a raised eyebrow. His brain short-circuits as he tries to find a suitable response that doesn’t make a fool of himself. He’s positive he already looks like an idiot by having an account in the first place, but he’s gotten this far, might as well stick around.

After a few minutes of typing and deleting a singular sentence, he triple checks his spelling until he’s satisfied with what he came up with before hitting send.

Marcus A.: “Must’ve missed the chat option when I hit your profile. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, I’m new to this whole thing.”

His screen updates with the dot under your profile turning green, a sign that you were active again. You definitely saw his message, and the three little dots he notices at the bottom make his pulse spike, anxiously waiting for what else you had to say to him.

“That’s okay. Figured you had other things going on. You look like a guy that has a lot on their plate, Mr. Businessman.”

Now he was smirking.

Marcus A.: “You have no idea.” He typed the reply and sent it, and you responded just as quickly. 

“Try me.”

Should he talk about what he has to deal with on a daily basis with his work? Bore you with how he oversees the blueprints of different construction plans throughout the city and has extensive meetings that last all day? So much for a lasting first impression.

Marcus A.: “I wouldn’t want to bother you with work stuff. It’s not all that interesting.”

“I don’t mind really. I’m a little curious to know what takes up all of your time. Must be something serious if you’re all stressed out.”

No harm in being honest right?

Marcus A.: “Well, usually I have a lot of meetings and paperwork to handle while conducting new building developments in the city. But today was particularly hectic, I was swamped all day, probably drank way more coffee today than I had all year.”

Was that good enough? Not too much, not too little. Didn’t come off as petulant or like he wanted pity. This isn’t too bad, at least Marcus thinks so considering you were working on your reply.

“Sounds like a lot of intense work, lots of brain power. At least you have a team to help you out, takes a bit of the strain off your back. Hope you’re relaxing a bit now.”

Marcus A.: “Yeah, got home late but had some dinner. Just watching the news before I repeat the cycle tomorrow. How was your day?”

Bingo. Perfect bait and switch.

“Boring, honestly. Work was alright for the most part, finished a bit early. Ate a few hours ago, and was reading something before bed when I saw your message.”

Oh? Another avid reader?

Marcus A.: “What do you like to read?”

“A mix of things. Non-Fiction, Sci-Fi, History, Romance. It depends on my mood really, but right now it’s Circe by Madeline Miller.”

Marcus A.: “I read that a while back, it’s a pretty good book. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“It definitely has my interest. I hit the halfway mark, so maybe I'll keep you updated once I finish it. :)”

Somehow, he wasn’t opposed to the idea.

Marcus A.: “I wouldn’t mind listening to your thoughts about it.”

The three little dots appear for a second before vanishing. Marcus stares at the screen for a beat longer, hoping it wasn’t just a fluke. Maybe he scared you off? Said the wrong thing, or something finally gave away just how out of touch he was to all of this. At this rate, he might as well get 50 & Divorced tattooed on his forehead in bright red ink.

There was no point in stressing out about this anymore, it’s late anyway, close to midnight and past his conscious bedtime. Switching the TV and lights off in the living room, he quickly showers and rinses the day off. Changing into some fleece pants and a baggy gray shirt, he brushes his teeth and spits out his mouthwash, flicking off the light as he steps into his bedroom.

As he slips into his too-big king sized bed, he untucks the cream sheets and rests his head on one of the many pillows, glaring up at the ceiling with a huff. Turning over to his side, he catches the lights of the downtown area reflecting by the window, trying his best not to think about how cold and empty the other side of his bed remained. With a sigh, he eases into slumber, hoping that whatever tomorrow brings will be significantly better than today.

The next day in his week was thankfully less hectic, but instead of document packets, his phone had been going off all day speaking to clients, other business partners, and suppliers. And that was only counting Chicago. He got other additional calls from properties in New York, Los Angeles, and now some new construction he’s attempting to get signed off in Miami. He was so preoccupied with his business phone that his personal device was left untouched for the majority of the day.

It was 8:00 pm when Marcus walks through the front doors of his penthouse, repeating the same mundane pattern of tending to his needs and finding something to keep himself occupied until he fell asleep. In the back of his head, he remembers the brief conversation he had with you last night, curiosity getting the best of him as he wonders if you left him something to read over this morning. 

Tensely, he opens up the dating app, heading straight to his inbox to click on your unread message from 18 hours ago.

“Maybe I’ll send you a full book review. Put it in an episode of a podcast. I think it would do numbers.”

The circle on your icon is green now, and he rapidly types something so he doesn’t lose this momentum.

Marcus A.: “Forgive me for the terrible response time, I had another busy day in the office, dealing with non stop phone calls this time.”

The three little dots turn up again, and Marcus sighs in relief.

“No worries. You have things to handle, just part of being a working adult.”

If he wants to take his shot, he knows his best chance is to do it now.

Marcus A: “Actually, I’d like to get your number, if that’s alright. Me and this app don’t mix well. I wouldn’t want to give you the wrong idea and make you think you were being ignored.”

You begin typing before you disappear, the green circle now turning gray. He scared you off, maybe even gave you the ick when that was the last thing he wanted. Marcus was just doomed from the start, and getting on this app was a mistake. What would you even really want to do with an old man like him? It’s pitiful really.

Anxiously, he shuts his phone off and storms off into his bedroom, throwing some water on his face and getting into bed once more. He probably should’ve just went to sleep and left you alone, but his hands itch to see if you answered him. Twisting to get his phone from his bedside table and reopening the app, the empty space in his chest flutters when he sees you had left him a very clear yes with your entire phone number, right there for him to take it.

Copying and pasting your number into his phone, he sent you a quick text letting you know it was him, and you reassured him this was no problem, that you hated the app with a burning passion.

“I’m guessing it’s close to your bedtime now?”

Marcus A: “Unfortunately, I’m an old man remember? But, my phone will be on me tomorrow, so I’ll be around if you want to chat some more.”

“Sure thing, I’ll be around too. Don’t want to keep you up so I’ll let you go. Goodnight Marcus.”

He likes the way you say his name, type it out like it’s yours to say. With one last “goodnight”, his phone is off and his face is digging into the pillow underneath. For once, he is looking forward to tomorrow, and secretly hopes that you’d still be interested in talking some more. Maybe, he might just end up lucky.

Marcus quickly realizes he enjoys talking with you; at least when you both had the time to converse with each other, it was better than scrolling aimlessly on his phone. Texting is convenient for the most part when he can, sending little questions about you here and there, and you feed him breadcrumbs, still holding some control over how you want him to perceive you. He doesn’t mind, he’s mostly on your time, and if you want to play the cat and mouse game, he’ll play.

It was actually you that asked to call him the first time, a laconic talk just to hear his voice, to get a feel of him. Marcus didn’t know what to think of how you reacted to the way he spoke, but he knows hearing your voice might’ve been the catalyst to his growing interest in you. The conversation was short-lived, but it was good to hear you on the other end.

He has enough confidence to call you again later on in the week after work, a more extensive recap of both of your days. In the midst of laughing at a stupid joke he’s made, he’s thinking of the best way to formally ask you out. He’d been mulling over it for the past few days as you both tiptoed on getting to know one another, and he knows if he wants to take his shot, it has to be now.

“Out of curiosity, are you free Friday night?” He inquires, holding his phone close to his ear, anticipating every word you say.

“I might be, unless I just happened to forget my plans. Why?”

Shooter’s shot. 

“I wanted to take you out to dinner. There’s this steakhouse downtown by Kinzie Street, really nice food, intimate setting, expensive wine or cocktails if that’s your thing. Think it would be a good time.”

“You had me at cocktails.” You both chuckled at that notion. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Does 7 work for you?”

“Make it 7:30. A girl needs time to get ready, Marcus. First impressions matter y’know?” It was his turn to laugh despite his hands sweating.

“Then I’ll come by at 7:30 and pick you up. Unless you want to go on your own, I can arrange a ride for you.”

You hummed on the other end of the line, contemplating your choices. Probably assessing what was the smartest way of getting out of the situation if things were to go horribly wrong.

“A ride to the place might be better. You don’t need to see me full of anxiety so early in the night.”

“Well, I want to see you either way. I’ll have my driver pick you up, alright? How does that sound?”

“Sounds perfect. It’s a date then.” There was no question or doubt from you, and he’s glad you were the one that determined what the occasion was.

“It’s a date. I’ll see you Friday night.”

The call ends, and Marcus missed how intense his heart had been beating in his ribcage the entire time. Setting a reminder to call the restaurant tomorrow to place the reservation, he spots the time on his phone screen blinking 11:45 pm on a Wednesday. Two more days until he gets to meet you face to face, and the thought alone brings an eerie sense of restlessness to his stomach.

He’s made it this far, there’s no way he could fuck this up, right?

Friday night rolls around, and the anxiety that’s been bubbling in Marcus’ gut since he asked you out to dinner rears its ugly head. He spent a significantly longer time getting ready, making sure to fit a haircut in during his lunch break and left some room for a beard trim after his extensive shower. Hyper focused on making the most ideal first impression, he dabbles some scented aftershave on his neck and mixes it in with a few spritz of his signature cologne, double checking to ensure it isn’t too overwhelming.

Sorting through the multitude of suits hanging in his closet, Marcus decides that sticking to what he knows would be the best thing for him. He pulls out a classic black suit set and matching dress shoes, foregoing a tie and leaving the first button undone, the skin of his neck slightly visible from the opening. Clicking his golden cufflinks into their designated slots, he finishes his look for the night with his golden watch on his left wrist and slipping on the emerald signet ring on his right pinkie. Before stepping out the door, he takes the bouquet of long stemmed roses he picked out for you, giving his styled curly hair a look over and walking out the front door.

Regardless of how put together he appears, he is anything but composed. Finding himself way out of his comfort zone, his lack of experience in the dating department catches up with him on his drive downtown. His phone rings with a message from you letting him know you’ve been picked up and will be meeting him soon. It was 7:15 pm when you sent that text, and the lump in his throat worsens his breathing the closer 7:30 pm comes.

He’s been mentally preparing for your arrival for the past ten minutes, repeatedly staring down at his watch or his phone to see if you’ve said anything else to him since your last message. Waiting out front, roses in hand, his mind resets to his default settings of methodical overthinking once it hits 7:35 pm.

Did you stand him up? No, maybe something happened on the commute. Must be sudden traffic, it is a Friday night after all. Or you finally came to your senses and your cold feet convinced you to turn his car around and head in the opposite direction.

By 7:40 pm, the familiar view of one of his Escalades rolling into the driveway quiets his mind, brown eyes focusing solely on the figure that steps out from the vehicle.

He is immediately struck.

The dress you’ve chosen is sinful in its simplicity—long-sleeved, form-fitting black fabric hugging every curve, sculpting you like it was made for your body alone. The light jacket you wear does little to hide your figure underneath it; the dress flows over your hips and clings to your waist, cuts off right above your knee leaving your calves bare for him to admire, not to mention the neckline teases just low enough to show the swells of your breasts.

Your curls are pulled back in a half-up style that showcases your beautiful features accentuated by your makeup, leaving the delicate slope of your neck bare—an invitation, a temptation. The golden accents—your earrings, your rings, and the necklace that rests against your collarbone—catch in the evening light, making your warm brown skin glow like you’re drenched in sunlight.

He swallows hard, his grip tightening around the bouquet in his hand as he watches you step forward, poised and self-assured, utterly unaware of the effect you have on him.

He’s staring. He knows he is, yet he can’t help it.

Because right now, with the city lights flickering behind you and that unreadable expression on your face as you scan the area for him, you look like something ethereal. Like a star that shot down from the sky and landed right in front of him, impossibly real, impossibly his for the night.

He stands frozen in awe of you until your glossy lips move, talking to him in the flesh.

“Marcus, right?” you ask, holding on to your purse with one hand. “I’m so sorry for being late, the traffic was more active than usual. I hope I didn’t ruin anything?”

He finally finds his voice in the next couple of blinks.

“No, it’s alright. It’s a Friday night, I forget everyone else has plans set.” That gets you to laugh, and he exhales at the break in tension. “You look beautiful.” It’s sincere as he says it, and from the way you smile at his words, he thinks he’s doing something right.

“You don’t clean up too bad yourself.” You were a witty one, at least from the tone of your voice and demeanor, he can tell this wasn’t your first rodeo. “You didn’t have to get me flowers.”

“I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I came empty handed. A little birdie told me that first impressions matter, remember?” The corner of your mouth curls up at the way he echoes your words from two nights ago, a light chuckle escaping you. He extends his arm to hand you the bouquet, observing your reaction as he did so.

“They’re lovely, thank you,” your voice softens as you speak to him, a faint warmth settling on your cheeks under your makeup.

“Of course. Ready to go inside?” He suggests, and with a nod you take a step forward to the restaurant’s entrance.

As the hostess ushers you through the restaurant, Marcus keeps the steady weight of his palm on your lower back, just the right amount of pressure to not seem too forceful. You are brought to a more quiet section of the place, a few other dining patrons nearby but limited in number. The setting is intended to be intimate with the dim warm-toned lighting, a mixture of stone and archived pictures of an industrialized Chicago decorating the walls around you.

The hostess steps away once you reach your table, and Marcus swiftly helps you remove your thin jacket, placing it on the edge of your chair and pulling it out for you to take a seat, pushing you in afterward. Now situated in your designated place, the older man steps around you, watching him as he undoes the front button of his suit jacket before sitting down, looking in your direction and offering a gentle smile. Mimicking his expression, you drop the flowers at the center of the table, feeling the delicate tablecloth in front of you.

“Have you been here before?” He queries once you are both settled, a waiter coming by to fill your glasses with water.

“No, I’ve been trying to score a reservation here for months but I heard it’s been booked out way in advance. Not entirely surprised you found a way to grab a table so quickly, but color me shocked.”

“I’m a man of many talents. It’s a good thing you found me when you did.” The same waiter from before returns to pass the menu, prepared to give the tailored list of the chef’s specials for the night. “Feel free to indulge. Get whatever you like.”

As tempting as the invitation is, you are more than conscious of what you order off the menu. Playing it safe with a classic salad, a hearty steak, and two glasses of wine that leave you satisfied in terms of appetite. Marcus surprisingly does a good job of keeping you engaged throughout the night with simple conversation, easing into the comfortably of letting his curiosity speak for itself with the questions he asks. Though, he quickly comes to realize you’re charismatic with your responses, almost trained to know what to expect, how to answer and the tone you should be using.

It’s by the time the entree hits your table and you finish your first glass of wine that you loosen up, flipping his questions back to him, finding out more about his career, who he is, his likes and dislikes. Your grin widens more with every sip of your drink, pacing yourself to be sensible in your consumption while you eat.

