#red canyon smut

[darylsgarden]

Daryl fucking you in matting press because he saw some guy in alexandria flirting with you, and you've got tears streaming down your cheeks, cum painted on your skin(especially your tits), Daryl pounding into you to prove who you belong to. But it's okay because he'll always clean you up and give you sweet lil kisses to make up for the bruising 😇

Fucking love this!!

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"What was his name"

"I don'ttt..knoww..... Daryllll " you managed to stutter as he mercilessly rammed into you

This was your third round, he had already come on you face and tits , yet he continued at a relentless pace, you had never seen him this mad before.

His hand reached your throat, grasping it. His other hand pushed your thigh apart even more as he fucked you deeper and harder. Your cunt was getting sore but he was showing no signs of slowing down. Your tits were already sore and red from how he had twisted and pulled on your sensitive nips,so much that they were stinging in pain. Your hips had bruises from his fingers, where he had gripped you so hard while pounding into you. You were covered in hickies, your neck, your underboob, your thighs....everywhere.

"Well ya tell that bastard that I will fuckin cut his tongue out ,if he even tries talking to ya"

"Daryl you know that I only belong to you baby, all of me"with that you closed your legs around his waist, pulling him even more close "cum in me Daryl"

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"I'm sorry , I was too harsh" he said planting soft kisses on your bruises

"Well I won't be able to walk today, but this is how I want it every day "

[bambiesfics]

⊹ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐭 ⊹

warning: water-sports, extreme overstimulation, graphic depictions of lesbian smut, r!receiving finger bang, sarcastic Ellie, fluff + loving at the end.

vague description: reader has a full bladder and is trapped in Ellie William’s hatchback.

author’s note: re-upload of my fic from last blog, also don’t read this in public. It gets intense.

“Pinup paradise diner…home to… ‘The World’s Bustiest Milkshake Jars?’”

You read, with your face nosed deep into the crease of the monotoned map. You deflated back into your seat, irritated at the amount of eye-strain required to make out such small font. And let the roadmap blanket the top of your thighs.

“Is that where we’re going next?”

Ellie's eyes were intently focused on the red Honda Civic in front of her, the one she’d almost rolled her windows down to spit at, less than a minute ago. Her stacked bracelets clinked as she cracked the knuckles of each one of her boney fingers.

“Is that what it says on the map?”

You flipped back to the legend, squinting at the list of diners, drive-ins, and street trucks. The corner of her plump smile quirked, hearing you mutter,

“Jesus, how do you read this thing?”

Your squint jumped between Ellie and the page, “uhhhh…yes?—yes!”

“Then that’s where we’re going next.” She crudely cracked her pinky last. The last finger with chips of black nail polish speckled on it and a snug silver braided ring that hugged it. She settled into her seat, merging onto the left lane.

“Pinup Paradise? Really? Seems like an odd choice for a drink after going to Whopping Wrap.”

You flipped the map neatly back onto your lap as your girlfriend flicked the blinker up.

“Milkshakes after chicken wraps Ellie? Really?”

“Hey—Tommy said they have the best milkshakes this side of the state. That type of man, the fucking lumberjack he is, does not fuck around when it comes to satiating that gnarly sweet tooth.”

She muttered “He probably has cavities bigger and darker than the cracks in the Grand Canyon.”

And your tiny giggle teased a smile out of Ellie, as she half-heartedly blocked the swats you struck at her with the rolled up map.

Your girlfriend got such a fucked up kick out of busting Tommy’s balls, and he knew it too.

She flicked the signal light up higher once more and cruised right into the strip mall lane that led the car through to the drive-thru, the diner growing closer each second.

In a smooth slow crawl you and your girlfriend rolled towards ‘Pinup Paradise Diner.’

A canary yellow, vintage diner, littered with paintings of 50’s pinup models that decorated all of the glass windows.

A drive-thru swinging sign read ‘The World’s Bustiest Milkshake!’ above the order window.

You were incredibly humored, noting all the double entendres and puns that weaved through the slogans graffitied across the menu board and windows.

A young crew member poked her head out of the order window, smiling tightly before asking for both of your orders. She watched on while Ellie fished for her peeling leather wallet in the back pocket, and poked her head out of the side of the hatchback window.

“Hey, can I grab a blueberry crust milkshake? And she’ll have….” Ellie trailed off, shooting you back a look with her eyebrow raised.

“…What’ll you have?”

“I’ll have a vanilla bean milkshake please. Also could I get a bottled water, if you have that?”

“Okay, so right now we only have the 1 liter sized bottled water.. would that be alright?”

“Ah, I’m sure that’s no problem, I’ll take it. Thank youuu.” you sang, and the girl mirrored your gentle smiled. You settled back into your seat and she closed the window.

“Why’d you get water?”

Ellie observed, hastily touching up her upper and bottom lashes with mascara, in the dash mirror, before she had to put her foot on the gas.

Vain. You teased in your head.

….But so pretty.

The mascara made her already long lashes, even longer. Her dark brown eyeliner was smudged, yet the grittiness was still so attractive on her. “You should wear brown eyeliner more Els. It really brings out the green in your eyes.”

She side-eyed you suspiciously.

“Thanks?…”

And you rolled your eyes. Your girlfriend loved to pretend she was allergic to compliments unless they were talking about her earth-shattering service top abilities.

Ellie grabbed both your milkshakes. And used her teeth to rip the paper cover off her straw while passing you your drink.

She put her foot on the gas and peeled out.

“You still didn’t answer the question.”

“What question?”

“The question of what possessed you to buy an entire liter of water?”

“Because like, you know the sweet aftertaste left in your mouth after you eat something really sweet? I don’t know, but it makes my mouth feel dry.”

“Ah.” she responded.

“…that’s actually real as fuck.”

“Right?” You settled deeper into your seat. Hugging the milkshake to your chest while you stalked a few instagram stories, relaxing into the rhythmic roll of your girlfriend's beat up hatchback.

Townhouses and parked SUV’s started running on either side of the car as Ellie drove on, deeper into suburbia. You pushed yourself up to gaze out the window.

“Where are we going?”

Ellie turned right into a smaller street.

“To find a place to park. I’m tired of driving.”

“Hmm, sorry baby” you hummed as you rubbed her thigh. Your eyes lit up. “Then can I drive your ca—”

“—no. When will you stop asking?”

“When you finally let me drive it? Let me behind the wheel please.”

She scoffed, eyeing you up and down. “So I can end up with my knees touching the back of my skull? Yeah no.”

“You’re not funny Ellie.”

“And you’re the only passenger princess I’ve seen whining to do her girlfriend's job. Be a lady, damn.”

You broke down laughing, clutching your chest while Ellie bit her lip down to put a lid on her own laughter.

You shimmied close to her, your breasts squishing her upper arm.

“Then can I have some of your blueberry shake?”

She circled the straw around your mouth and made you chase it.

“uh ah-uh-hah—Ellie.” You whined.

Ellie barked a laugh at how adorable you looked, and then slotted the straw onto your puckered mouth.

“Mmm…”

“You like?”

“Yeah it’s so yummy. I should’ve gotten that instead.”

Ellie attempted to take her milkshake back, but with some struggle as you leaned further and further into her seat, pressing your front body into her arms just to keep tasting it. You were practically finished your own drink, and were now drinking half of hers. And in that moment you recalled at all the previous times your girlfriend had gripped your ass and whispered how you were a greedy little princess in your ear. Ellie was an asshole through and through.

But she spoiled you, and she loved doing it.

You eased back, and Ellie stole her milkshake back. She circled her tongue around the tip of the straw before sucking it. Wrapping her pink lips around the sticky tip your rosy lip gloss had covered seconds prior.

You dropped your empty cup in the cup holder and went to chug most of your water. It provided an indescribable amount of relief from the saccharine blanket on your tastebuds. A cool feeling that settled in you, as Ellie pulled into a grassy park parking lot.

Willow trees lined up along the curb, their weeping pose provided shade to several lots, including the one above you.

Ellie killed off the engine. She tipped her head against the headrest in relief. She flexed her fingers, stretching out the kinks, feeling the breeze run past.

Her head lolled limply to face you. “Do I really look that good in brown eyeliner?”

“Yes you really do.”

Ellie’s cheek dimpled.

“I love when you tell me stuff like that.”

“Like what? That you look pretty?”

You murmured into her shoulder, looking up at her.

“Yeah, makes me feel…dunno, not like a greasy loser.”

“Please, as if I would ever let a greasy loser bag me.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Jesus, kill yourself.”

She maintained eye contact with you, green eyes jumping between your own. Reflecting the amber beauty of the sun in its sparkle. She gave you a soft smile, you gave Ellie one back. A truce to the constant teasing. And Ellie took it as an invitation to dip her head down, and pull your lips into a kiss. One she’d been yearning to do since she’d first reversed both of you out of your driveway.

Ellie chased the kiss into the back seat. She gripped the fat of your hips to inch you slowly off of the center console and towards the back. She followed, kicking her loose driver’s seat forward with the sole of her sneakers. The slide adjusting rail had seen better days, and had been owned by better people than the currently horny, blunt, ungraceful young lesbian who had an avid penchant for violence, that owned it that day.

Ellie teased her hand up from your hips to the base of your neck, to grab the back of your head as she worked her puffy lips against yours. She was hungry for your little mouth, and it was seen in the way her jaw flexed.

Ellie kissed you with a remarkably intense eroticism.

Her hands ran down over the fabric of your milkmaid top before ripping the holes away from the buttons to let your tits spill out right into her hands. Each nipple immediately kissed the waiting pads of her thumbs, as they moved to greedily massage the sensitive head. Grazing each of your puffy tender domes over and over. “Fuck, need to suck these heavy tits baby.”

Ellie’s lips made their way down your chest. She suckled some swollen red marks into the skin, before making her way lower. Coming eye to eye with your nipples.

“Can you please squeeze your boobies together?”

You took your palms and pushed them together. Ellie's whiny sigh sent heat pooling in your tummy. She leaned in, licking a greedy stripe across both nipples, tickling their head with the tip of her tongue, tonguing the flesh around both areolas. And suckling your nipples intermittently then popping off them. Leaving both of them so puffed out.

Your squeaks filled the expanse of her small car, and her aroused groans joined to match.

She shoved her fingers in the waistband of your tiny denim shorts and tugged at them. They budged, but barely, so you helped your girlfriend. You lifted your ass off the seat and slid your shorts and thong down your thighs, before Ellie slid them the rest of the way off your ankles and threw them in the front seat.

The soft breeze blew past your cunt. Exposing the warm skin to a cooler environment.

“S-should we be doing this in a park?” you squeeked.

Ellie kissed her answer on your lips “there’s” *smooch* “no one” *smooch* “here.” As she shoved her hand down to palm the fat of your vagina. Feeling your pussy fill up her fingers. Ellie curled a middle finger into your tight hole, it barely wanted to split apart to accommodate her finger. But she marveled at how hungrily it sucked her in. She pumped shallowly before adding in her ring finger.

Her chrome ring grazed the swelling mound inside your hole; your g-spot. And it pulled a pathetic mewl out of you. She curled her wrist up, ligament appearing. And pumped harder. Enjoying your shaking thighs in the air.

Your brain was melting into mush. And all you managed were barely coherent babbles.

“…feels ss-s'good” your eyes were rolled backwards.

“God bunny…” Ellie marveled, “your pretty pussy’s so greedy.”

Ellie’s teeth dug into her lip “How did I bag you?”

All you could muster were delirious squeak noises in response as you tugged on the base of her ponytail.

“Look-look down” Ellie’s fingers grasped your chin, pulling your eyes away from her flushed aroused face and towards your own shiny pussy. “L-look at how you’re swallowing my fingers.”

Ellie’s forehead knocked against yours.

“Hey…c-can you squeeze for me?”

You never disobeyed her instructions, not when you both were like this. Nodding limply, you clamped around Ellie’s fingers, a choked moan escaped you. And a deep, throaty groan escaped her. Feeling how tightly you suckled in her fingers, how badly you wanted her there, made a warm heat throb between Ellie’s legs and left her boxers sticking to her sloppy cunt. Ellie could almost cry that she couldn’t bully a cock inside you, just to feel that desperate clamp around her cock.