Now almost finished with your second glass of expensive red, you swirl the last drops that pool at the bottom of the glass. You glance at him from across the table, eyeing him closely with a hint of mischief. He mirrors your expression, his cheek dimpling as he looks at you from the other end.

“You’re an awfully observant man, Marcus.” You remark, a slight edge to your voice, glossy lips staining the rim of your glass as you finish off your drink.

“When something is deserving of my attention, I have a habit of not cheapening out.” He playfully shrugs, his glass running empty a while ago, declining a refill as he’s taking it easy tonight. “Are you in the mood for dessert?”

Whether he meant the next course or something else, that was for him to know and for you to find out. Though, as enticing the prospect is to take it there, you don’t want to misread the situation beyond what it is.

“I actually don’t think I have room for anything else, the steak did a number on me.” An upbeat giggle pours out of you, and he laughs along with you.

“Then unless you want another glass of wine, I can ask for the check. Or…” his voice drifts off, the suspense grabbing your attention.

“Or?” That’s when he sees it, a spark of intrigue that fills him with a boldness he’s been harboring since sitting down at this table.

“Or you can join me for a drink, back at my place, if you’d like of course. If not, I can drop you off at home before heading back to mine.” Marcus is asking you to go back home with him, at least that’s what he thinks. Yet, it almost seems like it’s more than a suggestion, but a subdued command. Not that you’re complaining, you were hoping he’d ask at some point.

“Sure, I wouldn’t mind another drink.”

He tries to hide his surprise at your answer, but after seeing the faint gleam in your eye, his cheek dimples once more.

With a quick gesture of his hand, Marcus whips out his black card and covers the tab, his palm taking its place on our tailbone as you both walk out of the restaurant together. His tinted Escalade rolls onto the street, and he steps to the side to let you in first, closing the door behind him and setting his address as the next destination. Throughout the ride, there is a comfortable distance between you, stuck on opposite ends in the backseat, throwing each other side glances when looking away from the window, a smile here and there. Still, he keeps his hands to himself, thick fingers thrumming on his lap and you hold your bag in yours, the anticipation of seeing where the older man lived incrementing inside you.

Twenty minutes later and a brief dinner recap, he extends his hand to help you out of the car, faintly squeezing your fingers as he does. He remains steadfast in keeping his touch on your lower back as he guides you through the lobby hall, the doorman greeting you both whilst passing him.

Entering the elevator, he taps part of his key on the scanner and presses the PH button at the very top of the selection, what you assume to be the penthouse. He gives you a knowing look, a gleam in his eyes as you’re sent up higher in this modernized building.

Crossing through the hallway that awaits you once the elevator doors open, you are brought to a pair of double doors. Allowing Marcus to formally unlock the door, you step into his space for the first time, and you can’t help the gasp that slips out of you.

Guided through the foyer of his apartment, you find high rise ceilings and earthy tones surrounding you, hints of creams and metallic accents left everywhere to find. The kitchen is fully decked out with modern stainless steel appliances and light wooden cabinets, a marble island taking the empty space in the middle. The open concept layout allows you to see the living room, sunken into the floor at a lower level, spotting a plush dark brown L shaped couch with smaller cream cushions behind a deep wooden coffee table, paired with a twin set of auburn armchairs and an overarching lamp between them. A fireplace is built into the accent wall, a plasma screen TV seamlessly hanging in contrast to the wooden panels that cover that portion of the room.

You can tell there is probably more for you to discover, another hallway that would allow you passage to an office or his bedroom, but that will be left for another day. What really catches your eye is the wall of books to the farthest side of the room, close to the frosted windows and balcony that grant a perfect view of the Chicago Loop area at night. The shelving carries a catered collection of works that were found over the years, and your curiosity piques to see what titles he might have in there.

The space is gorgeous, surprisingly warm and inviting, simultaneously masculine and calming. A harmonization of colors and textiles all in one space. You envy him just a tad for having such a nice apartment, though you might consider this one to be the best interior you’ve seen so far.

“What do you think? Hopefully it’s not too much,” you hear Marcus utter from behind you, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it off to the side. He offers to take off your overcoat, allowing his hands to lightly caress over your shoulders as he tugs the layer off, hanging it next to his. He also grasps the bouquet you’re holding, setting it down on the table closest to the door to grab later on your way out.

“I think you’re a man of fine taste for both exteriors and interiors.” You continue to marvel at your current backdrop. “Did you design all of this too?”

“Partially. Worked with an interior designer to figure out the dimensions of things, what exactly I needed to achieve my vision. But for the most part, the colors, textures and where everything goes was all me. The sunken living room was definitely my idea, did not sit well with the building managers but they came around.”

“I’m amazed you managed to get away with that.”

“You pick up a few things here and there the more you learn about the industry.” He looks at your side profile for a second before he speaks again. “Do you still want that drink?”

“That depends. What do you have?” You turn on your heel to face him, a coy smile on your pretty face.

“Anything really. Wine, whiskey, I can mix a drink for you if you’d prefer that.” For some reason, the potential of seeing Marcus make a drink tugs at your chest. Taking a second to think of a solid option, you settle on a reasonable cocktail.

“You know how to make a whiskey sour?” You watch the way his face quirks up at your choice of drink.

“Sure do. Make yourself at home.”

Marcus wanders off to the kitchen where he has what looks to be a whole bar built into a portion of the sectioned off room. You walk around the space he’s tailored to be his, running your fingertips over the edge of the couch and admiring the paintings hanging on the wall by the bookshelves. Scanning over the varying book titles, you note the multiple accounting and real estate books, some shelves primarily only having that with the rest filled with classics you recall him mentioning to you in passing.

The sound of ice shaking forces your attention back to Marcus whose focus was primarily in making your drink. From the corner of your eye, you see he has his sleeves rolled up his forearm, his bicep flexing as he holds the shaker in his broad hand, moving it with efficiency, a curl falling over his forehead from the effort. You look away when he pops the top off of the shaker, hoping he didn’t see you ogling him longer than you should have.

Playing clueless, your eyes land on a certain part of his book collection, titles relating to history and the world catching your eye, global wars and conquests amongst other things. You were too busy scanning the spines of the different books to notice Marcus observing you as he walked in your direction with a glass in each of his hands. Turning once you feel his presence by your side, you whisper a thank you and take your drink, tentatively sipping through the small straw he offered you, to taste the perfect mix of lime and aged rye.

“How is it? I eased up on the whiskey, figured you wouldn’t want something too strong.”

“You should’ve done bartending instead of real estate. Bet you would be a hit with the ladies, make a hell of a lot of tips.” Marcus chuckles, a pleasant sound that emits through him.

“Guess the mixing classes are paying off.”

A coltish smirk lands on your face in amusement, tilting your head to the bookshelf to grab his attention. “Wouldn’t take you as a history buff.”

“What can I say? I like learning about the world, the past shaping the present and influencing the future. Plus, it keeps me well rounded as one would say, pairs well with traveling.” You hum with a nod, pointing to a specific title you notice.

“SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome by Mary Beard. I was obsessed with Ancient Rome when I was a kid, well that and mythology. Sort of ironic considering you’re from there, you’d fit in.”

“It’s a special interest of mine, but I’m curious about the history of the general area, besides what’s been passed down by family members.” He states casually, letting you wander around a bit more before heading to the couch in his living room, his hand instantly holding yours as you step down into the sunken floor along the way.

With every sip of your cocktail, you find yourself more entranced by Marcus, your eyes drawn to the muscles in his arm contracting when he takes a gulp of his whiskey. Time flies by as you converse more with him, the ice melting in your glass as you sit your empty cup on the coffee table. Your heels are now somewhere scattered on the floor, legs folded over one another as you lean into the couch on your side, facing your date. He stays seated on the corner of the couch, body angled towards the fireplace and his legs spread with his hands on his leg as he listens to you talk.

“You never mentioned it, you know, why you’re on the app to begin with. You don’t seem like the kind of man to bother with this whole sort of thing.”

“And why do you think that?” He twists his head to look at you, curious in your reasoning.

“You’re too smart to be bullshitting around with anything, and I think relationships are the same. Something happened along the way, no?”

Ah, there it is, the feared question. Why was he on that app? Originally it was a joke, he wasn’t taking it seriously, and yet here he is, sitting on the couch with someone from a sugar daddy app of all places. He could lie to you, say he just wanted some company for the night just to save his own ass. But one look at your face and he knew the last thing he wanted to do was use the usual facade that fed the void in his chest. 

He pauses for a beat before finding his words.

“I was married for a few years. The divorce was finalized a few months ago, but feels like it happened way before that.”

“I’m sorry, Marcus.” Your palm flies to his knee in a supporting pat, the action not lost to him as warmth springs from your touch for a moment before taking it back.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. Things just didn’t work out, it wasn’t in the cards.” He fidgets with the ring on his right hand, a nervous tick he’s adopted over time as the air thickens in the room. Moving the spotlight from himself, he flips the question to you. “And what about you? Why were you on the app?”

“Honestly, I forgot I still had an account after doing this a few times, never really worked out in the past. I was about to deactivate my profile when I saw your super like. Didn’t want to pass up the opportunity, so I answered. Besides, I was curious about you.”

“You must’ve had hundreds of profile matches at that point.” You chortle under your breath.

“Oh, please. You open the app and it’s just all up in your face. It’s so…overwhelming. But if it’s any comfort, you were the only account I liked back.”

Marcus’ neck pivots to peer at you, sincere in your confession to him. He fights the urge to have his lips curve upwards, instead he shifts his gaze back down to the floor with a shake of his head.

“You flatter me.”

“I’m serious,” you jest, straightening your back and jokingly slapping his bicep. “You’re sitting here acting like you didn't have hundreds of likes coming out of the woodworks.”

“Seeing that high number took me off guard, I’m surprised my phone didn’t glitch from it and I was spared from getting a headache. But I didn’t really care much for the rest. I liked your account and turned my phone off, called it a day.”

Your eyes bore on to Marcus’ face, staring at him incredulously. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Lots of beautiful women on there, don’t get me wrong. However, I’m more particular about what I like.” He ogles at you, as if he needed to make it any more obvious he found you attractive. The thought brings heat to your cheeks, the alcohol doing wonders to lower your inhibitions.

Your sight detours to his hand where his thumb runs over the emerald signet ring on his pinkie, your curiosity getting the best of you.

“What’s with the ring?” You jut your chin out to point to the shiny piece of jewelry.

“Family heirloom. Been in my family since my grandfather, went to my father, and now passed down to me. Just something I mess with often.”

“Can I see it?” You move your hand towards him, suggesting that you want to see the emerald piece up close.

Marcus offers you his hand, your fingers grazing his palm as you look at the ring. He tries his best not to think too much about the way your touch feels, how your soft fingers sweep his calloused ones as you examine the way the ring circles around his thick digit, running your thumb over the emerald stone at the center.

To his disbelief, you bring his hand to your cheek, his knuckles caressing over your jaw and ear before guiding it towards your neck. The knuckle of his pointer finger rasps the front of your throat and the divot of your collarbone, your fingers circling his wrist and slowly bringing his touch down the middle of your chest. His heart pounds in his ribs when you drag his hand over your midriff before placing it on your waist, comfortably laying on your hip and he gives you a nervous squeeze.

Swiftly, you shift your position on the couch, bending on your knees to crawl towards his lap. Marcus watches you the entire time, leaning backwards and letting you get situated with zero protest. The end of your dress rides up your thighs slowly, your hands on his chest, sensing the tension radiating off of him in waves. He keeps both of his hands on your waist, his head angled back to hold your gaze, concealing the groan that threatens to escape from feeling your body over his.

“Is this okay?” You ask, seeing him nod. “Marcus…” you entice him with a whisper, leaning towards him, the tips of your noses edging together. “I really want to kiss you.”

Marcus’ eyebrows shoot up to his forehead as he gawks at you, slightly tipsy from your earlier drink coursing through your veins. He’s considerate enough to keep his hands on your waist, holding you steady as you stare at him with stars in your vision.

“Can I kiss you? Please?” You press yourself against him, one hand on his chest as your words captivate him. His focus lingers in your hazy eyes, then drifts to your lips, watching how they part subconsciously with every breath. Succumbing to his desires, he nods again, and you tip forward to slot your mouth over his.

It’s the lightest of pecks, brief and sweet enough to not overwhelm either of you, a test of boundaries. You briskly pull away, carefully watching Marcus’ reaction, reading his body language to see whether or not he wants to pause or keep going. He squeezes your waist, and that is all the initiative you need to kiss him again.

With a faint grin, you offer him another peck, then another, and another. After every kiss, the gloss on your lips fades and transfers to his mouth, and by the fourth peck, he pinches your chin and brings you forward to kiss you with more intention. Your body ignites with the prolonged feel of his mouth against yours, the curve in your spine deepens and your hands move on their own.

Marcus lets you lead him into the kiss, following your pace and sighing in content when your fingers thread through the hair on his nape, tugging the strands a little to angle his head differently. A groan rumbles in his chest from your touch, taking advantage of this position and teasing your tongue over his bottom lip, signaling you want to taste more of him.

Granting you passage, his mouth opens to welcome your tongue, curling around his own and keeping your grip on him. Slanting your head to the side to get the right angle, your body inches nearer as your hips press over his. Without much thought, his hands move up your back, the feel of his palms a comfort against your heated skin, trailing lower to cup your ass. The action forces you to gasp, pulling away to find darkened brown eyes staring at you carefully and bringing his hands back to your waist, the start of an apology dying on his lips before you interrupted him. “It’s okay, Marcus. You can touch me.” You coax his hand down to your lower back, fingers intertwined with his and urging him to squeeze your tender flesh. “I want you to touch me.”

He doesn’t need any more convincing, the desire he’s been carrying all night dominates the rest of his self-doubt. Palming your ass with one hand and keeping the other on your side, he swoops in for another passionate kiss, more comfortable in initiating this time around. You simply let him have it, the edge of your dress riding up your thighs as your hips settle over his, the center of you pulsing after another greedy squeeze.

The need for his attention grows more ravenous as you sit prettily over his lap, carding your fingers through his graying strands. Discreetly, your hips hesitantly shift over his hips, feeling the evident bulge developing under your thigh. Marcus bites your bottom lip at your slight movement, pushing his hips closer to yours as his cock hardens in his slacks.

Plucking your lips away from his, you litter kisses over his cheek and the side of his jaw, nipping at the juncture where his jaw meets his neck. He grunts when you finally reach his neck, gliding your tongue over the vein that pulses along with the rest of him. Head thrown back on the edge of the couch, he lets you touch him however you want, kneading your rear with his thick fingers, skimming over more of your bare skin as your dress moves higher up your body. 

It all feels too good, the realization of just how touch deprived he is hits him like a ton of bricks. Here you are sitting on his lap, grinding against him in such a way he can feel your heat through his clothes, your scent wafting under his nose with your close proximity. It’s almost too much for him to take.