Her ring pushed into your plump inner walls over and over, and dragged a new delicious zing of pleasure through the ribbed inner walls. Puffy, swollen, and sloppy with slick.

Ellie had a newfound resistance in her thrusting, the clamping, warm grip of your puffed out walls were holding her fingers still. But she kept pumping, like a suction cup being stuck on and popped off.

You were assaulted with thrilling pleasure from your walls clamping, chasing the press of her jewelry. And from your girlfriends frenzied, desperate thrusting. Ellie was just as hazy brained as you.

It was a costly mistake. All of the fluttering was stimulating your pelvic muscles. Which stimulated the other tiny hole snuggled in your pussy. The familiar pressure of a full bladder pressed behind the teeny hole of your urethra. Your squeaks came out strained. You scooted into different positions on the seat, trying to ebb away the pressure.

The shifting positions only made it worse as your tummy squished from movement, and as Ellie pumped upwards.

She jack hammered her fingertips against the puffy roof of your warm cunt. Her feverish ministrations put so much pressure on your bladder. You choked out a breathy plea.

Your hands skated up your girlfriend's torso, past her exposed waist and pebbled nipples that strained against her t-shirt, and finally towards her square shoulders in an attempt to push her back.

She needed off.

“I gotta…uhn… I gotta.” you whimpered.

“What was that?” Ellie sighed.

“I-ah!” The thrust felt so good.

You were whiny “th-think I needa pee.”

“I’m fucking you so good it’s got you confusing cumming for peeing? Y’so adorable it’s insane.” Ellie kissed your lips, picking up her pace.

She took the hand she’d used to squeeze and pinch your tits and brought it down to press on your lower tummy, as she thrust up.

Oh.

“Nnnnhnhn no! ph-please ewwie.. can’t—hold it.” You babbled the same desperate plea incoherently, but with a mouth nearly paralyzed from the incessant abuse of your hole Ellie was doing, you were left whiny and gulping, babbling tiny sentences at a time.

Sweat pricked at your skin, an orgasm was fucked into your vagina, and a full bladder pressed at your urethra. You didn’t know what to do as the mounting climax forced against your urethra left you with a desperate need for release, in the car.

Ellie’s lips kissed your jaw, snuggling against your head.

“You wanna let it out, big girl? Make a big mess f’me. We can clean it all up later, I promise.”

“nuh—ah Ellie no no…aghh! ”

Your urethra let out a thin light spurtle. Settling into the space between you two as more slick gushed out of your hole. You sobbed through your orgasm, from the joint pleasure of climax combined with relief from pressure pressing against your urethra. Ellie kept fingering you through each tiny pump of liquid that squirted from your urethra and through each contraction of its sloppy wet vagina, as slick spilled out of you and ran past your bare ass, onto her leather seats. With each aggressive thrust of Ellie’s fingers—fuck in—pull out—came out spurt after spurt, from each hole. She slowed down once you fell back into the seat softly; boneless and glass-eyed. Like an abused rag doll.

You both caught your breaths, Ellie from the aggressive thump and heat in her pussy. And you from your ‘accident’.

Ellie watched as the looming embarrassment creeped every so slowly onto your face, as the orgasm slowly ebbed away. She placed shaky kisses on top of your head. Cupping the back of it in support.

Sure, maybe her car wasn’t the best time to explore that kink. Seeing as the bottom half of her shirt and her belt was wet.

But she wasn’t going to let her girlfriend curl in on herself in shame, just because of her body’s natural reaction. Especially one that Ellie practically fucked out of you.

If not for the small space of the car she might’ve pulled you into her lap, to kiss away the upset creases between your brows. But she could do nothing more than hover above your trembling body, and caress your squished tummy with her free hand, until the shaking eased.

She was breathless. “You did so good, baby.”

You shoved your face into the crook of Ellie’s neck. The sweet cologne on the collar of her shirt calmed you down, with its medley of gourmands, lavender and florals.

Your girlfriend had a way of grounding you. Everything about Ellie had the ability to. From her cold, icy fingers, to her soft, pine scented hair. To her woodsy cologne, always left on the collar of her shirts, ready to tranquilize your unrest.

“nuh-uh I—.”

“—So good. My good girl, doing exactly what I tell you too, c’mere.”

Ellie unplugged her fingers out from your hole and suckled the last bit of slick cream off, then swiped it on her shirt. She licked her lips. Using her now clean hand to cup the side of your jaw and draw you into a heated kiss that left both of you trembling.

You shifted positions in the seat from discomfort.

“You still need to pee s’more?”

“No.”

“Babe…”

“Maybe.”

Ellie reached over and opened your door, then hopped out from her side. Jogging over to shield your body.

You crouched in behind her, her and the car towered over you from both sides.

You pouted up at her, and she glowered down at you. Her arms crossed firmly as she looked away briefly to scan around the area. Before parking her gaze back down at you as the remaining stream from your bladder emptied itself.

“No more vanilla bean milkshakes.” you winced at the feeling of the breeze tickling your swollen labia.

“Of course. Yeah, that was the real culprit. Not the mega-giant 1 liter water bottle.”

You frowned.

Ellie’s arms dropped from their cross, and her black fingernails pinched the fat of your cheek and pulled teasingly.

She reassured you.

“Yeah sure, we’ll blame it on the vanilla bean milkshake.”

[hihomeghere]

UGH! Holy crap! You did so well with the Five smut! I love me a good soft dom y/n 🤭😩. So how about a fluff? Five and Y/n are working together at the commission and Five gets injured, he thinks Y/n will just continue fighting because her job is very important to her but as soon as Y/n sees Five in pain she grabs him and rushes him away from the fighting and the bad guys get away. Five's all aloof like "Why would you do that? I know how much your job means to you" and Y/n's bandaging him up and saying "Well maybe you mean more"

Et tu, Brute? | Five Hargreeves / F!Reader

First off, thank you for your kind words! I hope this lives up to what you had imagined! Word Count : 1.2k, a little guy Warnings/Tags : Gore, stabbing, hospital setting, blood, fluff, Aged up!Five, I do not own the umbrella academy or any of it's characters. Tiny bit of angst but mostly fluff, cursing.

“Five!” You yelled, Five felt someone punch his lower back. He turned and swung at the target behind him. His fist connected with the man’s temple, knocking him to his knees. Seriously, a back shot? Why had you been so worried in the first place? He reached back to rub the dull pain on his back when his fingers connected with the handle of a blade. There was a knife in his back. He fought every urge to pull it out, knowing he would be in a worse situation after doing something like that. If he wasn’t so disappointed by his lack of situational awareness skills, he would have laughed. Getting stabbed in the back, really? Where were the 22 senators waiting in the shadows? 

Missions are never this easy, he should have seen the obvious trap. Cornering one target before another sneaks up behind you. You let out a groan of pain as the man’s fist connects with your cheek. You stagger back, your hand covering your cheek. You flipped your hair back, passing a glance at him. Your face immediately fell.

“No!” You yelled, reaching out to him as the knife was pulled out from his back. His legs gave out from under him, his knees smashing against the pavement below him. Just another injury to add to the list. What a stellar partner you are Five. He hung his head, tears pricking in his eyes, hot and heavy as they fell down his cheeks. The target behind him ran, taking his knife with him. You jumped, twirling your body as your foot connected with the target's face. Sending him sprawling onto the pavement. 

He twisted his arm wildly behind him, trying to cover the gushing slimy blood. He had less than five minutes until he bled out, oh the irony of it all. You sprinted over to him, dropping to your knees.

“Fuck!” You hissed as your hand pressed over the hole on his back. Five cried out, bile rising up into his throat. He clamped his jaw shut, keeping any cries and puke in. Millions of tiny needles seemed to be digging into his skin. 

“Can you walk?” Your voice sounded miles away, like you were yelling at him from one side of the Grand Canyon. Your hair had fallen into your face, your wide eyes staring into his. He tried blinking the black spots that filled his vision away.

“Et tu, Brute?” He whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Your eyebrows knit together in confusion as Five chuckled to himself. His hearing was slowly going, like he had been plunged underwater. 

“Fuck it.” You grumbled setting the briefcase down in front of you both. No. You wouldn’t. He looked back at one of the targets, still lying on the ground. There was no way you would throw away a mission like this, not for him. He reached out, his cold fingers covering yours.

“No,” he groaned, bile rising up in his throat as the spots returned to his vision.

“Yes.” You said through gritted teeth as you turned to glare at him, “I’m not letting you die here” You said as your sticky red stained hand encased his own. As you clicked open the briefcase, Five succumbed to the darkness.

-

The incessant beeping of machines woke Five up. He snapped his eyes open, the bright led lights blinding him momentarily. He sat up, hissing as his back throbbed. No doubt pulling on his stitches.

“Hey, hey. It’s alright.” Your soft voice soothed as your hand covered his shoulder as you gingerly pressed him back down on the bed. 

“What?” He croaked, his throat dry and scratchy.

“You lost a lot of blood so just take it easy, Caesar.” you teased pulling your chair closer to his bed. Tubes were attached to his arms, liquids pumping into his body. 

“How long was I out?” He asked, turning to look at you, you had changed out of your suit. A soft sweater hanging off one of your shoulders, your cheek had a bit of purple bruising. You sighed, shaking your head, a small smile pulling on your lips.

“Already thinking about work?” You breathed, a weak excuse of a distraction.

“Tell me.” He said propping himself up on his elbows, the sharp pull on his stitches making him wince.

“Just two days.” You said as your hands returned to his shoulders, pressing him back against the bed. He relented, rolling his eyes as he laid back down. 

“And the target?” You pursed your lips, smoothing out his blanket. “Y/n.” He furrowed his brows watching you avoid the question. 

“I’m gonna get enough shit from the Handler so can you just-”  You stopped, shaking your head, “Can you just say thanks for saving my life.” You tried to play it off as a joke, but he caught the slight waver in your voice. 

“Why did you let them get away?” Why didn’t you let me die, is what he wanted to ask. It’s not like you owed him any loyalty. You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I’m still not hearing a thank you.” You teased, your gaze raising to meet him.

“Thank you.” He rolled his eyes, sitting in the comfortable silence between the two of you. It was something he could appreciate, knowing neither of you had to say something to fill up the space. You could just be. But the question still nagged at him in the back of his mind, why? Why did you let them get away? You could have easily left Five to bleed out. One of the targets was unconscious in front of you for god's sake. Not to mention this damn place was your life. As much as he hated your undying loyalty, he also admired it. Found some sort of resemblance of himself in you, for Five his siblings pushed him to keep going. His reason to get up everyday, to save them. For you, it was the commission.“I know how much this job means to you.” You narrowed your gaze, tilting your head slightly. A smile began to spread across your face before you looked down at your hands. 

“Maybe you mean more.” You said as you shrugged. Five was sure his heart had stopped beating, but the EKG continued its steady beeping.

“Oh.” He said, unable to think of anything smart to say.

“Can’t have my partner dying on me.” You teased, lightly shoving his shoulder. He sat frozen like an idiot, watching as you stood up brushing your hands off on your pants. “Rest up, now that you’re awake I can’t avoid the Handler any longer.” You rolled your eyes as you leaned against the door to his room. “You owe me for that by the way.” 

“Apparently me being asleep has helped you avoid that witch for longer than you should have. So you owe me.” He said, raising his eyebrows. You crossed your arms, scoffing in false offense. 

“Even on death's doorstep you find a way to be a sarcastic little shit.” You laughed, Five couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. 

“Please, you love it.” He said with a smirk.

“Maybe I do.” You returned his smirk before you walked down the hall and out of sight. 

Five’s usual smugness returned to him in all its glory. He rested his hands behind his head, getting more comfortable in the hospital bed. Maybe getting stabbed had its perks.

[chadleys]

for the sub-astarion fic, just do whatever you see fit but could you atleast sprinkle in a mommy kink with a side of biting kink pls 🙈🙈

›› pairing: astarion x f!reader

›› wordcount: 1k

›› genre: smut, sub!astarion, dom!reader

›› rating: 18+, mdni

›› synopsis: just astarion being the goodest boy, that's all.