And he doesn’t want you to stop.

Controlling your movements over him, you adopt a steady rhythm gyrating your body against his thighs, his hands encouraging you with every push and pull. Your panties begin to stick to you, the gluttony enrapturing you growing to new heights as the erection hidden under expensive material twitches the harder you grind. Decorum out of the window, Marcus fantasizes what it must feel like to be between your legs; imagines if you taste just as sweet as you smell, or if your cunt would tighten and clench around him when he brought you to the edge over and over again until the only thing you remembered was his name.

His own imagination paired with your incessant humping forces his body to hit his peak prematurely, shuddering under you with a rasped groan. You’re stunned as his body betrays him, the bump in his pants deflating once the wave of pleasure is done washing over him, his grip tightening around your hips.

The air around you crackles despite the silence, stiff as you observe the man underneath you trying to catch his breath. You can tell he wasn’t expecting this to happen, much less to feel so much he ended up spilling in his briefs from a little bit of kissing and movement. His bearded cheeks are shaded with hints of pink and his eyes distantly off to the side, avoiding your observant gaze.

“Fuck, I am so sorry,” Marcus starts, the self deprecating thoughts running rampant in his head from his mediocre performance.

He curses himself, thinking he should’ve been better prepared for this, maybe jerked off before the date to begin with in hopes he would last longer. This certainly is a first for him, coming prematurely like a fucking teenager was not something he’s known for, and should be reason enough to bury him six feet under from the embarrassment.

“Don’t be. Honestly, it’s kind of flattering,” you affirm bashfully as the last bits of your arousal settle in your gut. “I think it’s hot.”

“Really?” Marcus flexes his eyebrows, seeking your reassurance.

“Feeling so good you just couldn’t help yourself? It’s sexy. I’ll take it as a compliment,” you express, kissing him sweeter than you had for the past thirty minutes. “I can clean you up if you want…”

Your hushed words make his cock twitch again despite already making a mess in his briefs. His mind is going into overdrive, envisioning you on your knees, pretty mouth wrapped around his length and your manicured nails handling the rest.

Next time.

“No, it’s alright. I’d rather repay the favor.” Sure, it might’ve appeared to be a form of damage control, but the reality is he’s developed a craving that only you could satisfy.

“You don’t have to Marcus, it’s fine really. I don’t mind.”

“I’m not the kind of man to leave a woman unsatisfied. Not in my character.” He kisses you again, reviving the same familiar pulse from between your legs. “Let me make you feel good.”

A whimper threatens to slip past your lips, but you swallow it down. From the way he kissed your lipstick off, you wondered what it would feel like to have his mouth on another part of you, granting you something you desperately needed since getting in the car from the restaurant. Reason had already left your mind a while ago, and your body spoke of your intentions before you confirmed them yourself, muttering an airy okay with a nod.

You barely register how smoothly he maneuvers you, the shift so seamless it feels like second nature. You’re sinking into the couch, your back meeting the plush cushions as he takes control.

Marcus doesn’t rush. He never does. Not in business, not in conversation, and certainly not in bed.

But right now, with you spread out on his couch, looking at him like you’re daring him to take whatever he wants, he feels something hungry unravel inside him.

He moves with intention, mouth against yours in a deep, passionate kiss. Your spine arches, breasts pressed up against his chest, fingers ghosting over his shoulders, clenching when he drags his lips from yours to your jaw, then down your neck.

You smell divine.

He lingers at your neck as he inhales against your skin, your perfume an aphrodisiac that disorients him, fogging his mind. It makes a groan vibrate deep in his chest, the sound sending goosebumps over your skin, your nipples hardening beneath the fabric of your dress.

Marcus cups your tits in his large hands, relishing the weight of them, the way they fill his palms so perfectly. He squeezes, kneading the satin-covered flesh, his thumbs dragging over stiffened peaks.

His deep exhale fans over your plump breasts before he continues downward, dragging slow, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. His facial hair grazes your skin, a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips.

He licks the swells of your chest, teeth nipping at the supple skin, making you yelp playfully and you can feel the small smirk that pulls at his lips before he moves lower, veiled brown eyes flitting up to your flustered face as his tongue mouths your nipple over the dress, biting down on it softly.

“You like that?” He asks, already knowing the damn answer, the satin dampening beneath his tongue as he flicks and sucks at the hardened bud.

“Yes, Marcus…” The breathy sigh of his name is like music to his ears, neck tilting back as your eyes flutter close when he repeats the action on your other breast, kneading its twin in his large hand.

“You are so gorgeous.”

He shifts again, going lower, pushing the skirt of your pretty dress up until it’s bunched at your waist. His palms are warm and firm as he trails kisses above your mound, teasing you with his descent. Your thighs twitch under his touch, anticipation buzzing through you like an electric current.

He spreads your legs wide, pushing them up to your chest and keeping you in the position he wants by pressing his hands to the back of your thighs near where your knees bend.

The sight of your barely covered sex is more erotic than if you had forgone the undergarment all together. Short, dark curls tease him over the flimsy hem of your panties and his cock stirs at the sight despite the mess he’s already made in his slacks.

“She’s real pretty.” His voice drops an octave, the rasp in it making the compliment sound wanton. Your hips move on their own ever so slightly, a natural reaction your pussy is having to his tone, chasing the sound.

Marcus hums, a quiet sound of appreciation, feeding off every little tic of yours. His lips part slightly, tongue rolling over them as his attention remains on your thong.

Thin black lace, skimpy. Practically useless.

His fingers toy with the waistband, slipping beneath it, testing the stretch. Then, with a little too much enthusiasm, he pulls and it gives, the sound of the fabric tearing setting you off even more.

He almost scoffs. The material of it feels expensive beneath his touch yet it rips so easily. He could easily buy you a hundred of these. Better.

Your eyes lazily find his and for a moment, there’s nothing but a silent exchange between you—a subtle tilt of your head, the slight arch of your brow, questioning. Are you really going to do it?

His smirk is slow, knowing. A dimple dents his cheek.

Yes.

And with that, he grips the lace and rips the damn thing off, throwing it over his shoulder. The ruined panties fall onto the coffee table behind him, forgotten.

Now you’re completely bare, the lips of your pussy spread from how he’s got your legs parted, sex aching and glistening beneath the dim opulent lighting. A perfect, needy mess just for him.

The soft trail of hair that leads down to your pretty cunt has Marcus leaning in, nuzzling his strong nose against you, inhaling the musky scent that lingers there, letting it invade his senses and seep into his bloodstream like an intoxicant. 

His tongue follows next, broad and slow, dragging up the length of the strip, savoring the contrast of coarse curls against the slick warmth of his mouth. The taste of you spreads across his tongue, earthy and sweet. You let out a drawn out moan, palms sinking into the couch as you attempt to ground yourself amidst the sensation.

“Shit,” the curse word is muttered, barely audible as you feel delirious from feeling him so close to where you need him. You don’t remember how long it’s been since you craved the touch of a man like this, and it doesn’t help that the alcohol you’ve been consuming all night is amplifying your lust.

Your pussy flutters involuntarily, a fresh trickle of sweet arousal slipping lower, trailing down to the curve of your ass.

Marcus is enraptured, taking in your exposed, creamy flesh, how your smell infiltrates his nose and it’s like his eyes gloss over with a carnal desire to devour you, eat you until you’re crying and begging him to stop.

He needs to reel it in, remind himself that it’s only the first night. He can’t overwhelm you too quickly, scare you away before he’s able to show you what he’s truly capable of. Of how good he can actually make you feel.

“So wet,” he mutters as he maps wet, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs. His fingers sink into the soft, pliant flesh, squeezing, kneading—reverent in his touch. He drags his lips closer, his breath ghosting over your messy cunt, teasing but never quite giving.

“Hard to hold back when you’re spread out like this,” he murmurs, nosing against the sensitive crease where your thigh meets your core. “But fuck, sweetheart… I don’t think I want to.”

“Didn’t get the impression that you could hold back.” The timbre of your tone makes him pause, pulling away slightly to look at you properly.

“If I really let you have it…you’d already be begging me to let you breathe.”

The glint of amusement that flickers through your gaze is gone in a blink, replaced by unguarded desire.

“I can handle it.”

His smoldering stare rises to meet yours, narrowing just slightly, a silent challenge passing between you. His thumbs press into your skin as if testing the truth of your statement.

You’re bracing yourself beneath his touch, muscles tensing in anticipation, as if proving to him that your words aren’t just bravado. You mean them. You want this. You want him.

Good. He wants you to need this as badly as he does.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow, savoring, as if he’s tasting something forbidden, something he’s been denied for too long. But patience? That doesn’t last. It shatters the second he gets his first real taste, and the groan that rumbles deep in his chest is downright filthy.

Marcus is gone.

He buries himself into your pussy, tongue dragging flat up your slit before going taut and flicking up to your clit, testing what makes you gasp and elicit more of those sweet noises that fill his ears.

“Oh Marcus, just like that.” It’s as if he flips a switch that has your words pouring out. “You’re doing so good.”

Your praise melts into him, impassioning him. He’s been craving this kind of lust for years. It’s been too fucking long since he let himself indulge in his roaring sexual appetite.

He swirls your sensitive nub around with his tongue, sealing his lips around the pert flesh. He suckles on it, making out with your pussy, having you wail out like an aching woman.

Marcus thrives off the way your hips rock toward his mouth, groaning like he’s savoring a meal far more decadent than the dinner from earlier tonight.

Your heady and potent taste drowns his taste buds, clit pulsing against his tongue—all of it is enough to make him lightheaded. His big hands curl around your thighs, pulling you somehow closer, the friction of his nose and beard rubbing against your pussy making you keen and further lose yourself in the pleasure he is giving you.

“Fuck don’t stop, oh my god.” Your sounds turn pornographic, tugging at his hair while your other hand moves up to palm your own breast, the fabric of your dress slipping until your chest is exposed, nipples sensitive to the cool air.

The hand at your left thigh traverses up, nudging your hand out of the way and you let him grab a handful of your tit. The growl he emits vibrates against your sex as his fingers begin to roll and pull at the perky bud.

Marcus’ tongue then slips inside your fluttering entrance, fucking into you as his aquiline nose rubs your slick pearl.

The obscene sounds of his mouth working you over fill the room—sucking, slurping, the guttural groans that rumble from his chest every time he dives back in like he can’t get enough. Because he can’t. He’s drunk on you, addicted after only minutes, and the more you writhe beneath him, the more he loses himself in it.

Marcus. Marcus. Marcus. His name becomes a hymn as your orgasm looms, taunting you, threatening to end this beautiful, salacious act despite you wanting to live in this pocket of pleasure for the rest of the night.

You did not expect him to be this good or fucking eager. Most men treat a woman’s pleasure like an afterthought, something to be checked off a list before they roll over and chase their own release. But not him. He’s eating like he’s never going to get the chance again, showing you with every flick of his tongue, every messy, open-mouthed kiss to your cunt, exactly how much he enjoys this.

Your hand moves on instinct, covering his where it grips your breast, your nails raking over his knuckles and the sleek face of his expensive watch, dragging down until you can feel the veins running beneath his skin. His tongue doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter, even as you babble through a desperate plea.

“I’m right there, mmm don’t stop, please.”

You gyrate against his handsome face, claiming him in the messiest, most unceremonious way, coating his chin, his nose, those full lips that have been driving you insane all night. 

He can feel your desperation in how your fingers clench his hair or how your other hand moves to grip the back of the couch, back arching high off the cushions. You’re unraveling for him, and fuck, that just makes him want to push you further.

Marcus doesn’t need his fingers to make you come. Just his mouth. Just his tongue plunging into you, curling, lapping up everything you give him, working you until you’re trembling—until those soft gasps turn into ragged, broken moans.

And when you finally finish, when you sob his name like it’s the only thing you know, Marcus still does not stop.

He takes your orgasm, drinks it down, tongue still lapping at your sex as your thighs snap shut around his head, as if you’re trying to pull him deeper, to keep him there. And he lets you smother him, lets himself drown in you.

It’s overwhelming. Your vision blurs, lashes wet with tears, streaks of mascara and eyeliner running down your cheeks. You’re coming apart under the relentless assault of his mouth again, your second orgasm stretching, rolling, growing into something bigger than yourself.

“I—I—” The words tangle in your throat, lost in the heat of it all, stolen by the wicked, practiced flicks of his wet muscle. When he pulls back, it’s only to drag his tongue over his bottom lip, hollowing his cheeks and spitting filthily onto your throbbing cunt.

“Thought you could handle it?” He taunts before diving back in, both hands returning to keep you firmly against his face.

You can’t think straight, thoughts slipping through your grasp like water. “T-Too much, oh—” you attempt to pull your hips away, body writhing as if you were a possessed woman, the overstimulation of it all feeling like you’re burning from the inside out in the best way possible.

But Marcus keeps you locked down tightly, staring intensely up at you, letting the edges of his teeth graze along your sensitive clit. A white-hot jolt of sensation rockets up your spine and makes you scream so high-pitched, you’re sure the windows of his penthouse rattle from the force of it.

Your back bows violently, stiffening as the pleasure crashes over you, unexpected and devastating. Your release gushes out in a messy, sinful rush, soaking the lower half of his face. Marcus groans deeply, slurping it, shaking his head against your cunt to smear it all over, the primal feel of it all only intensifying with each drop of yours that he tastes. 

Only when you finally slump against the couch, spent and trembling, does he ease up, pressing lingering kisses to your clit, enjoying how your pussy twitches from coming so hard. A thin string of your essence clings to his lips as he finally—reluctantly—pulls back, breathing heavily, dragging the back of his hand across his slick beard.

The blissfully wrecked look on your face is one that’s going to be burned into the back of his eyelids for eternity. It’s in this moment; as he takes in your swollen lips, ruined makeup, and your ravished body, that something in him clicks. It makes Marcus recognize that whatever this is sprouting between you two is something he wants to continue to chase.

He flashes you a lopsided smirk, one that deepens when the single curl falls onto his forehead. Kisses are placed on each quivering inner thigh in an attempt to soothe the tremors still running through your body, before he begins his ascent, reversing the path that led him to the heaven between your legs.

The skirt of your dress is smoothed down with careful hands, his large fingers tugging the fabric into place, covering you as if he’s tucking away something precious. Then, with the same tenderness, he draws the neckline back over your chest. But his lips don’t stop their journey. They find your neck, trailing up to your jawline, the corner of your mouth—teasing—before finally claiming your lips.

The smell of your pussy clings to him as he kisses you passionately, making you taste yourself. It makes the kiss filthier, his mouth moving against yours with the same fervor he’d shown between your thighs. You whimper into him, feeling the lazy roll of his tongue as he takes his time with you. Neither of you wants to break the moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, still kneeling between your legs, his hand coming up to cradle your face, thumb grazing your cheek before tugging at one of the curls that’s slipped loose from your updo. “Taste so good, too.”

Your smile comes naturally—not coy, not calculated, but soft, bubbling over, breathless. There’s a twinkle in your eyes, and Marcus feels himself get lost in it, entranced by the way you look at him. If this is what he’s rewarded with every time he makes you come, then he’ll gladly do it over and over again.

“Thank you for not holding back,” you finally manage, your voice still wrecked, but carrying that teasing lilt. Your fingers weave into his curls, tugging lightly as you take him in—his dark, blown-out gaze, the shine of your slick still glistening on his beard. “Even if it looked like I was tapping out there for a second. You’ve got real magic in that mouth of yours.”

Marcus huffs out a laugh. “Thanks.” His brown eyes soften while he wipes the streaks of your makeup away with his thumb. You could stay like this all night, just looking, feeling, letting the attraction simmer until it boils over and you’re tangled in his sheets with his name on the tip of your tongue.

But you both know better. This is something to savor and let breathe, allowing chemistry to take the lead.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

“More than I anticipated.” 

The answer strokes something deep in his chest, an ego he rarely lets get the better of him. But with you? He allows it, just a little.

“I’d like to keep seeing you. If it wasn’t obvious.”

You sigh, still reeling from his ministrations, tilting your head, unable to stop drinking him in. “Same here. You are a very intriguing man, Marcus.”

“And you are a very fascinating woman.” He gently takes the wrist of the hand in his hair, bringing it to his lips, placing a kiss on your palm. It makes your heart stutter. “I’ll call the driver to take you home if you want to go freshen up.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing, “Oh? You’re kicking me out?”

“If you want to stay, be my guest.”

The invitation lingers in the air between you, heavy with temptation. And it is tempting, yet despite the fact that he had his mouth buried between your thighs not even five minutes ago, you don’t want to lay all your cards on the table just yet.

“I’ll get out of your hair. My bed beckons me.” 

Marcus stands, offering his hand as he helps you to your feet, pointing you to the direction of the master bathroom. You feel the intensity of his gaze as you walk away, aware of how his eyes track the intentional sway of your hips. You can’t help but smirk.

Only when you disappear behind the door does he exhale, rubbing a hand down his jaw, feeling the sticky remnants of you still clinging to him. He glances at the ruined scrap of lace on the coffee table, sporting a smug smile of his own, grabbing his phone to call the driver.

Once your ride is handled, he moves around the space to gather your things, adjusting himself in his pants, cringing at the reminder of the mess that’s there. 

You emerge a few minutes later, face wiped clean, hair slightly more composed yet just as gorgeous, your legs carrying the delicious remnants of euphoria in every shaky step.

“Mailing you my doctor bill if this problem doesn’t go away anytime soon,” you joke, sinking onto the couch to slip your heels back on.

Marcus smirks, shaking his head as he watches you, holding your gathered belongings in his hands. “Think of it as a souvenir. Something to remember me by until we see each other again.”

“Yeah? And when will that be?”

“You tell me.”

You hum, pretending to consider as you rise to your feet, your body brushing just close enough to tempt. “I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you.”

You reach for the delicate scrap of lace left abandoned on his coffee table. “You owe me a new pair, by the way.”

He chuckles, helping you slip into your jacket, then handing over your things. “That thing was on its last thread. Surprised it didn’t just dissolve off you with how soaked you got it.”

You roll your eyes, biting down on your lip as warmth creeps up your neck at the memory. He watches the way you react, the way your body still responds to him even now, and it only cements his need to see you again.

Guiding you out of the penthouse, he keeps conversation light, the easy chemistry between you both lingering like an unspoken promise. But the moment you step into the lobby, you feel the burn of the doorman’s knowing stare, his amusement barely concealed as he tips his head in greeting.

“Have a good night, miss,” he says, and you fight the urge to duck your head in embarrassment, thanking him quietly.

Outside, the cool Chicago night air wraps around you as a sleek black Escalade idles in the porte-cochère, waiting. Marcus, ever the gentleman, steps ahead to open the car door for you.

You stop just before getting in, looking up at him, your voice soft. “Thank you for tonight. I had a wonderful time—you’re great company.”

He grins. “Likewise, beautiful. I’m glad you didn’t deactivate your account when you did.”

Your heart flutters at that, and before you can second-guess it, you lean up on your toes, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses to his lips. He hums against your mouth, his hand naturally finding its place on your waist, the metal of his ring grazing the fabric of your dress.

“Let me know when you make it home, alright?” he murmurs against your lips.

“I will.”

One last kiss, then you pull away, climbing into the backseat. You share a final, lingering glance through the open door.

“Good night, Marcus.”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

You smile, and with that, he shuts the door. The SUV pulls away, disappearing into the city streets, swallowed by the skyline. Marcus watches until you’re gone, your touch still burning against his skin, your scent still clinging to his shirt.

He exhales heavily, running his fingers through his hair before turning back toward the building.

“Have a good evening, sir?”

Marcus smirks, the memory of your body, your taste, your voice still fresh in his mind.

“The best I’ve had in a long time.”

[ohhoneypascal]

Date night with Javier Peña

[lazy-nae]

Little Drabble

A little Roman General Justus Acacius X Black/ Poc reader. A small dribble to just make something sweet for the time being.

His prize

General Acacius X Black/POC Reader

Hooves…All you heard when your husband was arriving home was hooves, as you were making your way to the entrance of your home with two handmaidens flanking you trying to help you cover up properly with a thicker robe, yet you didn’t have much care.

You were to see your husband, after many nights spent worrying about his safety, and praying to the gods for his safe return. You knew your husband wasn’t the most righteous man to others, but to you he was the stars that filled your devoid nights and the very embrace you’d wish for at that moment.

As your long curly and course/ loose and curly/ straight black locs trailed behind you to your mid-back, after falling from there silk covering as they fell against your silk night robes which were as white as pearls, as your beautiful melanin skin, which was almost like the color that made vases that told of the most beautiful stories and tales/ skin that held beauty as the brown tourmaline and as dark as the many shades of the Chocolate Tahitian pearls which were littered across your arms in bracelets.

The entrance opened as your husband still clothed in his ceremonial armor, came over to your, nearly running as you two embraced one another tightly, not many knew the gentler and more domesticated side of General Acacius, but you did.

You tilted your head up looking to see those tired yet loving dark brown eyes looking down at you, as you felt the warmth of his olive toned skin against yours, you both could let out a exhale of relief as your eyes closed no longer having to worry for the others safety, as the comfort of each other eased the worry’s off both your shoulders.

Your handmaidens gently laid the thicker robe across your back before leaving to their chambers, to leave you two. As he heard their footsteps go out of hearing range, he lowly whispered, “My Lady, Mea Vita, I can’t hold your body as close as I wish to, but I can carry your love closest with me…How I’ve longed to see you again.”. You let out a soft exhale as you reluctantly moved back some.

“As you carry my love with you, I carry and hold yours….I drew you a bath, relax yourself in it and then come back to me.” As you were about to take a step backwards against the marble, he gently tugged you back to him as you met his gaze. “Join me my lady..” He lowly spoke with a glint of pleading within his eyes as they softened, hoping you’d agree.

(Mea Vita translates to “My Life” in Latin)

Should I continue? Either with another character or just finish the chapter?

If you want a different character just comment.

[wakandas-vibranium]

Wednesday Nights || Part One

Pairing: Pre-outbreak!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, smutty smut, phone sex, dirty talk, teasing, swearing, sex work

Word count: 3.5k

Summary: As a single parent of an active kid Joel’s funds were tight, so he needed to find a quick way to make more income and surprisingly, you could make good money being a phone sex operator.

A/N: I kept daydreaming about Joel being a PSO. When I went to search for related fics I couldn’t find any so I wrote one :) Please like, comment and reblog!

part two

part three

part four

part five

Your nerves deteriorated with each passing minute. It was almost ten o'clock. On most days, the time didn't matter, but today was Wednesday. Wednesday nights were highly essential for you. 

For the past five months, you've been making late-night phone calls to talk to a specific phone sex operator named Jay. You had a sneaking suspicion that "Jay" wasn't actually his name, but you didn’t let that bother you. You understood that the operators were obligated to follow certain procedures for their own safety. 

Except for the few small truths he told you, Jay's personal life was a vast mystery to you. All you gathered about him from your extensive conversations was that he was a man in his early thirties from the southern parts of the United States who enjoyed a good cup of coffee before starting his day. He never specified where in the south he grew up, but the Texan drawl sounded too genuine to be artificial.

On Wednesdays, Jay only worked until 11 o'clock, so the two of you came to the conclusion fairly early on that you should dial in a little after 10 in order to ensure that you were his final call of the day.

You managed to calm your nerves by doing a little dance. You twirled in circles until you found yourself standing in front of your full-length mirror that was intentionally placed in front of your bed. You stopped dancing and stood there, appreciating your half-naked figure in the mirror as you waited for the clock to strike 10:03. 

You weren't sure why you always ended up so nervous around this time of the week. You'd been doing this for a while now, but it was just something about Jay that turned you into the shyest little thing.

You looked downright delicious in your baby blue lingerie. You brought it this afternoon along with a new toy. It wasn't like Jay could see it, but your imagination ran wild. Your breasts sat flawlessly in the laced blue bra. You looked like a fucking snack. 

If only you could meet Jay in person, you thought, sighing in disappointment. You eyed the clock and shook the negative thoughts from your head before you ended up in a funk. It was time to dial in. 

You were already drained from the week's stressors, and there were still two more days to go. You were in your last year of graduate school and utterly stumped on your thesis. You were sick of doing research, reading, typing, crying, and everything else that came with being a grad student. At this point, all you wanted to do was talk to Jay for as long as you possibly could and get off. 

You called in, waiting for the main operator to ask you who you wanted to be transferred to. She answered in her usual upbeat voice. You answered her question and before you knew it the line was being transferred to Jay. You held your breath on every ring, as you always did, until Jay picked up. Unexpectedly, a memory of your very first call came flooding back.

9:58pm five months ago

Valentine’s Day

Ring. Ring. Click. 

“Decompress until there’s a mess,” a cheerful woman said as she answered your call and you fought back a cackle at that ridiculous ass slogan. “Who would you like to speak to tonight?”

“Umm…this is my first time calling, so I’m not really sure.” you admitted.

“That’s alright, sugar,” the woman assured softly. “Let’s start with the simple stuff. Do you have a preference for gender or ethnicity?” 

“Umm, well, ethnicity doesn’t matter, but I’d like to speak with a man.”

“Okay. We’re getting somewhere. What kind of man?” 

“Someone with an accent.” 

“What kind of accent? We have ‘em all here, sugar.” 

The constant use of the pet name actually eased your nerves. Your shyness was depleting while your confidence was rising. 

“A southern accent?”

You had a slight accent kink since you could remember. You appreciated all accents, but there was something extra sweet about southern men and the way they could hold a conversation. Maybe it was because you grew up in the south too. 

“Louisiana?” The operator asked as she typed away at her computer. By the sound of her taps, her nails must have been quite long. You bet they looked as pretty as she sounded. 

“More of a Texan accent please.” You insisted, nibbling your bottom lip as you waited for her to find someone. 

“That’ll be Jay then.” 

“It looks like he’s finishing up another call,” she informed. “Do you mind waiting on hold for a few minutes before I transfer you?” 

“No, I don’t mind. Thank you.” 

“Okay. Placing you on hold now.”

You were on hold for maybe forty five seconds. The wait music stopped abruptly and the line rang four times before a sultry voice spoke. “Hello, darlin’.” 

And fuuuuuuuck. 

The sultry twang of his voice sounded like toe curling, earth shattering, raw sex.

You went to say hello, but for some reason you forgot how your mouth worked. You palmed your forehead, wincing.

How embarrassing. 

“Hello?” he said, tone shifting slightly. 

“Hi.” you finally whispered, palms somewhat shaking. You never did anything like this. Thank god he couldn’t see how much of a nervous wreck you were. You weren’t a virgin, but you didn’t have that many sexual experiences. There was plenty left for you to learn. 

“Sorry,” you continued, swallowing the lump in your throat. “This is my first time doing something like this and I’m a little nervous.” you admitted, shifting in the computer chair, spreading your legs. 

“I understand. We can take it slow, okay?” 

“Okay.” you nodded as if he could fucking see you. 

“My name is Jay. What’s your name?” 

“Y/N.” you blurted, without thinking. Were you supposed to give him a fake name?

He chuckled softly, “That your real name, darlin’?”

“Yeah,” you sighed deeply. “It is actually.”

“Well, Y/N is such a pretty name.” He complimented. 

“Thank you.” you smiled, shoulders relaxing as you began to twirl in your chair. 

“How old are you?” Jay asked. 

“I’ll be 28 next month,” you revealed, slipping into a more seductive voice now that your nerves were further away, “How old are you?” 

“I’ll be 31 later in September.” 

“Ah, so you’re a Libra man?” you teased. You weren’t super into astrology, but you knew the basics and looked at compatibility charts every now and then. 

“Am I now?” he laughed.

“You are and I’m an Aries. Apparently we’re very compatible.” 

“Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“You believe that?” He retorted.

“Sort of.” you mumbled, half shrugging. 

“I think we’ll find out in a lil’ bit.” Jay purred. You pulled the phone away from your ear as you shivered in anticipation. You were already wet for him. 

Goddamn. He already had you hooked

“Evenin’ darlin’,” Jay answered warmly on the third ring. 

“Hi,” you responded, beaming up at yourself in the mirror. Jeez all it took was a simple greeting from Jay to have you smiling from ear to ear. “How has your day been?” 

“It’s been alright. Even better now though.” He said, already flirting. 

“I’m wearin’ the blue lace lingerie we looked at last week.” You blurted, getting straight to the point. You usually talked about regular things, but you were pent up and needed him to do what he was perfect at and make you a soaking wet mess. 

“Ohh,” he exhaled sharply, “I wish I could watch you model it for me, Y/N.” He was always so good and going with the flow. He always made sure to give you what you needed. After all, that was what you were paying him for. It was left unspoken that you both forgot that this was a transaction a few months ago. 

“I bought a toy, too.” 

“What kind?” He perked up, even more interested.

“You got your laptop open?”

“Mmhmm.” he replied.

“Go to www.lovegasm.com.”

You listened to the pad of his fingers fall against the laptop keys as he followed your instructions. You ignored the fact that you were lowkey jealous of the keyboard that got to feel how his fingers felt against them. 

“Okay. I’m there.” 

“Click on the drop-down in the left hand corner.” 

“Okay.”

“Then click on ‘for women’ then select ‘dildos’.” you instructed, you slid off your shawl, moving over to the edge of the bed to give him and the page a few extra seconds to load before asking, “You there?”

“Yep. Which one am I looking for?”