›› warnings: mommy kink, biting kink, teasing handjob, d/s dynamics

you love having him like this, in your lap, pressed so close there’s barely any room to decipher between the two of you. which is how you like it, how you know things are meant to be. the two of you; halves of one whole.

you lean back against the rough bark of a cedar and astarion leans against you, his pretty back sealed to your chest with a thin layer of sweat. his scars brush your nipples with every movement.

before you is a canyon, dropping steeply down to the valley below, and the misty mountain range beyond. all of this illuminated in the silvery glow of a full moon, big and brash in the sky, daring you to look at it.

which there’s not a fat chance of.

astarion’s gaze is glued downward, between his legs, where your hands are cradling his swollen balls and stroking lazily at his hard, aching cock.

as for you, you can’t keep your eyes off the side of his beautiful face, your nose buried in his silver curls.

you kiss the nape of his neck, gently, teasing, and astarion’s entire body shudders against you, his grip going tight on your thighs. ❝ darling, ❞ he says, and the usual brash confidence in his voice is nowhere to be found, replaced by a wheedling whimper.

there’s no helping the giggle that climbs out of you, even as your cunt drips, soaking the blanket you laid out to shield yourselves from the dirt and grass.

❝ yes? ❞ you query, and your hand strokes meanly over the tip of his cock, precum slicking the way as you squeeze.

❝ gods, ❞ astarion gasps, going rigid in your arms. ❝ well. i was going to ask if … mm … if you’d deign to go any faster? please? ❞

he turns, trying to give you his best ‘ i’m a beautiful vampire and i always get my way ‘ look.

all you see, however, is the most desperate, wanton little thing you’ve ever laid eyes on. and he is perfect.

it’s almost enough to make you want to speed up, to milk him until he’s spilling all over your hands in record time.

almost.

another quiet laugh bubbles out of you, and you hook your chin over his shoulder to see exactly what you’re doing to him.

his cockhead is red and impossibly swollen, glistening in the moonlight. there was no need for any oil tonight; he’s wet as any woman.

❝ i take that as a no, ❞ he mutters, and his grip once more tightens on your legs as he starts to drive himself up, fucking your fist.

you tut, immediately releasing his cock, leaving it to twitch wetly against his abdomen, utterly disappointed.

astarion makes a beautiful, frustrated little noise, bucks once more, and laxes back against you.

with the tip of one finger, you tease the head of his cock, just underneath the frenulum, and are rewarded with a fresh flood of precum and astarion’s exasperated sigh.

❝ you can cum like this, or not at all. ❞

❝ i — ❞ he’s about to argue with you, glaring at you out of the corner of his darkened eyes.

you give him a stern look, and he must think better of it, gaze slowly slipping away.

you sigh. ❝ you’re always so eager to try and wrest control, my love. ❞ affectionately, to show him you aren’t upset with him, you rub your nose just below his ear as you purr, ❝ why can’t you just let me take control for once? to make you feel good? i know you’ll love leaning back and relinquishing control, showing me just what a good boy you can be. ❞

the words ‘ good ‘ and ‘ boy ‘ strung together have the most gorgeous effect on the vampire in your lap. he sighs and lists back, head thrown to one side. leaving you the perfect access to his long, pale throat.

no hesitation, you sink your teeth in.

astarion yelps and his cock twitches where you’ve grabbed hold of it again.

❝ mother, ❞ he admonishes, breathless. his gaze retrieves yours; he’s joking, but only somewhat.

you decide to play along. ❝ yes, my sweet darling boy? ❞

he sniffs, looking bashfully away. ❝ i’m supposed to be the bloodthirsty vampire around here . . . ❞

starting to slowly pump your hand on him again, you press your breasts harder into his back, so he can feel how hard your nipples really are. ❝ mm, guess what? right now, you’re just my good boy. ❞

a hitch of breath, astarion’s hips aching to just thrust up into your grip until he cums.

you shush him, keeping a steady, defiant pace with your hand.

the first sign of his impending climax is a tightening of his balls in the palm of your hand as you roll them gently. the second, his nails digging deliciously into the meat of your thighs as he starts to pant.

❝ love — ❞

❝ i know, astarion. i know. just let it go, darling. be the good boy i know you are and cum for me. all over yourself. ❞

amidst the soft moist sounds of your hands pushing him over the edge, astarion gasps and his hips thrust sharply up, every muscle in his body going taut. the sight is incomparable. you could watch astarion lose himself time after time and never get sick of it.

cum shoots in thick ropes over the vampire’s toned abdomen, his thighs quivering, cock throbbing and twitching between your fingers as you glide one knuckle along that sensitive spot just below his contracting balls.

❝ by the gods, ❞ astarion chokes, as the strings of cum die out, the remainder oozing instead over your hands and wrists.

❝ someone was pent up, ❞ you giggle, slowing your ministrations. ❝ think we got everything or should i try for more? ❞

astarion grabs for one of your hands to still it, and you find that his fingers are trembling. ❝ please, no. i . . . i do think that’s enough for one night. ❞

❝ hm. fine. ❞ you scoot back just enough to be able to cant your hips up, dragging your wet cunt along his lower back. ❝ my turn, then. ❞

[eff4freddie]

Touch | Epilogue

Joel makes good on his promise to date you, at least once.

Words: 4k

Warnings: Just a slutty lil farewell to our resident Jackson masseuse and her grumpy-arse maybe sorta boyfriend, smut, vaginal fingering, sexy times, stockings that are far too thin for early Spring. Minors DNI

A/N: Another thank you for your support of this little story that ended up being a bit bigger and more complex than I expected. I went there because of your encouragement. Thank you, always.

Part Eight | Series Masterlist

The season was turning, but there was still a chill of a nighttime. It had been six weeks since Joel returned to Jackson, the medical supplies he and the second expedition managing to find and defend ensuring a healthy and safe Jackson for at least another two winters. The whole energy of the place, the optimism, was back in the community, and you had thrived in it, started to bloom alongside the wildflowers dotting the pathways into town.

You’d spent the time working, teaching Ellie, occasionally hanging around Joel’s place while he convalesced, first in his bed, then on the new-ish couch Tommy had found and dragged in through the back door. It wasn’t leather like his old one, and the springs stuck out in the centre so that you had to be very careful where you sat, but it was better than the rocking chair, and it was enough for him to sit still in for at least a few weeks.

He kept promising that he was going to date you, at least once if you’d let him, and each time you’d fobbed him off, telling him he had to get better first, that he was no good to you limping, that you wanted him marginally less grumpy if he could manage it. You weren’t sure why you were stalling, other than that you felt you were toes to the edge of a precipice.

When you were little your little family of four had driven out to the Grand Canyon, and you’d stood on the edge of the red dirt and been totally overwhelmed by the size of it, of all the negative space, the absence. You’d found yourself, aged eight and a half, ready to cry and even now, thirty years later, you remembered the howling wind, the echo of it.

You thought about the beauty of it, now. Now that you had seen so much worse, so much more, you reminded yourself that people used to travel entire countries to see the Grand Canyon. In your mind’s eye you entered your memories and stood beside yourself, your child self, and took her hand. You pointed to the sky, drew her eyes up and away from the ground beneath. Felt her pulse race under your touch as you showed her that the magnitude of it was the beauty in it, was the point of it all.

You accepted Joel’s invitation for the next Friday night. Then you ran to Maria’s to find something to wear.

--

You were supposed to meet at 8, a respectable time after dinner so as not to feel like you needed to have a meal; a more casual time, a more intimate time, when you could drink and chat and only stay an hour if you found it wasn’t working. It was both an in and an out.

Except that you were late, your last client having not only stored muscle tension in his fascia but emotional tension as well, and as soon as you had pushed into the glute he had unleashed years of mourning, of loss, of fears. You had stopped, wrapped him in a towel and pulled him upright, stood back and let him shake with the force of it. It wasn’t new, that people would come with muscle aches and discover trauma aches instead, but you lost track of time trying to put him back together again, trying to assure him of his safety. Tommy was right; sometimes it doesn’t come out until you feel safe enough to let it.

But it meant by the time you were pulling your door open you were about forty minutes late. Your cheeks burned with the shame of it, your timekeeping one of your strengths in the before-times, in the times when you had no other responsibilities other than the hell of being 15.

Joel was coming up your path and you stopped, nearly dropping the jacket you were still trying to pull over your shoulders. You couldn’t read his expression in the dark but his eyes were on you, and he was coming up, fast.

‘Joel, I’m so sorry,’ you started, as he strode towards you and up your porch. ‘I got caught up with a client, I couldn’t leave until they were…’ his hands were on you then, gripping you to him, your jaw resting in his warm palm.

‘You OK?’ he asked you, his eyes searching yours.

‘I’m fine, of course I am,’ you said, flustered, under the intensity of his inspection. ‘I just couldn’t…he was so sad, Joel. I had to stay.’

He nods at this, his jaw ticking. You resisted the urge to reach up and sink your fingertips into the masseter. ‘Were you worried about me, Joel?’ you asked, and he narrowed his eyes at you, then, suddenly freezing up.

‘Thought you weren’t coming, or that you were…thought maybe something had happened,’ he said, and you felt yourself soften.

‘I’m fine. And I would never stand you up,’ you said, moving to hold him around his waist, to circle him in your arms, only able to reach halfway around him, broad as he was. He avoided your eyes, the worry etched deep into his brow.

You still hadn’t kissed him. All of the things he had done to you, the way he had pulled you apart under his hands, his mouth, spread around his cock, nothing so intimate as a kiss.

‘I’m sorry,’ you said again, low and velvet in your throat. ‘I really like you, Joel,’ you went on, and he finally met your gaze, again. The naked vulnerability in it making you pause. You wondered how many people had ever seen this side of him. You suspected he could count them on one paw.

‘It’s late,’ he said, and started to pull away from you. ‘Maybe we should try again some other time.’ To your dismay he had nearly turned his back to you, and without thinking you grabbed him around the middle and tried to turn him back.

‘Wait,’ you said, and he hissed then, his muscles seizing. You let go of him, horrified.

‘M’ok,’ he muttered, raising his hand to stop you from rushing toward him. ‘Just…still gettin’ there, is all.’

‘Come in, please,’ you said, not touching him, not moving towards him, hoping your voice would be enough to get him to stay. ‘It’s cold, I have a bottle of whiskey Tommy slipped me when you were in the hospital, I can…’

‘You needed whiskey, baby?’ he said, and he had that lopsided grin on his face again, and you wanted to lick it off him. ‘Were you worried about little ole me?’

Never mind, you wanted to slap it off.

‘Oh for fucks sake,’ you said, rolling your eyes and turning back to your door. ‘Don’t get all cute just because I got scared when you nearly died,’ you said, and you heard him chuckle. You entered your house and turned to him, one hand on the door. ‘In or out?’ you asked, and you knew that you were talking to the both of you, knew that he wasn’t the only one facing the indecision, knew that you palming the responsibility off onto him, that you would accept his decision even if it meant never talking to him again. He hesitated, but only for a moment.

--

He was back in your kitchen, on the same chair from a more recent before-time, from before he’d found a place for himself somewhere under your skin. You were both sipping your whiskey, listening to the crackling fire in the other room, letting the silence seep out and blanket you. He was still enormous, still took up nearly half the space, and you ceded all of it to him.

‘Ellie speaks the world of you,’ he said, after a while, and you knew that this was important to him, that first and foremost he was her dad, her keeper and her protector.

‘She’s a lovely kid,’ you said, and then corrected yourself. ‘Not a kid. She’d fucking kill me if she knew I said that.’

He chucked into his glass. ‘Won’t tell her,’ he promised.

‘How’s that healing?’ you asked, gesturing to his wrist. It wasn’t in a splint anymore but it was still tightly bandaged.

‘S’just weak, aches in the cold,’ he said, and you nodded. You reached out and pulled it towards you, lay it on the kitchen table between you. You slipped the bandage away, watched the blood rush back in and pink up the flesh underneath it.

‘You need to stretch it, keep it strong,’ you said. ‘Bones probably healed but now the muscles’ll be lazy.’

‘Yes, doctor,’ he said, and you glanced up at him, at the crinkles in his skin and the warmth in his eyes as he teased you.