“Right column. Sixth one down.” 

“I see,” he said, humming in excitement. 

“Look familiar?” You asked, giggling softly as you laid back on your bed, spreading your thighs. 

“A bit.” he admitted, unable to hide the smile in his voice. You could hear it clear as day. It was another small thing you looked forward to. 

“I can’t wait to feel yo—it inside me, Jay.” you caught yourself, but it was too late. He’d already heard you and his cock twitched in response. 

“No, you were right the first time, baby.” he said, kind of muffled, grunting softly as he raised his arms, removing his shirt and unbuckling his belt. 

“I’m a bit thicker towards the top so we’re gonna have to finger you open, so that I can slide in perfectly.” 

“Okay. Do you want me to take off my panties?” 

“No,” he said, inhaling sharply. “Pull them to the side and rub your clit for me.”

You obeyed, pulling your panties to the side and slowly rubbed your clit with your middle finger, sighing softly. 

“How wet are you?”

“Honestly,” you breathed deeply, running a finger down your slick slit. “I’ve been wet for you all day, Jay.” He groaned deeply at your admission, thick cock swelling in his pants. 

“You’re gonna cum twice for me tonight, Y/N. First on my fingers, then on my cock.” 

Your mouth fell open in a silent gasp. He knew you loved when he talked to you that way. It helped you get off even more. 

“Got it?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Repeat it.” he demanded, growling softly in your ear. You stopped breathing for a second. Completely turned on by the rough tone he was taking with you. 

God he knew what you liked so well. 

“I’m cummin’ twice tonight. On your fingers, then on your cock.” You repeated, voice deep with arousal. You whimpered softly, rubbing faster as you felt that coil deep in your belly loosen a smidge. You were getting closer to the edge. 

“Good girl.” he praised, making you sigh deeply and even more of a puddle. 

“Slide a finger inside you,” he instructed, “Slow pumps.” 

You obeyed, pushing in your middle finger, massaging your folds gradually. Although the motion was effective, it wasn’t sufficient. It didn't push you very far at all. You needed more. 

“Can I add another finger, baby?” You asked, moaning louder as you rubbed your clit in wide slow circles, getting wetter by the second.

“Go ahead,” said Jay, granting you permission.

You added another finger, pumping faster. Now you were getting somewhere.

“Jay,” you moaned softly, grinding down on your fingers as you sped up just a little. 

“I love the way you moan for me.” he praised, grunting softly as he popped the button open on his jeans and unzipped them. The faint sound of his zipper being pulled down made your nipples harden almost painfully. 

“Shit Jay, I wish these were your fingers.” you admitted, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, shyness long gone. You closed your eyes, picturing Jay’s fingers inside of you, while his free hand held pressure on your lower stomach. You listened to him pull his jeans down some. 

“I know baby,” he groaned, palming his hard cock through his boxers, “So do I.” 

“Keep rubbin’ your clit for me,” like the good and dutiful girl you were, you obeyed, rubbing your bundle of nerves in tight, fast circles. Your other fingers were busy pumping in and out of your tight hole. 

It was weird at this angle, but you added a third finger and curled them up. Your thighs trembled as you fingered and rubbed yourself harder. Jay could hear how soaked you were for him and pulled his cock out, thumbing the bead of precum before stroking it lazily. You were always so wet for him and he oh so badly craved to taste it. 

He inhaled sharply before letting a single command fall past his lips, “Cum.” 

“Fuuuuck!” you moaned loudly as you came, body jerking against the bed as you worked yourself slower. 

“That’s it, baby,” Jay purred lowly, talking you through a well anticipated orgasm. “Let it out for me.” You were gonna have to change your sheets, but you couldn’t care less at the moment. You were sex crazed. 

One down. One more to go. 

Jay’s hand locked down painfully on his cock, stopping himself from almost cumming. “Now grab my cock and put it in your mouth.” Jay said, taking a steadying, deep breath. The sounds you made when you came always got to him. The sinful whimpers and desperate grunts you let out damn near made him go feral with lust. 

You palmed the silicone cock and brought it to your lips, licking up the veiny shaft before taking it into your mouth. 

“Suck it, baby. Let me hear it.” He cupped his dick loosely, starting back up with slow strokes. He had to be careful. 

You sucked the head while simultaneously pulling on the base, making the tip tug at your plump lips.

“Mmhmm,” he moaned, encouraging you to take him deeper. You tilted your head to get a better angle and took the fake cock as deep as you could, bobbing your head up and down, moaning loudly. When you choked, Jay growled. “Fuuuck, baby! You take me so well.” 

“You’re so wet for me, baby,” Jay said, panting sharply, “I can hear it. Go ahead and push me in. I know that I’ll fit easily.” 

“Goddamnit Jay,” you cursed, letting the dildo fall from your stretched lips with a loud pop, slapping your inner thigh hard enough to leave it aching in the morning.

“What?” He asked, snickering softly because he already knew the answer. 

“You just always know what to say.” you praised, gasping softly as you pushed the cock inside you, all the way to the hilt. He was right. It stretched you, but you were so wet it didn’t even pinch. 

You pushed the silicone cock inside you deep and fast. It felt so fucking good. You paused your moans so you could hear Jay. You wanted to match his strokes. Once he realized what you were doing he sped up. 

“Yeah, that’s it, babygirl,” he praised, groans growing louder, “Fuck yourself just like that. Don’t stop.” 

“Shit, I’m gonna cum,” you warned, pumping yourself even harder. 

“Did I tell you that you could cum?” The harshness of his voice made you open your eyes and slow your movements just a tad. 

“Jay p—please, baby,” you moaned louder, begging him to let you cum. He loved teasing you and you loved that he loved it. 

“Please what, darlin’?” said Jay, amusement heavy in his tone. He knew exactly what you wanted. Needed. He was gonna give it to you, but you had to ask first. You had to beg for it. 

“Cum with me this time,” you coaxed, whole body shuddering just from hearing the downright filthy noise Jay just made. 

“Okay, babygirl,” he groaned lowly, breaths quickening as he pumped his cock nice and fast. “Whatever you want.” 

“I want you to cum with me,” you begged, head thrashing wildly against the pillows as the tip of the dildo brushed up against that sweet spot deep inside of you. “I want to hear your moans mix with mine when we cum.” 

You sobbed as you started back rubbing your clit. The tight circling of your finger combined with the rapid thrusts from the dildo gave you a window of 30 seconds before you were cumming your brains out.

“That’s it, baby,” Jay snarled, hips jerking wildly up into his fist as he stroked his cock even faster. “Be a good girl and cum with me.” 

You came with a loud cry as your climax tore through you, back arching all the way off the mattress in sheer pleasure. Jay followed right behind you, cursing and whimpering as white ropes of cum landed on his belly and chest. You both panted harshly, together over the line as you recovered slowly from your intense orgasms.

“I think that was our best one yet.” he laughed warmly as he pulled a few tissues from the square box on his workstation to clean himself up. 

“Hell yeah it was,” you agreed, cheering weakly. Your arms were sore as hell and your legs still shook, but you felt amazing. You were on cloud nine, fully satiated. 

“Have a good night, darlin’,” Jay cooed, sleepily. “And good luck with your thesis.”

“Thanks. Night Jay.” You giggled softly, disconnecting the call, rolling over onto your side before drifting off to sleep.

The next few days were a breeze. You were in an advantageous mood thanks to Jay, and so you added four more pages to your thesis. You only had six pages left. 

On Saturday morning you woke up earlier than usual and decided to get dressed and head to your favorite coffee shop. The cafe was only a couple blocks away from your apartment so you walked there. You loved early morning strolls. The gentle wind dancing across your soft skin as the sun began to peak always made you feel alive. 

You left the cafe after the barista handed you your Assam Black tea and breakfast sandwich, while typing a text to one of your lab partners. You took a few steps without looking and collided with someone, dropping both your sandwich and your phone. Luckily, the grip you had on your tea did not falter.  

You both apologized at the same time.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. I wasn’t even lookin' in front of me.”

“My apologies, darlin’.' ' the man said, bending down to pick up your squished sandwich and unscratched cell phone. 

That voice.

That voice you knew all too well. 

Especially on Wednesday nights.

A cold chill ran across your neck and down your back, “Jay?” you squeaked loudly, staring at him in disbelief as he stood back up with your items in his hands. He stretched out his hands to give them back to you only to stop short, eyes widening in utter shock when he realized what you had called him. 

The corner of his mouth turned up as he grinned briefly. It didn’t quite match his eyes at all. “Y/N, I take it?” 

“Yes,” you nodded, giving him a small smile. “Hi, Jay.”

“Hi.” he said, eyes blinking slowly as he stood there flabbergasted, still holding your belongings in his hands. 

“Nice to meet you.” you continued, extending your hand out for him to shake. 

He shifted your sandwich and phone to his left hand, grabbed your hand with his now-free hand, and shook it twice. “Nice to meet you, too Y/N.” he said, shooting you a toothy grin. God, his smile was to die for. He sank his teeth into his bottom lip as he checked you out, admiring the view. During your phone calls, he, too, fantasized about what you looked like. He was not disappointed.  

His palm enveloped yours. Damn his hands were large, you thought, gawking at him unapologetically. They were warm and had a few callouses. He must have used his hands a great deal for his other job. He never mentioned what he did for work. 

You hoped that bumping into him wouldn't ruin your Wednesday night dalliances. Maybe he'd be okay with talking somewhere less public. It was quite rowdy both inside and outside of the coffee shop.

“My apartment is two blocks away if you want to go somewhere more private so we can talk.” you babbled, no longer able to look at him in his intense, pecan brown eyes for too long due to your shyness coming at it at an all time high. Fuck he was intimidating. The confidence he exuded had your mouth watering. 

Christ, he was sex on a stick. The man only had on a dark gray shirt, blue jeans that hugged him in all the right places and working boots. A warm flush crept across your face and neck. Get it together, girl, you thought to yourself. He barely said two full sentences to you and you were already hot and bothered. To be fair, he’d been the only one to make you cum every week for the past five and a half months. 

He raised a thick eyebrow at your suggestion — you dropped his hand, gesturing wildly once you realized how your offer must have sounded. “I mean—fuck! I promise I’m not a weirdo, Jay.” 

His eyes crinkled as he chuckled, shaking his head fondly at you, “Joel,” he said. “My name is Joel.”

[plussizeappreciationfics]

Can you do angst like enemies to lovers? If so Oscar Issac or Pedro. Miscommunication with writer during preproduction causes strife between the two. Idk I’ll take anything with angst really

I noticed that I misread something, I'm so sorry!!

"Pedro what's wrong? You've been acting to distant lately..." you desperately tried to get him to look at you, but the actor refused to meet your deep gaze as he continued to chew on his food. The only reaction you got out of him was a quick head shake before he swallowed his bite and starting cutting another peace of the tender steak on his plate.

A sigh left your lips while you shook your head in defeat, your appetite long gone as you couldn't continue this dinner date. "It's the script, isn't it? I knew you wouldn't like my changes...".

Pedro stopped cutting his steak and dropped the fork and knife onto the plate, "Your script is fine, (Y/N). I'm just the actor, acting out your words".

"What is that supposed to mean?".

"It means that I have no say whatsoever and that my sole role is to act out the scenes", he finally looked at you but the annoyed and hurtful look on his face didn't sit right with you.

"I tried to add your changes, I really did. But the director said that it would be too chaotic!" you argued, feeling that you were being blamed for something that was out of your control.

"So that means I am chaotic huh? You think that this relationship won't work, yeah?!", your boyfriend shot back to which you gasped in shock and shook your head in disapproval. "I knew it bothered you! But again, I am not in control of what the director wants! Can't you understand that?".

Your question left the room silent and thick with tension as Pedro slowly rose from his seat and starting pacing through his living room, it was obvious that he was in great distress and you wish that he could communicate his feelings so that you could help ease the pain.

"I do understand that...I just feel like you butchered my character (Y/N)....I fell in love with the script and my character and to have you change so much is just hard to deal with....".

"Pedro...." you sighed and stood up, meeting him in the middle of the dining room and placing your soft hands on his broad shoulders. Again, his eyes weren't able to meet yours as he looked down at your feet.

"Me having to change some things in the script isn't a personal attack on you as a person. I personally also disagree with the new stuff, but I want to keep my job too...I'm sorry you're feeling this way, but it's unfair for you to lash out on me like this. It hurts" you confessed to which your boyfriend finally met your gaze while a shocked and disappointed look took over his beautiful features. It was never his intention to hurt you.

"We both see the changes differently, you as an actor and me as a writer. That doesn't mean that we have to be at odds with one another. Our jobs are already exhausting enough, can't we both call it a truce? Please?".

Pedro instantly nodded your head and surprised you with a swift but tight hug, letting out a frustrated sigh while holding onto you for dear life. "I'm sorry mi amor. You're right. I shouldn't have taken this so personal. It's just that I can relate to my character so much, any change feels like a personal attack. I need to loosen up and remember that this is just my job, not my whole life".

His words made you smile while squeezing his waist, feeling so relieved that the issue would be soon gone and that the two of you could continue your work and lives together as a couple.

"I forgive you" you whispered before pulling away from the hug and taking his beautiful face into your hands, caressing his soft cheeks and beard while Pedro lovingly stared down at you.

The two of you leaned in and let your lips meet in a passionate kiss, the stress and worries leaving your bodies while the delicate sensations took over you. Pedro moved his lips slowly against yours while gently picking you up in bridal style, earning a surprised squeal and chuckle from you while the kiss never got interrupted.

He smoothly carried you out of the dining room, towards the stairs while whispering loving words against your lips.

@ctrlszn l @baggyfaggy l @automaticdelusionstudent l @thefemfem l @ah-blossom l @amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes

[lazy-nae2]

His Prize

Marcus Justus Acacius x Black/Poc Reader PT.2

Part 2 to my Drabble. Hope you enjoy 🫵🏾🩶🤎

Authors Note: Might not be accurate to Roman history homes or customs but it’ll be alright. Probably go back and edit it to be more accurate soon and more fluffy since I felt that I didn’t add much to it.

“Please…”, He softly murmured, as his hand enveloped yours in his which gave yours further warmth. You turnt away some, not meeting his gaze as you thought he’d wish to wash away the stress and memories of the day and be alone for a moment, but his gaze told otherwise. You sighed softly, as you turned back to him looking up, and took his hand and began leading him through the halls. As you two began walking your footsteps blended together, as if only one person was stepping on the marble floors.

He stepped after you, keeping pace as both of your footsteps stepped softly against the floors as he guided you with his hand softly against your back. You both stepped into the peristyle, as you felt the moon’s soft light against your soft brown skin and his olive tanned skin. You heard his soft footsteps beginning to walk ahead of you, as it seemed he was slightly eager to spend a private moment with you.

As you both enter your home’s private thermae you were met by the soft smell of different fragrances, that smelled more pleasant than the scents that usually flowed through the city of Rome. You both entered the Apodyterium, as he walked and slowly began removing his ceremonial armor, as he laid his breastplate onto the shelves that lined the changing room, as the rest of his armor followed.

You slowly began undressing as you took off your Chocolate Tahitian pearl bracelets, the silver earrings that bore the symbol of Athena on them, a golden necklaces with seashells, stones, amber, carnelian and garnet on the necklace with a few silver triangular shaped plates. You placed them aside in a cubicle, before you began undressing out of your Tunic/Dashiki/Kaftan , as you laid the cloth down onto the shelve along with your Strophium as you removed the fabric from your chest.

You placed the wrap of a headscarf on your head, hiding your hair below it to keep it from getting wet. You felt the soft wind of the night air softly brush against your body, almost like an caress, before you felt the hard planes of your husband’s body behind you as his hands softly ran down your shoulder to your hand as you let out a soft sigh with a small smile as you missed this feeling that was only possible with him.

“How I’ve longed to hold you like this again after all this time….Come along pretiosum.” Acacius softly murmured into the crook of your neck as you both began walking to the Tepidarium, as he gently took your hand as you both slowly stepped into the warmth of the pool, feeling it relax the soreness and tension from your bodies. You both sat close in the water as you let him tell you of his experiences during the campaign.

As you listened you could tell the effects of the twin emperors, Geta and Caracalla’s constant want for more bloodshed and territory, were but taking a toll on your beloved who was older than most young men who were sent off to fight for Rome’s glory. The tiredness and exhaustion were evident in his eyes, along with the soft hints of disdain he held for the young emperors who constantly sent him out to fight, and lay down man and boy who were on the opposite side of his swords.

After you listened to him for the next few moments, as he finished recalling his experiences during feeling the woe of his own journey lifting while you softly whispered words of comfort to him and after you shared your few tales of your own, while he was off, and you had to tend to the household. Every few minutes a soft chuckle would escape his lips, as your tales warmed his heart and moved it away from the battle, even if temporary. After you both sat in a comfortable silence as you gently kissed one another with the soft hint of honey on your full lips while the strong taste of wine was on his lips as he reached for your brown/ light brown/ dark brown/ soft brown waist, pulling you close as he desired. You both stayed for a few moments, enjoying the others presence until you left the bath, got dressed in tunics and him grabbing his armor and your previous evening wear as you both retired to your chambers for the night in the arms of another.

A third part might be out if this does well in my eyes.

A small prompt for a might not/or will be released next fic for Acacius based on Odysseus’s and Penelope from Epic The Musical.

For years, and more days on end, your handmaidens and other nobles say “When will she remarry, Hope is not yet lost for her another try in marriage, What she does not understand is that her husband has not been home in years”. Constant doubts and pity filled their hearts and left from their tongues, but you never listened.

For twenty years, away on a campaign was your General, the very reason you stay strong from remarrying. If the rumors held any truth to you as they did to others, and you were to have to feel the embrace of the underworld if that what was it took to see your Acacius again, then so be it. You continued to hold out hope day by day, as more suitors younger than yourself had constantly tried to try for your hand in marriage, but none would compare to your carissime meus, the one you held close to your soul even if your bodies weren’t near.

Then, one day you heard hooves coming to your villa’s gates and as your rushed to the front entrance, praying to the gods he’d have returned. Your dreams were withered as you saw more suitors. You decided to issue a challenge, whichever man who is worthy enough to handle the sword of your husband and defeat the animal/warrior of your choosing, then…and only then, will you allow them your hand. Yet they didn’t know that your husband’s sword was blessed by Ares/Mars to only be lifted by only the one who was the true owner of it.

[mianieaaa]

JAVIER PENA X MUSLIM GIRL

"Inshallah," that's what you say

You think I lost my faith

You won't speak my name

Forbidden, won't see you again

I chose a life of sin

[clubsoft]

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⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ सजदा⠀ ⠀ SAJDAA , the punishment of love . ⠀ ⠀ OBERYN MARTELL / SOUTH ASIAN WOC ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀

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⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀

taglist · @days1 / @gothcsz / @mandaloriankait / @salingers / @letsgobarbs if u would like 2 be tagged in future moodboards pls just reply to this post ty :3

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[gothcsz]

⧽ ⠀ ── ⠀ 𝗦𝗔𝗙𝗘𝗧𝗬 𝗡𝗘𝗧 ﹕ Modern!Marcus Acacius Fic

PAIRING: Sugar Daddy!Marcus Acacius x BIWOC!Sugar Baby!Reader

SERIES SUMMARY: Marcus Acacius finds more than what he expected on a sugar dating app.

SERIES TAGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. Modern AU. Sugar daddy Marcus Acacius/Sugar baby reader. Age gap [Marcus is 50/reader is 25+]. SMUT. Developing relationship. Reader is explicitly described as a curvy woman of color: darker skin tone, curly hair texture, etc. Everyone is still encouraged to read! Reader is afab and able bodied. Marcus is recently divorced. Marcus comes from old money and is a businessman. Written by BIWOC for BIWOC. <3

A/N: This is for the real ones that get it. If you get it, come and get y’all juice. If you don’t TURN THE OTHER WAY! 🙂‍↕️ Dedicated to all the BIWOC that hardly ever see themselves in stories like this where they are desired by a sexy older man that’s filthy rich. #DEITAKEOVER!

⧽ I. — PART ONE ⧽ II. — PART TWO (tba)

↳ more coming soon…

©️ @ovaryacted & @gothcsz 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[realmofsolitaire]

Bye-Bye Birdie

The Tipsy Bison. The bar had been the place of Joel's solace for the past week. Tommy had convinced him to stay, and re-equip before He and Ellie put themselves in harm's way again. It was nice, for a couple days... It was slower, more domestic. An actual bed, hot showers, and toilet paper. But Joel couldn't hide from his demons. He spent nights gripping at his sheets or blinking at the ceiling. His mind roaring. All he had lost. Frank and Bill... Ellie? His palm tightened around his glass. He was about four whiskey neats in and he still felt everything; every excruciating thought, every cruel fear.

Then she sauntered over.

He heard the old wooden door creak open to reveal a bearly visible face behind a thick head of locs. Joel had never seen that much hair before.

Her upper half was wrapped in a burgundy sweater that had seen better days, and her bottom half was zipped up in some dark wash denim that looked painted on.

He glanced down at his drink.

"Evening Seth, you got any more of that Sangria?" she asked in a honeyed tone. Her voice was breathy and soft. She had a southern drawl, it wasn't quite Texas, maybe Georgia?

The man nodded.

"Of course Birdie," He mumbled.

Birdie.

She hummed into her glass, delicate fingers wrapping intently around the stem.

"You're Tommy's brother, right?" She gracefully turned towards the man, her legs crossed over one another.

Joel nearly choked. He simply nodded in response.

"I've uh, seen you around but haven't had the pleasure of meeting you until now," the woman said, her dark eyes never leaving Joel's stoic face.

The man exhaled sharply. He wasn't one for small talk, but he could tell that she was.

He started filling in the blanks of who she was and what she wasn't.

She wasn't rough around the edges like him; she was... warm and soft.

Probably grew up with two parents in a big house, but not too big. No siblings, no, she was an only child, maybe a pet to keep her company.

"Not much of a talker, are you?" she laughed.

It was melodic and contagious. The man couldn't help the quirking up of his lips.

He didn't like this.

"Not one for small talk," he grumbled.

She hummed in response biting her lip.

The two sat in comfortable silence listening to the sounds of glasses clinking and counters being wiped.

When the woman was about three drinks in, she rose to her feet and sauntered over to the ancient karaoke machine, her boots clicking against the wooden floor.

"He... left no time to regret... kept his dick wet... with his same old safe bet..." she serenaded.

Her eyes fluttered close, and the music traveled down her spine.

"Me... with my head high... and my tears dry..."

Joel could tell she was three sheets to the wind when she stumbled back to her stool.

"Whoa..." he cautioned, moving to catch her.

"You must think I'm a total lush," she slurred.

The man chuckled.

"It doesn't matter what I think; I'm just a stranger, Birdie", He breathed, getting her on her feet.

The woman scoffed playfully.

"My name's Y/N. Birdie's just somethin' Seth calls me, because I sing when I'm all pie-eyed," she slurred.

"You are definitely pie-eyed..." He mumbled, realizing just how close she was and how good she smelled.

Her skin smelled of patchouli and tonka bean, her hair smelled of vanilla and shea.

"You alright there, Joel?" she asked with a smirk.

The man hummed in response.

"Sorry, you smell nice," the man cringed when he heard the words tumble from his lips.

Those whiskey neats had done him in.

"Sorry..." he grumbled.

Birdie felt her face get hot and her pie eyes open wider.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Joel's eyes shifted to the dart board behind her.

"Oh, don't get all shy on me now," Birdie practically purred.

Joel's eyes darted to the floor, his mouth opening slightly.

Birdie only smiled and sent a wink over to Seth.

"See you around Miller."

[inclusivepedro-oscarlibrary]

Long time no see!

Sorry for the silence on this blog the last few months! The mods all got busy with life and stuff and this blog kinda fell to the side for a while but we want to get this blog active again!

We will start adding things to the queue soon and also post some inclusive resources and stuff for reference. There's also going to be a slight change to the blog so keep an eye out for that very soon!

Recs are now open as well, just please follow the submission guidelines for sending in any recs! Just to note though, while this blog will reblog and rec any authors/artists, we strive to focus on poc and queer writers/artists since they are more overlooked in the fandom.

Find a fic is also an option here too if there's a fic you lost or anything and want any help finding it!

[art-estrange]

Ok so after seeing alot of people be like “OMG THE SAG LOOK IS GIVING PERIOD PIECE SOMEONE PLEASEEEEE WRITE A PEDRO PERIOD PIECEEEEEEEEE” I decided oh… so… I write? And then, just now, while watching the hobbit for the MILLIONTH time, I decided I WRITE!!!! Im gonna bring 2 things Im super passionate about, LOTR/Hobbit and Pedro pascal, together and hopefully make a super romantic fantastical story. I havent thought of plot but all I know is i will have his handsome ass on a horse at some point….fuck why do i do this to myself😭😭😭 ᵒʰ ʳⁱᵍʰᵗ ᵃᵈʰᵈ

Anyways… lets hope I actually write it instead of writing like 2 pages and just abandoning it.😬😬

NOTE: they’re black… im making the main character melanated im sorry guys but… theres barely any brown people in the LOTR and… the idea of an elf with locs? I mean like think about it… thats so fuckin hot like think about it!!!

[flightlessangelwings]

“I just hope that when you say “sending hate” you don’t just mean getting the whitewashing called out. Because white people do have a habit of demonizing when poc get angry and I just want to make sure that’s not what’s happening here.”

I feel like that’s a bit of a shitty thing to say considering the amount of anon hate writers sometimes get. poc can be shitty anon haters. Obviously nobody is going to send hate with their public account. It’s always on anon and I’m sure there’s people of every ethnicity and every part of the world doing this shit.

Also, white people don’t need to be “called out” for writing a fic from their perspective. Fact of the matter is that white people just aren’t going to have the same experiences as poc do. Anybody can point it out and the writer can decide what they wanna do with that. But calling out writers because they don’t write how someone else wants it on tumblr is a bit ridiculous.

As a minority I can understand the frustrations but it’s just impossible to be inclusive to everyone. Just use your imagination or look for writers that write specifically for what you’re looking for.

Honestly the minute I wrote that down I knew someone was going to have a problem with it.

Yes you are right, anyone can be a shitty person and anon hate can come from anyone, even poc. I’m not denying that. Nor was I justifying or condone it because I don’t think anyone deserves any hate or harassment. We’re all here together and sending hate back and forth is not the way to go and that was not my point at all.

Where we disagree is on calling out whitewashing.

This isn’t about what I personally want but about the bigger picture here. I personally have tags blocked, content filters, block writers, etc. I curate my experience. I back out of things I don’t vibe with. But this isn’t about me personally.

No, a given piece of fic is never going to include every single person. People are too diverse and that’s an impossible goal. And what is helpful to one person is triggering to another. It’s just how things work with large groups of people.

The point is to be as inclusive as possible in your writing. It’s simple things like avoiding white coded language (like blushing, straight hair, etc), white coded names, relations to white characters, etc. Yes there are going to be some experiences and actions that the reader does that won’t always be inclusive but the whole point is to try!

And to tag things properly! Sometimes that makes a world of difference to have that proper tagging at the beginning so we aren’t blind sighted by white coding. I feel like that’s not a lot to ask.

And I have spoken to a ton of writers and artists who have appreciated being (kindly) called out and who do want to do better. Who do want to work to be more inclusive. And I’ve personally seen these writers and artists so better and improve. It can happen. And that doesn’t mean your a bad person if you have white washed before. We all make mistakes, it happens. It’s how you react and how you learn from it going forward.

Inclusivity helps everyone. It helps writers and artists become better. It helps poc feel seen and included. It brings the community together. Why wouldn’t you want that? Why wouldn’t you want better? Because I do.

[lovers-spit-left-on-repeat]

nonbeliever; ellie williams.

chapter two - waiting hours.

series masterlist

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art = @sunsbleeding

summary: A name is scratched from the list.

general warnings/notes: language, violence, brief gore, cursing, death, weapons (guns, knives, axe), familial issues, mentions of religion/implied religious trauma, implied suicidal thoughts.

word count: 6.4k

Isolation was nothing foreign to Amaya. She felt its breeze throughout childhood, recognized its kiss when the Abel curse sang true, and saw it in the mirror every waking moment. In the grey walls of the FEDRA military academy, Riley and a then 9-year-old Amaya had shared a room, but the youngest Abel was certain her older sister slept in someone else’s every night. She just didn’t know it was Ellie William’s, whose roommate was thrown into the “hole” and never came back. Fuck her, Amaya would repeat in a mantra once the clock passed 10 o’clock, too late for there to be a chance for Riley to shuffle through their door. It’s her choice. However shitty.

When the sun rose, she would get up with her alarm, haze through her day like a ghost, and only come alive once the clock’s arms skidded past 4. She called the window of time the Waiting Hours, where Amaya would bask in the silence of her solitude on her rickety bed and stare at the doorway in expectance. Riley only came through it twice.

The first time was the day following their arrival. After eight hours of school and training like the girl hadn’t become Death itself barely a week prior, Amaya was glacierized upon her bed. She pressed herself further and further into the metal frame but felt no pain, no sting of cold from the chilled brass. She waited and watched and when her eyes grew heavy, Amaya dug her nails into her palms until the blood pooling in the divots was enough to keep her up. It wasn’t until after dark when Riley arrived.