‘I mean it,’ you said, pretending to be offended, using it as an excuse to slip your hands around his wrist, his forearm. You felt the chords of the muscles there, the sinew and the veins. You rubbed your thumbs in firm circles, like you had shown him to do on your knee, all those weeks ago. You blushed at the thought of it, at the echo of the pleasure he had wrung from you not ten paces away.

He grunted a little, shifted in his seat, and you pulled his arm up at a right angle, so that his elbow was resting on the table. ‘Here, do this,’ you said, and you slipped your fingers between his, rested your forearm against his, leant in a little to ease your combined weight onto the joint.

‘I’m going to try and push your hand backwards, you push back,’ you said.

‘We arm wrestlin’?’ he asked, smiling again.

‘We will if you don’t behave yourself,’ you shot back, and he grinned.

‘Tell me when,’ he said, and you nodded your head. He grimaced at the strain through the joint, but you felt it stretch, felt it working under the force you were applying to it.

‘That’s good,’ you said, without thinking, ‘doing real well.’ He sucked a shy little breath in through his teeth. You stopped pushing, looking up into his pink cheeks. You continued to hold his hand, your eyes fixed to his.

‘Say it again,’ he said, and your mouth went dry.

‘Doing real well, Joel,’ you said, and watched as he blinked slowly, drinking it in. ‘Doing so good.’

He pulled you then, by the arm, out of your chair and into his lap, his mouth finding your neck and suckling, hard, as you struggled for purchase on his thighs. You could feel how hard he was through his jeans, the pulse of it pushing into your cunt as you settled yourself down on him, your thin little stockings under Maria’s borrowed dress doing absolutely nothing to provide a barrier against his throbbing for you.

He gasped, looked up at you as you perched above him. His pupils, blown wide with want, mirroring the ache you felt between your legs and in your heart for him. He tasted like peppermint toothpaste and you wondered idly if he’d brushed his teeth before heading to the Bison, if he’d hoped this would be the end result of the night or if it was just habit. You smelt the leather of his worn jacket. You reached up and let his salt and pepper beard scratch at the skin on your fingertips.

‘So good to us, Joel,’ you said, and you heard the gentlest whimper catch in his throat. ‘Looking after the town. Keeping us safe.’

‘Want to keep you, baby,’ he whispered, his eyes dropping to examine your lips. ‘Keep you tucked up all warm and safe, keep you under my roof where I know you’re protected.’ You shivered, at the heat of it, at the sincerity in it. ‘Be the one to shield you. All sweet and soft in your little kitchen. Wanting me, waiting f’me.’ He finished, biting his bottom lip.

‘I want you,’ you said, simply, feeling his cock jump underneath you.

‘Yeah?’ he asked, and you nodded.

‘Been waiting,’ you bit out, realising for the first time that it was true.

‘M’sorry baby,’ he said, playfully goading you. ‘Where did ya want me?’ he whispered, tucking his head under your chin and licking a stripe up your neck, chewing idly on your earlobe. You shivered again, a shuddering little thing that also came with a whimper. You took his hand from your waist and dropped it to your pussy, pushed his fingers to cup you there, gasping when he ran a fingertip along your seam.

‘Everywhere,’ you whispered, and he grunted, shifting his weight. With one warm hand splayed across your shoulder blades he leant you back, his eyes running up and down your body, devouring you. He kept his hand on your cunt, idly running a finger up and down where you ached the most for him, and you worried for a moment that he would feel how wet he’d made you just with his gaze.  

His breath was warm across your cheeks when he exhaled. He took the hand from between your legs and cupped your breast, rolled the nipple through your dress, made you whimper.

‘Joel,’ you whispered, and you watched as his eyes lit up, as the sparks caught on kindling and turned into a forest fire, as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing from the strain. You wanted to run your tongue over his bottom lip, nip at it.

‘Sssh, baby, I know,’ he said, pulling you up off his lap to stand in front of him, your knees shaking. His arms bracketed your hips, gripping the table behind you, so you were surrounded by him. He remained seated, watching you from under heavy eyelids.

‘Take it off,’ he said, and you felt your pulse in your neck, thunderous.

‘Which?’ you asked.

‘Maria’s dress you don’t think I recognise, those silly little stockings that ain’t doing nothin’ to keep out the cold.’

He leant back on the chair again, kicked his legs out so that you were standing between his ankles now, leant his arm on the back of the chair and scratched at his beard. ‘Well, go on,’ he said, and you felt so exposed to him then, vulnerable in the heat of his stare.

‘Help me,’ you said, feigning not being able to get to the zipper, just for the excuse of turning away from him, from his eyes that were taking you apart atom by atom, from his hands resting on his thigh, from his thick fingers you wanted to slip into your mouth, let him push down on your tongue and suckle at him.

You felt his hands on your back, the zip coming down, the way he slipped the dress from you like he was unwrapping a present on Christmas morning. You leant over a little, trying to slip your stockings off and you heard him moan, felt his hands on you again, his warm paw on your lower back pushing you into a deeper bend, the other pulling on your hips to bring you closer to him, his hands gripping you, positioning you. You heard his sharp inhale when you slipped the stockings over your bottom, felt your cheeks blaze when he reached up and slipped your panties off along with them, bent over and completely exposed to him, wet and glistening in the light of the kitchen, the sound of your gasped little whimpers mixing with the ever-present whir of your forty-year-old fridge.

‘Oh, my girl,’ he said, and you wanted to launch yourself at him, seat yourself back on his lap and bury your head in his neck but he was running his hands up and down the back of your thighs, edging himself closer on the chair, pushing you forward so that your breasts rested on the kitchen table, your cheek flush to the cold wood.

He bent his head and placed a single kiss at the base of your spine and you worried your knees would buckle, worried you would collapse onto the kitchen tile. As you gasped he brought his hands up to cup your bottom, spreading your cheeks enough to slip a thumb into your cunt, probe the warmth and feel the wet collecting on his fingertip. You startled, trying to buck away, trying to buck towards him, circling your hips to capture him inside you, and you heard him chuckle, felt his lips dip lower to your tailbone as he twisted his hands, his thumb still inside as his fingers came around to cup and rub at your slit, your poor little aching clit caught between his fingertips.

‘Jesus,’ you cried, finding religion despite never having set foot in a church.

‘Want to keep you full of me,’ he muttered, sitting back down on the chair again and pulling you with him, spreading your legs over his so you were open wide, obscene and dripping in his lap, pulling your legs apart with his and whispering filth in your ear, cupping your breast with one hand and the other sliding into your heat.

‘Want to keep you here, my pretty girl all safe and warm in my arms, full of my cock and my fingers, crying out for me when I’m not there.’ You were gasping, your vision narrowing, barely able to concentrate on anything except for his words, for his fingers stretching you, his legs pulling you impossibly wide. ‘Won’t let nothin’ hurt ya, baby girl,’ he grit out, and you felt a sob rip through your throat, the pleasure he was drawing out of you mixing with the comfort, with the intoxicating allure of him protecting you, of him standing between you and so many terrors.

In your right mind you wouldn’t have believed him. Would have known there were things out there even the great Joel Miller couldn’t topple, that there were threats known and unknown, seen and unseen, things out there wanting to spill your blood, the blood of the people you cared the most for. But Joel was inside you, in your cunt and in your ear, and his words were chipping away at your resistance, sliding under the door long ago locked tight. You were far from your right mind. You surrendered to the seduction of it, of the intoxication of it, of the myth this man was peddling that you would buy again and again and again.

‘There she is,’ he said, as you came on his fingers, your cunt gripping him and your hips rolling, his face pressed hard into your neck as you twisted into the agony of it, your mouth open and gasping, your face turned to the Gods.

You felt his fingers underneath you, one hand wrapped tight around your torso to hold you steady as he released himself from his jeans, and you felt him then, pressed against the back of your thigh, the velvet heat of his length, the thundering throb of it. You had barely caught your breath, had yet to fully come back to yourself, before he was pushing himself into you, pulling you onto him, your neck caught in his teeth as he bit down on the nape, tried to stifle the groan blooming in his chest.

He felt bigger this way, the stretch even sharper despite his best attempts to prepare you, and your walls fluttered, fought to accept him. You shuddered, the sudden sting slamming you back into your body, and you gripped his hands to stop him, to pause. He stilled immediately, his breath hot and gasping.

‘Give me a minute,’ you gritted out, leaning back onto his shoulder and burying your nose in his jaw, panting, placing a placid little kiss to the salt and pepper patches there.

You felt him reach around you, his finger finding your clit and gently circling it, collecting your slick and pushing it over the nub to rid you of any friction. You groaned, arching your back against him, your hands digging into the meat of his thighs underneath you.

‘So beautiful like this,’ he whispered into your ear as you felt the pleasure overtake you, the throb in your cunt synchronised to your thundering pulse. ‘Can feel you gripping me,’ he went on. ‘Stuffed fulla me, baby.’

‘Stop,’ you gasped, the moment suddenly too intense, a fear gripping you then that if he kept talking you would give him anything; the shirt off your back, the blood in your veins. He chuckled, watching you struggle to take the pleasure he was pushing into you, through you.

It was wrong but you couldn’t figure out why, because it still felt so fucking good, and you wanted more but couldn’t figure out how it was possible, not sated by him seated fully inside you, not close enough to him as you pressed your body entirely against yours. You huffed, frustrated, standing before he could stop you and pivoting to face him, straddling him again in the chair and sinking yourself down on him in one swift motion, so that he gasped and then groaned when the heat of you enveloped him, joined you in a harsh cry when your clit met his hipbone and you settled there, shifted your hips to press into the nub.

‘S’better,’ you said, and you watched his lopsided grin emerge.

‘My girl miss seeing me?’ he asked, and you rolled your hips to shut him up, watched any semblance of cogent thought leave him when you gripped him there.

‘Say it again, Joel,’ you said, sliding your hips forward and back in a way that you knew wasn’t enough for him, but was making your clit throb when it grazed over his skin. He grunted, suddenly finding it hard to think clearly, and his brows saddled.

‘Keep you safe?’ he said, uncertain but meaning it anyway, and you shook your head.

‘Keep who safe?’ he asked.

‘You,’ he answered, still not following, and you planted your feet on the floor, raised yourself up just to bounce back down again.

‘Who am I, Joel?’ you asked, nearly breathless, and finally, finally he understood, his little huffed out laugh sending a thrill through you as he reached down between your bodies, felt where you were joined.

‘My girl,’ he said, finding your clit and edging his fingertips across it, sending fireworks up your spine. ‘My beautiful girl, so tight and wet, so needy for me, cryin’ out for me in her kitchen.’

You groaned, feeling him grip you around the middle with one arm, lifting you up and down on his cock, rocking into you and always, always, always watching your face, nibbling at your chin when you leant back to gasp for air.

You were going to come. It was too fast. You still had so many other things you wanted to say to him, wanted him with every atom of you, with every fibre, the neurons in your brain lighting up just for him. Wanting to live in the torrent of pleasure he brought out in you, wanted to twist and writhe in it. You felt, again, on the edge of tears, but not for wanting, this time. Not for the losses.

For the having. Of Jackson, of the wildflowers on the paths pushing past the cold. Of the little family you had eked out at the end of the world, of Ellie, of Tommy and Maria and Robin. Of this man under your body and on your kitchen chair, calling you his and promising to keep you safe. Of this man, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion and clinging to him, willingly readying yourself to cascade over it.

‘Want you right here, always,’ he grunted, and you keened, felt it then, that you were wanted, that you belonged.

You didn’t have the words for it, vowed in that moment that you would spend the rest of your life trying to find them. For right now you did the only thing you could think of, leaning over and gripping his jaw, angling his face to you as you landed your lips on him, kissed him as you felt a tear streak across your cheek and onto his skin, as you shuddered and felt your cunt milking him, as he spilled into you and you joined him, the ecstasy and the pleasure and the warmth of it. In your little house in Jackson, behind enormous walls, to hold you.

Taglist:

@orcasoul

@archofimagine

@hiroikegawa

@ilovejoel-andjavi

@giggly-otter

@harrysrosetatto

@Hjzghi-blog

@daddy-dins-girl

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@pedropascalsbbg

[sunlightmurdock]

Like This Forever | 0.1 | J. Seresin

masterlist | next chapter

You’re thinking of the past, right as the future is about to change forever.