Her head hung low, she shuffled in. Whether it was in shame or grief, Amaya didn’t know. Riley grimaced as she dropped her hunched body onto her bed, still unmade from the night before. She turned away from her younger sister, features drowned in the shadows of the dim room.

“Riley?” Amaya whispered, her voice not yet vacant of childish wonder. Her sister stayed firmly in the shadows for a couple of seconds, then finally turned, allowing the flickering desk lamp to unveil her true nature. A bruise, purple and swelling, burrowed itself over Riley’s watering left eye. It, unlike the shadows that she left behind, was all-consuming, like all that made her face up was that violent, aggressive black eye. Amaya was silent. Even as Riley turned back around and fell onto her pillow. Even as the hour reached that of ungodliness. Even as her sister left with the sun’s call.

She didn’t know why she offered nothing, but this wasn’t her sister. This was not the girl she grew up with, hiccuping laughter and rebellious grins accompanying every sentence. This was a stranger who just happened to be violently familiar. Riley didn’t come back the next night, or the hundreds that followed, and the guilt was sharp against her veins. So Amaya learned some first aid. She took out nearly a hundred books on all types of burns, bruises, and breaks at the academy library, hoping that maybe next time Riley returned with a black eye, Amaya’s skills would be enough to convince her sister to stay.

The second time Riley came back was a little over two years later, in the peak of the morning’s glow. There was no black eye this time, but trembling hands and bleeding knuckles. Riley, now almost fourteen, was starting to look more and more like their mother; thin braids wrapped back by green fabric, full cheeks, and freckles kissing the bridge of her nose. She stood in the doorway like she didn’t belong there, then shuffled passed where a dumbfounded Amaya sat at her cluttered desk. Riley fell onto the nearest bed, which was exactly how she left it; unmade, cold, empty. She looked at her sister, and Amaya understood.

Ignoring the sting of angry tears and ringing of unsaid chastising that ricochetted in her head, Amaya pulled the bandages and stolen gauze from the readied box under her bed and ripped a piece from her already frayed bed sheet. Slow and careful, like Riley was some rabid beast ready to lunge, Amaya stepped towards her sister and kneeled at her feet. Hands still shaking and dripping onto the wooden panels, Riley faced them toward the ceiling, displaying two crooked fingers that quaked with very shuttering breath. The work was done quickly, and not without tears or groans. When she was finished, Amaya forced Riley to lay back on the bed and tucked the covers up to her shoulders like their father used to do.

In the morning, she was gone again.

In the morning, Amaya first felt the paralysis. In its first wave, she was alone, but not without the ghost of her sister staring back at her.

In the morning, once the chill of stillness has thawed, Amaya moved to sit at her desk again, where she kept a small mirror. A face, ever-patchy and dull, the grey twinge of stress creeping along her hairline despite her young age, stared back at her. Like Riley, this girl wasn’t the one she grew up with. Or maybe she had always been there, festering beneath the surface. Either way, she never vanished, even three years later when there was no hope that Riley might come home.

To be alone is to be unburdened, her mother used to say, ever a poet. But Amaya had never felt a burden greater than this isolation and was becoming so familiar that she might as well start calling it a sister. And now, trekking across a highway of overgrowth and decay, surrounded by three more strangers, she wished for nothing more than to be alone.

Her axe heaving with the weight of longing for its original owner, Amaya swore her bones grew heavier with every step. Maybe it was because of the head wound or how she hadn’t slept since Boston, but this fatigue was past physical; whatever life she had left in her was slowly dissipating, seeping from her veins and pouring from her fingertips. So slow, that it felt like it would take a million years to finally deplete. Amaya wondered what crimes she might have committed in past lifetimes that would warrant such a punishment, but quickly remembered the atrocities of this one. With the hundredth huff of the afternoon, Amaya slogged on.

“Has the bleeding stopped?” Amaya resisted the urge to look at the sienna eyes that unabashedly stared her down. Ellie, who was about as well-rested as the taller girl had ever seen her, hadn’t strayed from her side since leaving their temporary camp on the outskirts of the city. She was there when they’d seen how the sun’s magnificence bounced from the glass panels turning eroding skyscrapers into statues of divinity. She was there when Tess made them stop to reapply the bandage haloed around Amaya’s head (as she bit down on a piece of cloth to muffle the groans, Amaya wondered if the tears were from the pain of her wound of the sheer ferocity of the fire in Ellie’s stare). She was there now, even as Amaya tried to lose her between Joel and Tess.

“I’m fine,” was all Amaya could push out. In some odd way, she was relieved that Ellie was close. Tess and Joel could handle the four of them fine, but deep underneath the cloth of time and memory, Amaya wanted to be near in case of danger. For the promise.

Protect Ellie.

Amaya tried to speed up for the millionth time, but her lack of energy and the fact that Ellie seemed determined to stay barely an arm’s length away drowned her efforts away. As Ellie glanced over for the umpteenth time, she wondered how skeletal she might look now as the sun seemed to make everything glow but her. Lost in her thoughts, she missed Ellie calling to Tess and Joel for a short break and was thankful when they all found a place to sit.

Pulling herself up on the closest abandoned car hood, Ellie leaned against the one opposite to her.

“You should’ve slept,” she chastised as metal creaked beneath her weight.

“Would you rather have been completely vulnerable and have a bullet in your skull right now?”

As Ellie dreamed as peacefully as she could on a patch of grass hours prior, Amaya stayed awake on her armchair just out of reach of the sunlight pouring from the opening in the ceiling. Half to prevent a ghost from staring her down when she woke up, half because she knew now what Joel and Tess were capable of; after Amaya was lucid enough to question where the FEDRA guard went, Ellie filled her in. She pictured her and Ellie’s bodies buried somewhere, the adults finally worn tired of their antics, then realized that Joel and Tess probably wouldn’t even have to decency to give them a proper burial.

After slapping on the small watch Marlene packed in her bag, she counted down the hours until daybreak, watching Ellie’s chest rise and fall as the wisps of hair that escaped her ponytail flowed over her face in waves when the wind chose tranquility.

Ellie grimaced. “They wouldn’t do that.”

“We don’t know that. We don’t know them. If they wanted to get rid of us, it’d be an easy fight.”

Ellie hummed in dissent, a grin beginning to creep its way up her cherubic face. “You did some damage with that rock last night.”

Amaya turned her face toward the sun to hide a grin of her own. “Only ‘cause I’ve been running on adrenaline and canned beans for the last few weeks.

A silence settled over them and a voice reminded her that she was not allowed peace. Her legacy was not one of stillness and quiet.

“Come on,” Tess called as Joel glowered behind her. “We’re losing light.”

It was barely afternoon yet, but Amaya was thankful for the excuse to ignore the prying of the ghosts that made her up.

“Where the fuck are they already?” Ellie asked from a few feet ahead of Amaya. They had been walking for three hours now, and it was like the sun was glaring especially bright just to make her headache worse. From where she stood in their line, Joel taking up the back and Tess the front, she peered out towards the wreckage of Boston. However colorless and broken down, the view was calming. The beauty in chaos, as Maria would have called it.

“You’ll know it when they’re close,” Tess called back.

“I didn’t know last time,” Ellie mumbled. But Amaya did. She had known, looked it straight in its yellow, veiny eye. How could she miss the beast when its claws, fangs, and evil were born from her blood?

“How did you get bit?” Tess inquired. If Amaya’s stomach hadn’t dropped before, it was plummeting now. A chill settling over her shoulders, she slid past the pair and claimed a spot at the front of their procession.

Her anonymity, her erasure from this narrative was the one thing Ellie could grant if she chose to. Maybe even one thing she might deserve in the eyes of whoever claimed holiness in a world of iniquitousness. Amaya’s eyes fell to her feet as her nerves rattled.

“You know the old mall in the QZ?” Ellie began, and Amaya’s nerves rattled.

“The one that’s sealed off and boarded up, and no one’s supposed to go in…ever? That the right one?”

“Whatever,” Ellie sighed. “I snuck in, wanted to see what it was like. Didn’t think there was gonna be anything in there, and then one just came at me outta nowhere. Thought I got away, but…”

“So it was just you in there, alone?”

“Yeah,” she said and Amaya unclenched her calloused hands, pretending not to notice specks of blood in the crescent-shaped creases. But Ellie’s gaze rested on her, and that’s how she knew she was fucked. Amaya could feel it; blistering and sharp enough to cut all the blood from her body. But the odd thing about it was when it came to comparing the sun’s glare and hers, only one could raise the dead within her.

Tess said nothing more, and the older woman might not have connected the dots fully, but there was a knowing glint in her bruised eyes when Amaya briefly pivoted to look back at the rest of the group. So much for secrets.

The quartet eventually reached Tess and Joel’s choice lookout spot; 20 stories of mold infestations and mildew. The hotel, complete with a makeshift pond in the lobby and a new biohazard on each floor, was probably a hot spot for all types of disease and infection. As they moved up ten flights of groaning stairs, Amaya had to refrain from raising her shirt over her nose.

“Fuck,” Tess heaved as they reached the landing and Joel cleared the hallway.

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Ellie teased as she looked back at Amaya, smirking at her struggle up the last step.

“You try climbing ten fuckin’ floors with our knees, see how you feel.”

Water dripped from the ceiling and sunlight shone through fogged windows. Amaya leaned against the door frame and panted, her mind shot back to the Fireflies’ base in the city. However unwelcoming, she was starting to miss it. The group rounded the corner into a dimly lit hall to find their path blocked by a caved-in ceiling.

“Well, when the fuck did that happen?” Tess grumbled as Joel began to poke around the rubble with the mouth of his gun. Once they discovered that both doors that paralleled the group were jammed shut, Tess proposed that she climb through a small gap in the rubble and snake her way to the other side, but Ellie objected.

“Well, I’m the smallest so it’d be easier for me to get through,” she reasoned.

Tess tilted her head and Ellie sighed, knowing her answer before she even opened her lips. “You die and we get nothing. You stay.”

“What about me?” Amaya proposed, voice hoarse from the lack of talking. “I’m only a little bit taller than Ellie and the Fireflies don’t need me, anyway.

“What about that Maria woman?”

Amaya looked down at her palms, still stained with the red tint of guilt. Did she have something waiting beyond this? A sister, a family, a life? Since finding out about the possibility that Maria managed to survive the past 5 years, she’d been trying to stop the pessimistic thoughts, but just because there was hope, didn’t mean there wasn’t sorrow to come. Amaya kept thinking about her ‘paradise in hell’ and wondered if it was just doublespeak for an unforgiving afterlife.

“No point in searching for someone who’s probably dead,” she abridged.

Tess considered her with concern for a moment before shoving her pack into the younger girl’s hands. “You both stay,” she commanded and began her ascent.

Ellie looked at her with worry in her eyes. Despite the flutter of her ashed heart, Amaya did nothing but shrug and lean against the wall as Joel boosted Tess up. A few awkwardly silent moments passed and Ellie moved to sit by Amaya’s feet like she had back in the QZ. Steadily growing more bored each second her sullen companions remained silent, she started flipping her switchblade in the air.

“Nice knife” Joel grumbled out. Ellie paused, looked at him, then continued her act. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“The circus.”

Joel and Amaya gave an exasperated sigh in sync, causing Ellie to roll her eyes.

“Where are you from?” she asked, less in kindness and more in obligation. Joel began to grumble a response, but Amaya's attention, ever vigilant, was captured by something other than small talk and sienna eyes.

Her axe glinted as shards of gold sliced through the rumble, creating ribbons of rippling fire across the walls like back in her childhood room. When she allowed a brief glance at Ellie’s eyes, no difference existed between them and the glow. The beginnings of a smile twinged at the sides of Amaya's lips but quickly vanished when she realized Joel was watching her.

“Where’d you get it?” He wondered, probably the kindest words he’d ever said to her. Amaya watched him for a second, looking for any pinch of ingenuity in his stare. She found nothing.

“Off some dead guy,” she feigned nonchalantness.

“Yeah,” Ellie continued, “after she killed him.”

Joel raised a brow in suspicion as Amaya, lips thinned, looked at the girl incredulously.

“What?” Ellie whispered, but not quiet enough for Joel to miss. “I’m trying to make you look tough!”

Amaya rolled her eyes and stalked off down the hall, losing her battle against a grin as Ellie continued to describe to Joel all the ways her accomplice could kill a man. She wandered into a guest room, which was just as pristine as the lobby. Dragging her fingers across the ledge of a rusted mirror, Amaya wondered what it might’ve been like here on outbreak day, what the panic of being away from home might’ve felt like. Cold and heavy and ardent, she supposed. Not exactly unfamiliar.

She settled herself on what was left of the mattress, carefully dodging the suspicious stains by the foot of the bed, and let the tension flow from her muscles. To be alone was to be unburdened, she remembered, even when this room screamed death and decay. The open window flowed nature’s breath against the torn fabric of the curtain, and on the dresser, a small piece of paper quivered. Deciding to entertain her curiosity, Amaya leaned across the bed and picked it up. For the second time in two days, she would soon wish she hadn’t let eagerness win.

On the backside of the yellowing polaroid four words were scrawled— “Super Sammy - 2019”. The handwriting looked like that of someone her age; messily looped and barely legible. Amaya flipped the picture over to reveal a young boy who couldn’t be older than 10. His brown skin was of the same shade as hers and one of his front teeth was missing. Despite the holes in his shirt, he smiled up at the camera like sunshine itself. Over his eyes, colored in with red marker, was a mask like Amaya had seen on superheroes in the few children’s books she had back in New Jersey. If it weren’t for the grey, eroding setting behind the boy, the picture could’ve been from a time when all someone had to worry about was taxes. Amaya didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone so happy.

“Amaya?” Ellie’s voice rang out from down the hall and she was throttled back into her reality; mildew, mold, and monstrosities. She shoved the picture into her back pocket where it rested against The List and hurried back to the group.

Once Tess unjammed the door separating her from the rest of the group, she led them past the wreckage and to a plastic-shrouded balcony. As soon as she slipped by the plastic which Tess held back, her sinuses were overwhelmed with the smell of rot from the enveloping plants as a lofty buzzing filled the air. Ellie eagerly rushed to the ledge and leaned so far forward, Amaya was tempted to pull her back by the sleeve of her jacket. The older girl looked back to Tess and Joel, who stood looking out on the city with solemn expressions.

“What?” She questioned and tightened her hold on her axe. Tess shook her head and walked up beside her.

“You see that?” The woman pointed to the patch of yellowing grass between two crumbling rows of houses. Confused, Amaya squinted, before realizing her mistake in recognition. It wasn’t a patch of grass. The strange buzzing wasn’t the wind and the smell of rot wasn’t from the encompassing nature. A herd of infected, maybe a hundred of them, lay on the concrete in close quarters like they were one unit. Some slithered, some were motionless. But all of them hissed with a hunger that ran for generations. If Riley were with them. she would’ve joked that it was just another Abel family reunion.