Warnings: accidental pregnancy, childhood friends to lovers, country singer!Jake, smut, pining, blissful ignorance, other warnings to follow. wc: 3k (18+ minors do not interact)

A U G U S T 1 9 7 4 / F E B R U A R Y 1 9 9 1

Driftwood — small town southwestern Texas, situated in Lockheart County. Springs, stony hills, and steep canyons. It’s good land, occupying a tiny patch of earth in the middle of the Edwards Plateu. That’s what they all say: good land, good soil. Large acreages of wheat for miles around, grown annually for harvest and winter through spring livestock grazing. The remaining two-thirds of the region is rangeland devoted to cattle ranching. Ranches in this region often seem older than the landscape itself. Lockheart County’s livestock industry is nationally appreciated, it was, even back then. Ranches here are huge, they’ve been there for generations. The town of Driftwood, itself, sits in a valley. It holds on to the people who settle there just like it holds onto the weight of that thick, summer heat all through the day. So hot that even the trees bend and furl like they’re seeking shade too.

Back then, Driftwood was even smaller than it is now. Post Office, Church, two schools, a fleet of locally owned stores on Main Street and a few other buildings for the fathers who weren’t ranchers or ranch hands to work.

On that day in early August, most of Driftwood’s thousand person population were nestled amongst the pews of St. Augustine’s Church, just outside of town. It’s a mile and a half from Main Street, and a mile and a half from the furthest fence on the Seresin Ranch. Their house is a sprawling thing that Bill’s grandfather had built — they haven’t got that kind of money now, and they didn’t on that morning in August. They’ve got three boys, who were squirming around the front pew, melting into the aged wood below them in their smart white button ups. They’ve got another boy too, standing behind Pastor James, holding a processional candle.

Jake’s their youngest. He was nine back then. Small for his age, especially when you stood him next to his brothers and their broad shoulders and long legs. His hair was beyond blond, lightened from the sun. His cheeks dusted with brown freckles and his eyes always narrowed into a type of John Wayne kind of squint. Jake loved John Wayne back then. He loved the cowboys on his bed sheets, and the fact he could see the cattle from his bedroom window. All he wanted back then was a pistol on his hip and a one-way ticket to El Dorado.

Mary-Lynn Seresin grew up in Driftwood, just like her husband had. She had known Bill since she was a little girl, and she had always known that she would marry him one day. Her nails were polished pink that day, sitting pretty atop the procession card as she fans herself with it. Two pews behind, you could still see a droplet of sweat bead from her neat blonde hairline and trail into the collar of her blue polka-dotted Sunday dress.

On that particular Sunday, the fans had packed up and stopped working. So, all six hundred of you who could make it out to St. Augustine’s we’re trapped in there — not just with Pastor James’ storytelling, but with the thick heat pressing down on the entire valley feeling like it had all been shut in this one room with the rest of you.

At the front, Jake Seresin’s cheeks were red, his hair was beading with sweat and his scarecrow, twig-like arms were trembling around the cross. He struggled with its weight and you had watched his green eyes flash out towards the crowd, briefly landing on his mother. Mary-Lynn gave him a proud nod. Bill was staring at the stagnant ceiling fans above their heads. You, were staring right at Jake.

Eight years old yourself, just eight weeks younger than Jake is, you have known that little grass-stain your entire life. In fact, Mary-Lynn and your mother found out that they were expecting just days apart. They had been in the same high school grade as girls, had married men who were good friends, and back then your mother had worked in the town’s hair salon five days a week. They grew very close through their pregnancies. Your mother was the first one to send flowers when Mary-Lynn went into labour a month and a half early.

Jake’s John-Wayne-Squint deepened through the heavy air, watching you like you were both about to draw pistols and settle this like men — right in the middle of Pastor James’ final verse. Your pigtails and your white Sunday dress weren’t fooling him. His robes and the heavy cross in his hand weren’t fooling you. Clearly following his brother’s gaze, Daniel Seresin turns and peers at you over his shoulder. He’s the closest in age to Jake, but he’s still five years older. Thirteen then and too grown up for childish squabbles like those, he just turned back to the front and shook his head.

The first three of the Seresin boys were all born within three consecutive years. Matthew, Noah and Daniel. They’re each tall like their mother, blonde like her too, and have inherited their father’s linebacker shoulders. Noah was fourteen and about to be a freshman in high school. After he fixed the chain on your bike at the beginning of summer, you were full-blown head-over-heels in love with him back then. You thought you were anyway.

Jake, however, had been in your class since Kindergarten and you had been forced to share your toys with him for even longer than that.

His arms trembled before you and your mouth had twitched. Neither one of you was listening to the service. It was almost over. Just a few more minutes until Pastor James wrapped up and the people of Driftwood and poured out of this sauna and out into the dry, morning sun.

Quickly, you shot a look at your mother sitting at your side. She was listening intently, staring right ahead with her neatly steamed clothes and her hair-sprayed hair. You’ll always remember the heavy smell of her rose-scented perfume. Every time you inhale it, you’re sitting at the foot of her bed, watching her fix her face in her vanity. Then, you looked to your father on the other side of you. Exactly the same. Pleased, you turn your attention back to the youngest Seresin boy.

Scrunching your nose, you had sat forwards just slightly and stuck your tongue out at him. Quite the diss back then. Jake’s green eyes had widened, sweat beading down his back under his white shirt and his service robes.

Driftwood is a safe place. It’s a fantastic town to raise children. The schools aren’t overcrowded and cars don’t speed through the centre of town. Country roads are a different story. But no one bats an eyelid, especially not back then, when their children are out of sight.

Mary-Lynn was busily detailing the events of her dinner party that coming Saturday to a group of women that are invited. She’s quite the hostess still. Your mother stood amongst them. Neither one of them were concerned about where their children were in the slightest. Until, that is, the sounds of muffled screaming filled their ears. The mothers of Driftwood rush to the commotion in their kitten heels and pretty dresses. Your mother was the first around the corner. She would recognise the sound of her baby’s screaming anywhere. But you weren’t the one in trouble. As usual, you had been causing it.

Your white dress grass-stained and muddy, dirt under your fingernails and covering your formerly white, frilled socks. You were kneeling. You haven’t yet noticed the crowd of women rushing in your direction. You’ve got Mary-Lynn Seresin’s youngest son pressed into the dirt, kneeling on his back and twisting his arm uncomfortably behind him.

“Say Uncle!” You demanded.

“You’re so dead! Get off!” Jake struggled under you, screaming with all the force that his growing lungs would allow. His voice must have been audible across the entire valley with how he was hollering. Freckled cheek pressed into the dirt, his white shirt was destroyed and he was in the middle of ruining his shoes with how he was scrambling for purchase in the dried dirt.

Quickly, your mother had grabbed you under your arms and hauled you off of the boy, spinning you to face her.

“What do you think you’re doing young lady?”

“He started it! — He said my dress was ugly!”

“It is ugly, you look like a girl!” Jake huffed from behind you as he had stumbled onto his feet and taken a look down at his church clothes. Slowly, he had lifted his gaze to look at his mother. Sullen and worried looking, he began to pout. It wasn’t working. Mary-Lynn had raised three boys by then, she knew when they were trying to play innocent.

The thing about growing up so close together, is that approaching double digits was a confusing time. It was around that age that your mother began to put her foot down when it came to all of those tom-boy activities. Girls might roughhouse and come home with holes in their jeans and mud on their faces, but young ladies didn’t. The dress was her idea.

Jake’s comment had been passing, just a whisper as his family had headed into church ahead of yours, but he was right — you did look like a girl. Back then, that wasn’t a compliment coming from him. So, you had cornered him outside and pummeled him into the dirt. Fair is fair.

“Mary-Lynn, I am so sorry about her — send me the dry-cleaning bill. I’m sorry, we should go.” Your mother had sighed in a hurry, frowning down at your ruined clothes, then looking towards Jake’s. You’ll always remember the smile on Mary-Lynn’s face after. Not pity, because she knew you were in a lot of trouble for this. Just fondness. She had gently patted your mother’s forearm and shaken her head.

“Let’s finish our chat. They’re already filthy. Let them play.”

Looking up at her, you hadn’t understood why she was siding with you back then. You had just almost broken her son’s arm for sport. As you grew, Mary-Lynn Seresin was always on your side. In her kitten heels and dresses, she remembered being a dirt-covered little girl once too. No one was telling her son that it was time yet, to be a man. There’s no harm in letting you be young a little longer.

Your mother had looked uncertain, but people in Driftwood always looked to Mary-Lynn for advice. She had somehow managed to keep four boys in line perfectly, her parenting expertise was studied by those around her. Finally, she had given you a brief nod.

You remember spinning on the delicate almost-heel of your church shoes, rounding on Jake, ready to brawl. You have no clue where the stick came from, but he was armed when you had turned around — but Jake always fought fair. He tossed you a stick of your own and took aim. Green eyes narrowed, he was trying to look down his freckled nose at you, but you were taller then.

“She’s gonna marry that boy someday.” Mary-Lynn Seresin had huffed with a wistful smile, watching the mud-caked children tear off through the field once again. This time, with sticks in hands and violent intent plastered across their dirty faces.

You’re not eight anymore. Jake’s not nine. This time of the year, you both happen to be twenty-six. You aren’t trying to kill him with a stick anymore either. You’re sitting at your favourite bar in Driftwood — there are four now — watching your best friend up on stage. He’s always confident. He has been since he hit that growth spurt when he was twelve. Since then, Jake has been unstoppable. But on stage is when he really shines.

The Dark Star feels like an old bar. It’s packed every Friday night. It smells like malt and smoke and Jake’s been playing here every Saturday since he was seventeen. This is the last time that it will ever be like this, and you don’t even know it yet. Jake’s in the middle of an original. People around here know him, they know his music. They might not get all the words right, but he always gets people singing.

Jake isn’t small for his age now. He grew into his nose, and he inherited those big shoulders, his skin’s tanned from his days out at the ranch. He’s strong and funny and kind. Sometimes it catches you off guard, when you turn your head and find a man in place of the little boy you once knew.

You’re in a booth, talking numbers. It turns out that you had inherited your mother’s knack for business strategy, and Jake’s way with words had rubbed off on you long ago.

You don’t look like the little girl Jake had once known either. If he was concerned about you looking like a girl before, then you can only imagine how dismayed he must be when he looks at you now. Breasts and everything.

“It’s more than potential, Stu — you saw how crazy people were for him when he was opening for The Ashford Band.” You tell him, fingers curled around a brown glass bottle. This is already settled, the deal is already done. You knew from the second that he walked in that you had Stu Adler suckered.

This is a deal that you’ve been mulling over for a couple of months now. Getting Jake on his first headline tour. His debut album came out last week and it’s doing well, but the record label is tiny and the publicity deal is even smaller. Jake’s making pennies compared to other people in his genre, but you’re about to change all of that.

“Six months is a long time on the road. It’s a different lifestyle,” Stu’s dishwater grey eyes flicker briefly up from the plunging neckline of your top to meet your gaze. He’s an older man, with a once successful career in Los Angeles. Now, he spends his time scrounging small towns for talent. He’s just a stepping stone in your plans for Jake. “You’re sure he can handle it?”

Stretching your legs out, you scoff incredulously at the accusation as Jake’s last song dwindles behind you. The beer bottle is cool against your lips. Stu swallows, watching your lips purse around the rim to drink. You know he’d die for the chance to get his wrinkly, old dick in your mouth — it’s why Jake’s about to get the best deal of his life.

“Jake? — Of course.”

“Can you?” Stu asks. The light on you for once makes you cringe. Even so, your poker face doesn’t falter. Calmly staring across the table at him, a small smile on your face. “Y’know, he’s going to need a manager that I can rely on. I.e. — one that he won’t dump, sweetheart.”

This only makes your smile grow. “Jake is like a brother to me. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

It’s that lie that secures the deal. Six months, a hundred and sixty dates across the US. Mostly small venues, but it’s his first headline tour — and it’s all because of you. Because of that one little white lie. Letting Stu think that he’s got a chance with you. Letting him think that you’ve never fucked Jake.

You have. Twice, already by this point. Once, after senior prom. Your date was an asshole and his was cruel. You’d parked his truck out in the west pasture of the Seresin ranch and got a little too drunk under the stars, and wound up with your legs hiked up over his shoulders. The second time was Thanksgiving two years ago. Your family joined his. All of his brothers have fiancés or wives now. Sharing Jake’s bed in his childhood home that night, neither one of you was drunk. You were just lonely, and maybe bored.

Tonight, there are a couple of different factors at play. Sure, by the time that you and Jake collapse down onto that red, velvet couch in the Dark Star’s ‘dressing room’, you’ve had plenty to drink. You’re not quite as lonely as you were that thanksgiving, though.

You turn your head and he’s grinning at the ceiling, chest heaving from the energetic final song. His arms stretch along the backs of the couch, his eyes closed for a moment. You watch him silently.

“You’re incredible.” Jake’s half-cut on an unhealthy mix of tequila and vodka, but smiling, eyes still shut, chin still pointed towards the sky. He gives his head a small shake. “A hundred and sixty dates.”

A smile plasters itself across your lips. As drunk as you are, it’s nice to be complimented for your hard work. “Yeah, we’ll see if you still think I’m so incredible when you’re living off of burgers and beer and still have eighty shows to go.”

The smell of cigarettes lives within the fibre of this room. Part of the furniture, nestled amongst the cracks in the red painted walls. There’s the couch that you’re sitting on, and an illuminated vanity against the far wall, and then a coat stand. It’s not much of a dressing room, but it’s fine.

You just wish it would stop spinning.

“I mean it.” His fingers rest atop your denim clad thigh, patting platonically. You hear him sigh from beside you. He squeezes at the supple skin under his hand. “Thank you.”

“Jake… since when do you have manners?” You ask him. Both of you are sitting with your eyes shut on this old, probably dirty, velvet couch. It’s five in the morning. The two of you might have gone a little overboard with celebrating. Wayne Mayhew, the owner of the Dark Star might have threatened to kick you both out of his bar if you didn’t finally get off of his damn stage ten minutes ago.

But there’s a high buzzing between the two of you that feels electric. Wordlessly, you know Jake feels it too. That this is the last night. Here, in this shitty hometown bar. Everything is about to change. After this tour, nothing will ever be the same again — for either of you.

Jake’s thumb trails back and forth in just one small pattern, reminding you that it’s there on your thigh.

It’s been on your mind all day, for no reason at all. That Sunday in August in 1974. Your ruined church dress and the fat bruise on Jake’s cheek the next day when you had seen him at the market. The start of it all.

Those late night drives and all the evenings you studied together. Jake’s football games and his band practices — back when he had thought he wanted to be in a band. Him drying your tears and making you laugh. Growing up together, talking for hours and hours about all of the possibilities. This was everything Jake had ever wanted, and he’s thanking you.

Your eyelids weigh double what they normally do — heavy as you blink open your eyes and turn your head. This time, he’s looking across at you. The tips of his fingers brush the inseam of your blue, low-rise jeans. His face is calm, he isn’t saying anything and he’s far from doing anything either.

Scrunching your nose, you poke your tongue out at him. Across the couch, Jake lifts his brows. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s got stubble now. Stubble, and chest hair and an Adam’s apple. But that look, that glint in his eye that’s just daring you to try him has always been the same.

Jake’s fingers twitch, pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Dim lighting, fifteen year old red paint on each of the four walls, and that perpetual cigarette smell — it’s hardly a romantic fantasy. And this is far from a good idea.

But it’s Jake. Confident, loud Jake who gets shy when he’s around someone he really likes. Funny, smart-mouthed Jake who under it all is a great listener. Goofy, habitual Jake who has the nighttime routines of a fifty year old housewife.

Strong-willed, handsome, Jake, your best friend — who’s looking at you like you’re his next meal.

…

@fia-thefirst @daggerspare-standingby @dempy @v0id-chaos @moonlight-addisyn @grxcisxhy-wp @shakespeareanwannabe @coconut152 @330bpm-whiplash @takemetooneverlanddd @princess76179 @loveofvernonslife @averyhotchner @trickphotography2 @sushiwriterhere @the-romanian-is-bae @atarmychick007 @talktomegooseman @xoxabs88xox @thedroneranger @roostersforevergirl @buckysdollforlife @abaker74 @blackwidownat2814 @kmc1989 @whatislovevavy @lonelywriter10 @s-u-t @topguncortez @callsign-joyride @rosedurin @86laura11 @theenorthstar @mygyn @growup-thatbeautiful @percysaidnever @katiedid-3 @its-the-pilot

[rikaluver]

Joy Ride - Postal Dude x AFAB Reader

Genre - Smut

This is an old fic of mine, you can find it on AO3 but I don't know where since it was on my old account...Anyways, enjoy!!

The heat hits you like a wave. The sun beats down relentlessly from a cloudless sky, casting everything in a harsh, unyielding light. The gas station is a low-slung building, its faded yellow and red paint peeling in the desert sun.

You get closer and spot a tall man in a tattered black trench coat loitering near the pumps. He’s got a scruffy goatee and a wild look in his eye, and he seems to be muttering to himself as he paces back and forth.

Freak, you think to yourself. 

You push open the door, and a blast of cool air washes over you, providing a welcome respite from the scorching desert heat. It’s dimly lit inside, with rows of shelves stocked with snacks, drinks, and other random shit. There’s one other customer inside—an older man. He’s standing by idly, not looking at anything or buying anything. It’s like he’s not even there. 

You make your way to the back of the store, grabbing a few snacks and some beer (a lot of it). There isn’t much to do around in this ghost town; you spend most of your time getting drunk or high. As you return to the store's front, you notice a display of souvenirs near the register. Postcards with the Grand Canyon, refrigerator magnets, random shit with the state flag plastered on it, you name it. 

The cashier appears disconnected, staring blankly ahead and barely acknowledging your presence. As rude as it is, you snap your fingers before him to get his attention. He blinks slowly and looks at you vacantly before scanning your items. He’s moving in slow motions as if operating on autopilot. 

You don’t bother to make small talk; you know he’ll give one-word responses, not registering your words. It’s always the same with the people in Paradise. They’re like zombies. 

You finish paying and gathering your belongings, though you can’t help but feel a bit of unease. 

You feel the warm sun on your skin and the desert air in your lungs the moment you step outside. You shield your eyes from the sun's rays, waiting for your eyes to adjust. 

The people in this town stick around one place, and you rarely see them anywhere else, so when you see the guy there when you entered, smoking, it’s not a surprise. You know everyone’s face (not that there are many people, to begin with), but you can’t recognize this guy. You’re unsure if you’ve ever seen him outside, and you’d undoubtedly remember him considering his height (he’s got to be 6’5” at least).

He spots you after a while and quickly stubs his cigarette out before walking up to you. 

“You’re not one of the contaminated ones, I can tell.”

“Jesus, dude, what?”

A manic grin spreads across his face, “You’ve noticed it, haven’t you?”

You take a step back, feeling a bit uneasy. The man in front of you seems like he’s on something. And, unlike everybody else in the town, you can’t tell what his next move will be.

“There’s something in the air infecting everyone in Paradise. You and I are the only uninfected people left in this town.”

You scoff and push past him, making your way back home. You were right to think he was a freak when you first saw him. As animated as he may be, he’s still one of the crazy people around here. 

Are you the only one with a functioning brain around?

The man grabs your shoulder and turns you around effortlessly, griping you too firmly. Not only was he abnormally tall, but he was also abnormally strong. 

“I know. I know what you’re thinking—you think I’m one of them, right? Different but still crazy, yeah?” His eyes flicker between you and whatever’s behind you (you know there’s nothing and no one behind you). The look in his eyes is one of a man on the edge, teetering between madness and despair. “You can trust me, though. I thought the same when I saw you,” he punctuates each word, his grip tightening.

You feel a sharp jolt of pain through your muscles; the shit he’s saying goes in one ear and out the other. You need him to let go. The pressure is intense, and it feels like his fingers are digging deep into your flesh, leaving a mark you can feel long after he’s released his hold.  

“Yeahyeahyeah, you’re right, now let me go!” Your voice comes out more desperate than you’d like it to.

Realizing that he may have been too forceful, the man quickly lets go of your shoulder. “Sorry,” he says, a note of concern in his deep voice. “You’re willing to hear me out though, right?”

You nod, rubbing your shoulder to soothe the soreness, not considering what you just agreed to. And before you know it, the man’s taking you to his house. He introduces himself as Postal Dude. You’re not sure why he’s using a fake name if, apparently, you two are the only ordinary people around.

As you approach his home, you see it’s in disarray, with broken furniture and discarded items strewed outside. It seems The Dude has been living in survival mode, making do with whatever he can salvage. 

It’s no wonder you’ve never seen him around.

Once inside, Postal Dude leads you to a small, makeshift living room with only a few small lamps providing light, a worn-out couch, and a rickety table that needs to be flipped back up. You sit on the couch (the only “clean” place) and look at his living conditions.  The walls are bare, and the floors are made of old, creaky wood planks that groan at any pressure applied. Stacks of newspapers, empty beer bottles, and discarded food wrappers are piled up in the room's corners. There are a few personal touches here and there, a well-arranged collection of….weapons on a nearby shelf, an old game console (he doesn’t have a TV), and porno magazines! How homely!

He doesn’t sit down with you. He, instead, walks over to the window, peering out anxiously through the blinds. His posture is tense, and you can tell he’s on edge. Jesus, you can practically see the fear and anxiety emanating from him, and you wonder what he’s looking for. You assume the “infection” must make him paranoid and attentive, always looking for potential threats. 

“You okay?” you ask cautiously. 

After a few moments, he turns back to you, his expression still serious. “We need to be careful,” his voice is low and urgent.

“Uh, yeah, for sure,” you fiddle with your bag. Maybe drinking might get him to calm down (and break the silence). You take out a can of beer, you’re shocked the thing’s still cold, and hold it out to him. “Want one?”

He doesn’t reply but walks back to the couch and grabs the beer you’re offering. You watch as he cracks open a can and chugs it down like it's nothing; he lets out a satisfied sigh and sits down next to you. He seems more at ease. He grabs another from the bag, cracks it open, only taking a sip this time, and begins to ramble about the supposed infection. His tone is urgent; his words spill out quickly as if he's been waiting for someone to talk to about this for a long time.

“It's crazy out there, you know,” he says, taking a swig of his beer. “People are turning into these—these things. I don’t even know what to call them.”

You nod, taking in his words. It’s clear now that Postal Dude is fucking mental. But hey, he’s the most exciting thing around town and will have an actual conversation with you, so you decide to humor him.

"Have you seen them?"

“Yeah, all over the place, they’re slow but fuckin’ insane. If I ever let one catch me, I probably wouldn’t be here to help you. You’ve seen them too.”

“I have?”

"Yeah, back at the gas station. Two of them." He drinks the rest of his beer and goes on a tangent about…stages and stuff…to explain the ones you encountered. You give up on trying to keep track a couple of words in, and the guy talks for what feels like forever. You start chugging beers with him to cope with the total bullshit he's spewing. Nothing he's saying makes sense. You're surprised you didn't see any comic books about aliens invading Earth lying around. His imagination is way too active. Or he's delusional. He's mistaking everyday citizens who work tirelessly for people infected and trying to kill him. It's safe to say you don't believe a single word coming out of his mouth. Though, you're having fun listening to him talk. 

The Dude’s voice is deep and gravelly; he speaks in a low, measured tone, as if every word is carefully chosen for maximum impact. Even when he’s slurring his words right now, you like it. When he finally finishes his deviation, you realize how much you miss hearing him talk. 

His voice isn’t the only thing you like about him. A middle-aged man with a rugged appearance isn’t exactly who you’d go after, but his looks are eye-catching. His hair’s unkept and greasy, falling in messy strands around his face. His deep-set green eyes draw you in. In fact, he’s one of the few good-looking men in Paradise. Or you’d assume you never paid attention to looks (or sanity). Dick size was the only thing that mattered.

And speaking of dick size…

“So…what do I do?”

He slurs something you presume to be a ‘what?’

“About them going mad and attacking me, what do I do about that?” 