“I thought that was just more overgrowth…” Amaya mumbled and stepped away from the ledge.

“The last time we were here they were still deep inside the buildings.”

“And how long ago was that?” Ellie wondered. The sun passed over the herd and they squirmed, screeches echoing louder like they were being burned alive.

“…Three weeks.”

Ellie hummed in response and joined Amaya on leveled ground. “So we’re not going that way, huh?”

“No,” Tess sighed.

“What do we do then?” Ellie's eyes widened as she remembered their other option. “The short way?”

“Museum.”

Squashed between ivy-covered rubble, the building didn’t exactly look welcoming. Windows punched in and the door ajar, patches and vines of cordyceps snaked over its brick face. Amaya eyed it suspiciously and backed the group like merely peering up at the clusters would send her into a murderous frenzy.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Ellie frowned.

“There’s a way across from the top floor.”

Joel stepped passed Amaya and punched the butt of his gun into the nearest cluster of fungi, which cracked and caved in, releasing a puff of dust. Amaya took another five steps back. The last time she was this close to the fungus, there was blood on her hands when the sun rose.

“It’s bone dry,” Joel stood. “It could mean they’re all finally dead in there.”

He and Tess bent down and swung their packs down to the knees, pulling out flashlights. Amaya did the same.

“Marlene pack you one of these or just sandwiches?”

Kneeling on the ground, Amaya sifted through her bag, packing and unpacking, until she realized that there was no flashlight. She groaned and slumped against her legs.

“You can have mine,” Ellie reached her torch out to the frustrated girl. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me even if I can’t see them coming.”

Tess peered back at her. “You’re not immune from being ripped apart. You understand?”

A silence settled over the group and Ellie pressed her chapped lips together. Distantly, Amaya could still hear the infected’s hissing. She raised herself from the vine-covered ground and readied her axe. They proceeded through the door.

Littered with dust and a few bodies of infected, their heads caved and limbs webbed together like some fucked-up version of an embrace, Ellie and Amaya stayed close to each other. They stalked through the first hall, eyes sharp, and only saw a single body. Amaya quickly concluded that he had been shot outside of the museum and simply crawled inside, seeking a quiet place to die. Until she saw the claw marks and Tess’s words ricocheted around her head. With a push of her arm, she forced Ellie in front of her as Amaya kept an eye on the darkness slowly swallowing the hall behind her.

Silent as instructed, they climbed the stairs. As they creaked, the ceiling gave an aching groan, dust loosening like snow above the group. Like the herd back in the open, a cluster of infected bunched together on the second landing. Yellowing tendrils stretched from their empty eye sockets and mouths. Luckily they had fused with the rest of the rubble and no hissing could be heard besides that of Amaya’s pulse, but Joel’s shoulders remained squared.

A crunch echoed and everyone froze. Looking down, she saw Ellie’s converse-clad foot over the hollow hand of one of the beasts. The ceiling groaned again, but not with age—-with the presence of something ancient and wicked. Quicker this time, Joel crept up the remaining stairs and hurried to creak the door open, but as soon as he was passed the doorway, the ceiling gave a final lurch. Within two seconds, dust, beams, and concrete hailed down as Ellie and Tess flung themselves passed the doorframe. Amaya, who had been peering down the steps, had no time to react. If she had moved barely a foot, the wooden beam that swung tauntingly would’ve pierced right through her.

Amaya could faintly hear Ellie’s muffle voice yelling her name, but all she could process was her heavy breathing. “Fuck,” she panted and started to claw at the ruin, only giving up when her palms started to tear. “Fuck!”

Then, a screech. Sharp and pitched like a bird’s call, bloody and desperate like a starving animal. All was still. There was no shuffling on the other side of the ruin. Ellie didn’t dare yell for her and Amaya didn’t dare breathe. As the breath caught in her throat, she turned her head to look through the settling dust and down the stairs.

When the clicking started, Amaya ran.

She could hear the beast barrelling up the stairs and knew to not look back until she reached the dead end of the hallway. Swerving left and right, she prayed for a place to take shelter, and for the first time in her life, her wish was granted. Amaya barrelled through the narrow doorway to her left and practically fused herself with the wall. The room was doorless and nearly pitch black. On the other side of the wall where Joel, Tess, and Ellie might be, more screeching rasped. But they had guns and flashlights. They weren’t alone. All Amaya had was an axe she didn’t know how to wield and ghosts, who she soon would join.

The beast was up the staircase now and barely even ten feet away. It clicked and rasped as it stalked down the hall. Amaya clamped her mouth shut and it was just like the day before at the QZ, but this time, Ellie’s warmth couldn’t be felt. Amaya was alone. She was going to die alone.

Right next to her ear, the beast clicked and beckoned her toward fate. It should have been you. It should have been you.

Amaya supposed Riley’s voice could only mean that death was creeping closer and anger began to brew in her stomach. This wasn’t fucking fair. Not even 24 hours after she was told that Maria might still be alive, she was inches away from her own demise. It didn’t matter that she, regardless of Riley and Marlene’s claims, was likely rotting somewhere—a mirror of beast beside her.

She could let it happen as she would have let Marlene kill her back at the QZ. Maybe fate would spare her and make it quick. Or maybe it would take its time as it had with her sister, her mother, her father. It clicked again like it was trying to tell her something in morse code. Amaya remembered then the stolen book still in her bag, waiting to be read. She remembered how Riley has wanted to learn when they were young but gave up after a day. She remembered the picture of Super Sammy in her pocket. Would he give up this easily? No. Super Sammy was a believer in hope, not fate. A saint amongst sinners. He would not cower like she was.

Fate was like a father to her; absent when she needed it, glaring and unabashed when she wanted to be left alone. And she wasn’t going to let it win this time.

Whipping herself around the corner as she should’ve done when Joel and Tess first intruded at the Firefly base, Amaya stuck it in the neck. Not enough to kill it, but enough to send it reeling back into the wall. She stuck her foot into its stomach and yanked the axe from its neck, sending blood squirting into her face. Amaya had almost forgotten that she was 14 and inexperienced.

The clicking beast screamed with more terror and grabbed her by her shoulders, pushing her to the floor, and pinned her arms above her head. Amaya screamed for Joel, for Tess, for Ellie, but no one would come. She was alone. She was going to die alone.

Amaya was fed up. Of being left behind, of only knowing anger and sadness as friends. She was fed up with fate and faith, with chance and luck. This wasn’t fucking fair. So she did what she did best—-swung until she saw red.

Reaching to her left where her axe had fallen, she plowed it into its shoulder, into its chest, back into its neck. When it fell motionless, she didn’t stop. She kneeled over it, screaming and swinging, never taking her eyes off its face. Hair patched around the remnants of its scalp and it still had a single eye intact. Brown, like Ellie’s. Like Maria’s. Like Riley’s.

When she was finished, she took her damn time to try and find a way to the other side of the rubble. Eventually, she stumbled upon a jammed door, and on the other side, gunshots echoed against screaming—-Ellie’s screaming. Amaya slammed her body against the door until it gave way, revealing an infected toppled over her and Joel as they struggled. Amaya slammed her axe down again and this time it landed in the dead center of its skull.

Panting, she didn’t care to retrieve her weapon. She looked down at Joel and Ellie, who only stared back.

“What the fuck was that?” She asked. No response was given. Ellie was still staring. Not at her, Amaya quickly realized, but at the blood that patterned itself across her brown skin. She could taste it on her lips, feel it drip from a spot on her cheek. Weapon, killer, monster. **

You killed them, May.

Amaya quickly turned away from them and wiped her face with the sleeve of her jacket. Behind her, the beast began to screech again and drag itself, impaled head and all, towards her. Tess, who had just rounded the corner with a gun of her own, delivered the final shot.

Amaya stared at her victim in silence. Once everyone was breathing normally, Joel asked “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Amaya glowered. “Thanks for fucking leaving me by the way.”

Her eyes flew from person to person but came to rest on Ellie. Amaya’s ears burned as she blinked rapidly. She knew that the pile of rock and wood between them would have withstood anything Ellie might’ve thrown at it, but still. Amaya would have tried. If not for the stupid promise, then for her own sake.

Ellie looked like she wanted to say something, but Tess stilled and pointed to her wrist.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ellie rolled up her shirt sleeve to reveal another bite mark and Amaya had to resist going off on her. Riley was barely even bitten and it took four hours for her to be gone. Ellie had now been bitten twice, and nothing would happen. She wouldn’t start to twitch as Riley did. She wouldn’t lose control of her mind, her body… this wasn’t fucking fair.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

On the roof of her almost grave, Amaya stared out at Boston again, growing further and further away from what rooted her there. With her red-tinted gaze, it was getting harder to see all that beauty Maria would talk about.

Joel and Tess sat by the windowsill and splinted Tess’s sprained ankle, but the pair kept looking at Amaya across the makeshift bridge. Maybe in anticipation for Ellie’s sanity to crumble, maybe in shame for abandoning Amaya. Probably not the latter. i

She tried to put as much space between her and Ellie, but it was like she magnetically attracted tragedies; she could feel Ellie’s gaze and didn’t have to think twice about who was cautiously coming up behind her.

“I’m sorry,” was all she said. No explanation and, Amaya was trying to convince herself, no remorse. The state house glowed almost as maliciously as her thoughts.

Without considering Ellie’s presence any longer, Amaya spun to Joel and Tess. “We should keep moving. The sun’s starting to go down.”

The place was fucking deserted. First, it was the odd silence, then the empty truck, then the blood on the steps. And lastly, the bodies. Ridden with gunshot wounds and in pools of their own barely settled blood, their stares were black. Upon seeing the corpses, Amaya rushed to inspect each one, looking for familiar locs of black hair.

“Shit,” she kept whispering as she sailed to the next body. The last one was a man, barely over twenty with dark hair on his shoulders. His eyes had gone grey and angry veins crawled up the side of his face. Amaya released her lungs from the clutches of fear when she saw nothing familiar.

“One of them was bit,” she called to the rest of the group. Tess was frantically searching through the dead Fireflies’ supplies and quickly turned on the girls.

“Where did Marlene say she was taking you?” She demanded.

“Just west,” Amaya mumbled cautiously.

“Just west. Fuck. Okay.” She ran a hand through her greying hair. “And what about that Maria woman? Where’s she supposed to be?”

“I…I don’t know. The only people who did are dead now.”

Grateful that her sister wasn’t amongst them, she hadn’t had the chance to consider what this meant for her. Maria wasn’t there. There was no one alive able to tell her where she was last. She no longer had any point of direction.

“One of them has got to have a map on them, right?” Tess continued panicking. “Joel, can you help me?”

“It’s over, Tess. It’s over. We’re going home.”

“That’s not my fucking home!”

Amaya’s fingers wrapped tight around the hilt of her axe as she distanced herself in front of Ellie, who had slowly sailed to her side. Joel’s silence was unlike the quiet that was constantly settled over his shoulders; he watched Tess, who kept backing away, with his lips parted, but he could not speak, paralyzed with something Amaya knew well—-otherness.

Tess raised her chin and stood. “I’m staying. I mean…our luck had to run out sooner or later.”

“Fuck.” Ellie whispered. “She’s infected.”

“Show me,” was all Joel could work past his lips. Tess pulled down the collar of her red button-up and showcased the beginnings of decay. Veiny and angry, the red tendrils were already creeping up her neck.

“Take your bandage off,” the marred woman commanded. Ellie, eyes heavy with memory, sighed and did as she was told. Just as Amaya dreaded, her bite was just that—a bite. No redness, no vines of malice.

“Joel, this is real,” Tess continued. She held her arm up against Ellie’s and pulled her forward in display like a circus animal. When her arm started to shake, she flopped it to her side. “Joel, she’s fucking real…I need you to get her to Bill and Frank’s.”

“No.”

“They’ll take her off your hands. They’ll know what to do.”

Unsure of her place in this discussion, Amaya mumbled, “My sister—”

“I’m sorry, Amaya, but you’re sister is probably fucking dead. You said it yourself. Go with them. Stay with Ellie, protect Ellie.”

Amaya shut her mouth in a snap. She’d almost forgotten. As Joel shook his head like a screw was loose in his neck and Tess repeated ‘they’ll know what to do’ like she was trying to convince herself. Amaya was back in the mall.

Staring at the marbled title, Amaya thought of her victims. Two she forbade herself from thinking about for more than a few seconds, one who she killed barely an hour ago. Was the person-turned-beast from the museum once a parent? A child? A sibling? Had she been staring at some fucked-up version of foreshadowing the whole time? And was Tess not the same now? Was Riley not the same?

Amaya was no stranger to guilt, and she knew Ellie wasn’t either. Why her and why not those who deserved preservation? The reason Riley had been in the mall in the first place was to make her happy. Not as deep down as she’d like rested a red-hot resentment of the girl, but also a sense of comradery, a connection born of tragedy. Their lifelines connected the moment Amaya decided to step foot in that goddamned mall and it would remain intertwined for the rest of their lives. She shouldn’t blame someone that was practically a mirror of herself. But now, as Tess’s eyes began to water, Amaya felt a deep sorrow for the girl.

She only came alive when a bullet sliced through the skull of the awakened Firefly by Ellie’s feet. They were all still for a second as the feeling of foreboding settled in the air. Something was happening. Something was awakening. Not too far in the distance, the hissing began again. Joel hurried to the door, poked his head out, and returned with his stony eyes set on one thing—Ellie.

Amaya raised her axe past her waist and assumed her position in front of the girl. Her head pivoted between Tess and Joel. If she hadn’t been scared of them before, she was now. Tess wouldn’t be able to buffer Joel’s rage and apathy this time.

“How many?” Tess asked in an eerily calm tone.

“All of them. We got maybe a minute.”

Tess began knocking open the barrels the Fireflies left behind until the circle of them created a sour-smelling brown river over the floor, pooling in the divots of the marble. As she dropped a crate of grenades over the substance and pulled a rusty lighter from her pants pocket, Amaya realized her plan. She was making sure they wouldn’t follow.

Tess closed in on an emotionless Joel and whispered to him. He stared at the woman for the few seconds he allowed himself, then turned on his heel and grabbed ahold of Ellie. Amaya moved to protest, raising her axe above her shoulders, but a quivering hand rested itself on her shoulder.

She felt like the biggest fucking hypocrite. Five minutes ago, she had been storming about them abandoning her back in the museum despite knowing there was nothing they could have done. Now, staring into the eyes of a woman cursed, she was doing unto them as they did unto her. But this was Tess’s choice. If her death had to come, it would be by her own hands.

Ashamed, Amaya looked down to see the glass of her watch glimmering. 5:32, it read. Just on time. It was the Waiting Hours, but it was her turn to leave. With one last glance, Amaya hurried away.

Without her knowing the name was even on it, Tess was scratched from the list.

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