“Fight back.” You know the question’s stupid, and so does he, chuckling a little under his breath. “If you'd let me, I don’t mind showing you a thing or two.”

He explains some basic self-defense techniques, stuff you already know. The more he talks, the more excited you get. Something about his voice hits you hard, deep in your gut. It might be the alcohol. Who cares what it is, though?

You lean in closer, catching his lips with yours in a slow kiss. He returns the kiss in a far less passive fashion. He doesn't wait for you to acclimatize to his kiss's more aggressive tempo, brushing his tongue over your lip eagerly. The subtle taste of alcohol lingers on his lips. When he opens his mouth, and his tongue meets yours, the citrusy, bitter flavor is intensified tenfold. You groan, pushing further into the kiss. Postal Dude seems more than pleased to indulge you, playing along with your lead while his hands wander and grope at whatever’s most readily available. Down they go, over your back and shoulders to cup your ass, twisting around to knead and stroke your thighs and hips. It's as if he can't decide which part of you was the most enticing.

After some time, he wraps his hands around your waist and hoists you onto his thigh. You only now realize how tall he is; you guessed he was 6’5” at first, but he’s humongous. So is the tent in his pants!

Your hands trail down between the two of you and unbutton his trousers, and at the sight of his undergarments, you sort of raise an eyebrow. You brush your fingers against the tip of his crotch, and he lets out a hitched breath against your lips.

“You got a condom?” He pulls away from your lips and trails kisses on your collarbone.

You whimper slightly at the contact, “no…is that a deal breaker for you?”

He sighs and mumbles a “yeah” against your shoulder.

“Hey, it’s fine, man,” you shuffle him off your shoulder a bit. When he looks up at you, you raise your hand to his face, cupping his neck and rubbing your thumb under his jaw. “If you won’t fuck me without a condom, I’m down with giving you head or a handjob.”

Postal Dude considers it for a brief second before his face bores the dejected expression it did a minute ago. 

“Orrr…” you trail off.

“Or?”

“Or I could ride your thigh while you jerk off.” 

That’s an idea that sticks with him. He’s not comfortable letting anyone around his junk. If he’s ever had anyone around his junk, that is.

You watch as he takes himself out of his boxers. You gawk at the sheer size of his dick before taking it all in. It suits a man his height.

You're somewhat grateful neither of you had condoms on you; there's no way you could fit that all in you. Well, maybe you could, but you'd end up in the hospital.

Words can't express how badly you'd love to touch it (whore). But alas, you can't. Gotta respect boundaries.

As he begins touching himself, you find yourself (metaphorically) drooling at the sight. It's, like, really hot. He pants and lets out soft whines occasionally, and you eat up every part of it. After a bit, you realize you're just staring at him and not fulfilling your end of the deal (plus, you're horny as fuck, and you have to take care of that too). You start your movements on his thigh, nice and slow. You let yourself enjoy how good it feels to grind against him, albeit embarrassing. His eyes are on you, and you can't tell if he's judging you or what, but he's undoubtedly enjoying it if the way he thrusts up into his hand is any indication. 

It's humiliating. 

It's exciting.

With a slight struggle, you wrap your arms around his neck and get closer for a quick peck on the lips. 

The “supposed” peck quickly turns to making out, and one of your hands rests on his head, not keeping him there, just finding a more comfortable position. Without realizing it, your fingers run through his ginger hair, and he whines into your mouth, leaning further into the kiss. 

You pet him some more, and his hips buck into his hand each time, giving you more pleasure. It’s embarrassing for him but extremely arousing for you. 

After a while, you pick up the pace against his thigh. You vibrate as he fucks his hand, admiring how you look. It’s disgusting but oh-so intoxicating. You pant into each other, verging on each other's climaxes. The Dude cums first with a breathless grunt, and you follow, wetting his thigh. 

[yeyinde]

ATROPHY | Joel Miller x F!Reader

》 SUMMARY: It's her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of.  》 WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT (mild); allusions to death, assault; female gendered reader, female gendered anatomy; minor game spoilers; Joel isn't bad at feelings – he just doesn't want them. Joel is tired™ 》 WORD COUNT: 10,9k

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry.

》 NOTES: I did something different with my writing. It's still a Reader insert, but. I tried third person instead of the usual second. also, how this ballooned up to nearly 10k is lost to me since it was just supposed to be smut?? I had this clear image of older Joel laying in bed, his guitar leaning against the wall, catching the light of the sun as you slowly rode him, and now? I don't even know. ⤑The gif is mine. Please don't take or repost without permission

MASTERLIST | FAQ | AO3

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this. 

Lazy Sundays spent between the warm, damp sheets. Boredom. Afternoons strumming his guitar on the front porch. Sleeping in. Drinking at a saloon in town. Music. Laughter. 

It doesn't exist. 

Shouldn't. 

And yet—

His guitar sits, abandoned, in the corner of the bedroom. The wood still carries the heat from his thumb this morning when he played a song alone on the porch. Eyes bleary, full of sleep, of rest, as he took in the varicoloured dawn cresting through the indigo sky.

Those same weathered, beaten hands that strummed the chords to Hurt are now occupied again. One perched on her hip, skin sateen soft and plush, full and warm and clean from the shower last night as she bears down on top of him in a quiet cadence, a muted, languid dance. The other cups the swell of her breast in his palm, nipple still damp from his hungry mouth, and flushed red from his teeth. 

This should just be a fantasy. 

A dirty thing in the recess of his mind when he has a moment to himself breathe. A thought, a whim. Something to needle away at the last vestiges of his consciousness when he sees her in the wild—vibrant, young, and free—and then sullied in the back of his head when he leans against a tree, and thinks of the dirt on her skin, the blood on her delicate hands, and how they'd taste under his tongue.

But this isn't a dream.

When he sleeps, he dreams in black and white. The only colour that bleeds through is red. Blood red. Pulpy and vicious. Ugly. Garish. It splatters across the pavement where he laid Sarah down, where he lost Tess, and everyone else he never promised to save and still couldn't. 

He knows this isn't a dream when he blinks his eyes open, and she's there. Sitting atop him in a kaleidoscope of colour, drenched in ochre from the still rising sun. The only red is her blistered lips, the rough burn between her thighs from the scrape of his beard, and that sinful little tongue that slips between her teeth when he slides in deep. 

And then—his eyes drop to her side—that ugly wound that cuts her flesh, ripped over the seam of her ribs. 

He's awake. Lucid. 

She's much too heavy to be something carved from fantasy. 

He doesn't say this, of course—Joel isn't stupid, and for someone so considerably smaller than he is, she packs a hefty punch in those slender fingers that curl into a fist barely the size of an apple. The sharp jab of a rusted, blunt knife. Knows where to hit him, too. 

He tucks it away, and lets his hands explore, feeling the tangibility of her weight, her presence, under the tips of his bloodied fingers. 

(Broken on the same teeth that caused her to hurt.)

The knob of her hip bone juts out through her flesh, and he grazes it with his thumb, feeling the soft curve. 

Real, he thinks. Flesh and bone. 

He can feel the flutter of her racing pulse under his hand when he kneads her breast in his hand, and lets her nipple graze teasingly over the rough skin of his weathered palm.

The tight clench of her around him—pussy a perfect knot around the base of his cock, all pretty and tied tight like a bow—is another stroke of realism his dreams, nightmares, fantasies, could never imbue. 

It's a present he's sullied more times than he can count, each touch another tally to the neverending number of sins that pile higher than the hollow skyscrapers in Boston. 

Joel feels each breath that leaves her heaving chest. Each gasping hiccup of his name when she raises her full hips up, and then slide back down the length of him in a slow, languorous roll until he nudges against the seal of her womb, and steals the air in her lungs. 

It's real. 

A paradox, then. 

One of those things that shouldn't happen, but is. Like her, and him, and everything else in between.

He knows what the others in town say when they see her—pretty and soft with a ginger touch and a sweet curl of a voice when she whispers his name. It doesn't make sense for her to be all wrapped up in him, following along behind like a shadow to a man who's cut from ashlar, and reeking of rot. Ruin. 

He's calamity in ageing grey, and she's the ripe, forbidden fruit he's not allowed to bite. Poisoned apple. Cherry sweet. 

(He wonders if they'd recoil once they saw that her insides were gnarled; acrid and sour; bitter melon. Lemon drops.

That she is far more like him than they could ever dream.)

They glare at him from the corner of their eyes when she swells like a lighthouse in the midnight gloam at the sight of him wandering back from patrol, eyes all bright and beaming, and beautiful—Christ. 

She's a picture, he thinks. 

One of those pinup girls he'd find in dirty magazines as a kid. When he and Tommy would sneak a peek behind the barn, away from prying eyes. A portrait of lust. Desire in high gloss. 

A classical beauty—the type that would make men drown themselves at sea. A starlet in the golden age back when it mattered. 

Writers' muse, maybe: she would have been the girl everyone talked about—the one that eluded the tortured artist, made him pine. 

Hemingway would call her brutal. 

Cat in the Rain. 

(She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.)

He doesn't know much about poetry but he knows she's the type who could make a man want to stain his fingers in ink just to capture the curve of her lips when she smiled. 

A vixen. Hellion. Lilith. 

Her voice is a song when she says his name. A hymn. 

Dangerous. 

He doesn't know when this started. 

Maybe, when they brought her in with the rest of the group she was travelling with. Beaten down, hungry. Clinging to life with frostbitten fingers. 

Her eyes were flat; a stagnant pond. Lips a grim, blue line. Placid. Gone. She'd been out there for too long to ever find comfort behind walls, and he knows the feeling of trying to crawl out of your own skin when people stand too close. 

She scoffed at the idea of this place, of sanctuary. Resentful and derisive. He could see the distrust in her clenched jaw, balled fists. This world was a whim—evanescent—and what they gathered from the rest of the group, survival hadn't been easy outside of safe zones.

Wall after wall fell, she said, tone flat. Blank. Haunted by ghosts still lingering in the canyons of her eyes. Stopped believing in stuff like this after a while. 

Her eyes were stained—jaundiced and red, filled with burst blood vessels—and raw from how hard the edges of her knuckles had dug into the flesh of her eyelids. They spoke of sleepless nights. Ones interrupted by her own sense of survival, hyperarousal. 

He knows the feeling of jerking awake whenever his brain starts to lull, to slip into that dangerous facsimile of security. 

Pipe dreams. She wears her fatigue like its armour, wielding the brunt of her exhaustion like a shield. 

(Sleep often feels like a bad habit for people like her, like him.)

But like him, it waned slowly. 

The chips in her veneer cracked, split, and he saw the incipient filament start to seep in. Complacency. Comfort. 

A few months in, she stopped being so defensive when they invited her out for drinks, and when they talked about dinner parties, and birthday celebrations. Derision was still a heavy weight in her distant gaze, clutched in bleached knuckles like a claymore, when she looked at them, a touch incredulous. 

Joel understands the feeling. 

The itch in your guts, the discomfort in your chest. It festers, doesn't it? 

Children play close to the fences, making up games of tag, and hide and seek, as if those things with broken, pustulous faces weren't skulking within arm's reach just a breath away. 

This whole place is a vacuum. The interior is covered in thick molasses; stuck in stasis. They pretend that birthdays and holidays matter. Dance around the saloon at night with drinks in hand. Pale ale. Old booze. 

It's rigid in its structure: patrols that span the entirety of a day—from dusk to dusk in three shift increments—and daily checks of the fences, the gates. Trading with other communities. Rules. Regulations. 

It gives the idea of safety. Of security. 

(But the bruises on his hands and the gash in her side are proof that it's sometimes not enough.)

Slowly, though, as the days wore on and the fences stood proud and tall and secure, she softened. Tucked it away with a smile, and started saying, I'll think about it instead of clipped jerks of her chin, or nothing at all. 

Joel doesn't know if she ever really did think about it like she said she would. 

Broken promises carry a distinct sound. One he knows all too well. 

She never showed up despite the invitations. Never came to celebrate. 

She stood by the fence, and looked out, eyes wide, mouth flat. The coil in her shoulders, the tremble in her hands, reminded him of a trapped animal. Cornered, and tense. 

She'll bite someone eventually. 

(He just never expected it to be him.)

The tension didn't flee the crease of her eyes, but she tried to integrate herself into the fold, the community. Slowly. Slowly. 

He took stock of her in the same measure he does everyone new who wanders in. Assessing. Watching. Cautious. 

He could tell right away that she was a wildcard. A lit match slowly burning down the wick in a sea of gasoline.

Pretty, he finds, despite himself. Drawn in by her allure; a coruscating light in the middle of endless, unfathomable grey. 

He catches sight of the weathered face that blinks back at him from the frosted windows, hazy and thick with condensation that make the grey in his hair, his beard, look startlingly whiter than it was ten seconds ago. It's a jarring reminder of who he is. What he's done. 

It's not insecurity that keeps him from seeking her out, but self-preservation. Some people, he finds, just have this magnetism about them. A beacon. A light. A gravitational pull that drags you closer and closer. 

And hers is purely primal. Animalistic. She smells of sex and sin and makes him think of object permanence when everything around him had been clouded in the sharp shade of ephemeral grey. 

She's a fractured mirror. Medusa in the making. 

Joel's always avoided broken glass. 

(Ladders. Black cats. Cracks in the pavement. Pretty girls who swallow everything like a black hole—)

Too sweet, he finds. Forbidden fruit. Tart, ripe, and sugar dipped. 

(He never had much of a sweet tooth, anyway.)

Through his observations—necessary, he tells Tommy when he catches the way Joel's gaze follows her around when she moves; limbs ballerina lithe, swan songs after dark: just because we let them in, doesn't mean we can trust them—he finds out everything he needs to know. 

A rusted sign on the side of the road says, stay away. Danger in dulcet. Soft and sweet. A perfunctory bow in battle before the deadly blows come. 

He oscillates between finding her both too soft and too hard, and it's the unknown that makes him wary. 

She's a caged animal. Everyone is just kidding themselves if they think she's domesticated. 

Somewhere in the throng of people milling about, drinking and dancing like the world wasn't in shambles, she finds his gaze, matches his stare. 

Most people looked away. 

But she's not most people, is she? 

No, she's dangerous. Pretty in a way that's entirely too ethereal for the broken remnants of what remains. Left behind. Mouldering until death claims its victims. Until the spores released from the earth itself burrow in the rucked lines of your head, sprouting up like flowering buds. 

She makes men want. 

And while the pickings might have been slim, Joel knows there are several (and maybe a little more) above him in terms of desirability. He's older. Gruff. Rough around the edges without any whim of changing, or scouring himself down so that his jagged pieces don't pop something as tender and sweet as her. 

He doesn't put himself in the same bracket. Despite Maria's insistence, Tommy's needling, he isn't a bachelor. 

Hasn't made himself available.

And he isn't. 

Not since Tess. Not since—

None of that matters. He's too old to think about romance, about skin and sex, and warmth. And more.

The thought of it all leaves something sour twisting in the gnarled rot of what remains inside his chest. 

Despite that, or maybe in spite of it, she comes to him. 

(Somehow. Somehow.)

She asks him to dance, and the breathy tone of her voice tastes like a lit cigarette; it plumes nicotine in the air. Second-hand smoke. A contact high. 

He finds it disarming when she laughs after he says no. Firm. Hard. Dismissive. 

Not in your lifetime, sweetheart. 

The unspoken stay away rang clearer than the echo of her laughter. 

And that was that. 

But she came back. 

("If not a dance, then how about a drink?"

"Wastin' your time, sweetheart."

She grins, then, soft and coy. "Not much else to do with it these days besides chatting up a handsome stranger."

He pretends she didn't make him choke on his drink, and eyes her warily instead. Dangerous, he thinks. The type that just doesn't quit. One who is just small and malleable enough to slip inside the tiniest splinter.

Just like a raspberry, she'd rot fast. Festering. Clouded white and infectious. Worse, in many ways, than the parasites outside of the walls. 

"Just don't get your hopes up." He settles on after a moment, a lull, that makes her blood-red lips curl up like the curve of those stupid hearts dangling overhead. 

And hates that he doesn't really know if he's still just talking to her or the wandering eyes in his own skull when he says it.)

He doesn't know why she takes a liking to him of all people. Of all men. He might be out of touch with the reality they live in now, always on the fringes of waiting for things to buckle at the knee, and collapse into ash, but he isn't stupid. Oblivious. 

Joel sees the way she stares at him. Open, wanting. Curious. 

She shouldn't be. There's nothing in him—nothing left. His insides are polluted, gnarled. Ugly. A gurgling cesspit that doesn't know how to fix, only dissolve. Consume. He's acidic. Caustic. 

Bad for anyone's health. 

He can't keep anyone safe, and all he knows how to do anymore is push people away, and lie (and, lately, make Ellie so incensed with anger, she cuts him to the core and spills his choleric blood out onto the pavement where it hisses and sounds just like Tess). 

He's a patchwork mess of a man sewn together with a churlish hand. The broken pieces are borrowed and maligned, but they sometimes feel like they fit when he shifts, and spits enough contempt to keep everyone else from getting too close, and—

It's enough. 

(He likes it that way.)

But she—

His hands grip her tight sometimes—too tight—and the stains he leaves on her skin set his teeth on edge. It's too much like ownership. Possession. 

(And he finds the colour that blooms on her flesh to be too fucking pretty to ever sit comfortably in the gnarled pit of his guts.)

"Don't worry, Joel," she whispers when she catches him staring at the marks he left behind. Dark and ugly. Contrition tastes of old nickels. "You won't break me that easily." 

It's a bad decision. 

But he was never known for his good choices, and when she fluttered her eyes at him, hand pressed to his chest like she were allowed to touch him, he crumbled. 

She didn't give him much of a choice to fight back when all she asked for nothing but the warmth of his skin, and the taste of him on her tongue. 

Pleasures of the flesh. It's easy. Simple. He fucks her behind the saloon, rough and dirty, and swallows the sounds she makes against the brick like they're just for him. He takes her home, and knows that when he's nestled between her thighs, it's as close to heaven as a man like him will ever get. 

And then—it's over. She leaves. He pretends to sleep. 

Rinse. Repeat.

It carries on this way for nearly two years. Distant, cold. He can't remember the last time he had anyone warm his bed, but it takes the edge off, the stress and pain of Ellie's distance, her mistrust, and hatred, and she asks for nothing. 

She lets him grab her when he wants. Lets him bend her body into whichever shape suits him best, and says nothing about the fingerprints that he leaves behind, the astringent tang of rot when she slides out of his bed, his hands, and out the door. 

He lays back, the same hand he used to grip the back of her neck when he fucked her into the mattress now resting under his head, and he pretends doesn't feel colder now than he did before. 

There is no promise of forever. There's no promise of exclusivity, or monogamy, but he knows that she hasn't fucked anyone else since she got here, that those pretty thighs only ever parted for him, and he's too worn down to entice anyone else who wasn't looking for a sleazy fuck against a tree into his bed, anyway. 

Complacency begets comfort, security, wants.

They settle down in their borrowed homes, in their borrowed beds, and think about making the most of their borrowed time.

In that, they yearn. Family. Togetherness. Everything they had before they tried to drag into the now. Forcing a square through a round hole. A mismatched puzzle piece into the slot it wasn't made for.

Sometimes, they get lucky and it slips through. It distorts itself into something different, and new, just to fit through the preconstructed crack.

Joel doesn't think about then. He thinks about now. A broken world no closer to resolution, absolution, than it was thirteen, fourteen years ago. There is no roseate veil over his eyes; everyone else can see it. 

He isn't the type of man someone brings home. The one you push and push until he fits through the front door, and back into normalcy. Stagnancy. 

And she's not the type of woman who'd ever try. 

He likes that about her.

Poisoned candy apple. Pretty on the outside and rotted within. 

There is no future outside of the way he fits inside of her, and this is as permanent as the blemishes he leaves on her pretty skin. 

Then he dreams, and it's of her.

Lifeless, blue. The way her head splits open is beautiful in that macabre sort of way horrible things sometimes are. Flowers burst behind her eyes, petals budding out of the hollowed space that once made his chest stutter when the sun caught the crevasse of black that split from her pupil and bled into her iris. A small stream of ink. 

The canyons of gradient colours are now filled with blooms of enoki. Red amanita curls out from her ears. 

Where he once laid his palm over her chest is now a gaping hole flowering with a pulsing mass of candlesnuff and staghorn. 

Death cap where her heart once beat. 

Beautiful, he thinks, even as he howls her name.

He wakes up drenched in a cold sweat, and the curve of her name heavy on his tongue. His knuckles pop when he fists the damp sheets between his trembling fingers, but the ache feels good. The sting reminds him he's alive. Whole. 

He's awake, but the nightmare doesn't end. The sight of her body lingers in the back of his head when he strums his guitar and plays a song for the demons within. He thinks of her when he forks over the expired box of condoms he found on a run, and listens to Jesse ramble about how Ellie is doing in exchange for the loot. 

It's her he sees. 

She blinks at him, eyes that same shade that sometimes makes his breath hiss between his teeth, and then her crown caves in. Forehead splits down the middle. One half stands where it was as the other falls over on her shoulder. 

Fractals spill from the plumule that was once her brain stem until the two halves are bleached white like dead corals on a ruined reef. 

The flowering toadstool quivers. What was once her—wit, charm; that uncanny ability to make him feel like the ground beneath his feet was crumbling—is a mass of spores. Polluted. Rotted. 

Where she once stood is a puppet. Dead. Gone. 

Her head tips. Ink spills from the putrefying blood vessels, congealing in the air. It spools into a circle. A black hole. 

He lifts the gun, and feels nothing at all. 

Everything he could have felt, feels, is syphoned into the needlepoint of no return, the place where she once looked at him, and said, I don't want anything from you, Joel. I just want you.

He wakes before he can see the aftermath of pulling the trigger. 

A fluke, maybe. But it happens each night after that. 

He knows, then, that there's no turning back. 

Permanence doesn't belong in this borrowed home, but she somehow drags it through the foyer and into his bed, anyway. 

She stayed over last night. 

Joel doesn't think he tried to let go when he collapsed into the bed beside her, arms woven around her sweat-slicked back, locked tight like a pair of shackles that mean about as much as a prison or the law these days.

It was cold. Late. He didn't want her to walk back in the snow all alone. 

That's all. 

But Joel isn't a gentleman, and despite how much he wishes he wasn't, he's egregiously self-aware. 

He knows he's in trouble when it just makes sense to keep her close. When it's easier to have her within arm's reach than it is to meet at the front door, and let her in. 

(When he sleeps better if he can feel her burning skin on his.)

"You're thinking too much," she gasps, eyes lidded and heavy. Drinking him in. 

Joel doesn't know what a pretty thing like her sees in a man like him. 

He can't offer her anything except the cold comfort of a warm body, but even that is null. He knows there are younger men prowling outside her door, just itching for an opportunity to make her look their way. 

(She never does.)

"Yeah," he rasps, the word sticking to his teeth. "Never been much of a thinker."

"Really? Ain't that a surprise."

His hand slips from her hip, palm swatting at the soft flesh of her ass. The sting makes her tighten around him like a vice. 

"Watch your mouth."

The way she gasps his name, breathy and aching, makes him stifle a groan between clenched teeth, her voice rolling over him like warm sea breeze. 

She's a lot, he thinks, and yet—she asks for nothing. 

(Nothing but him. One of the things he can't give her. Won't.)

Still. 

Her nails press into his damp chest, catching on the smoked dusted patch of coarse charcoal hair. Bracing herself against the swell of his ribs, and slowly rocked back into him, taking him deeper and deeper into her soaked, tight cunt. 

The pulse in his neck throbs out of his skin, a tick she likes to press the flat of her tongue against and drink up the briny droplets of his sweat. He can see the want in her eyes when he catches her staring at the column of his throat, the way she bites her lip like it's a substitute for how badly she wants to sink those same teeth into his flesh. Mark him as her own. 

Possession. Ownership. 

Sometimes, he catches the glossy, rotund image of himself in the inky puddles of her pupils, blown wide with feverish desire, and he can see the same expression, the mien, captured in her startling hue. 

Mutual want. 

It's easier to give in sometimes. To let go. 

He can't, though, and selfishly, he knows she'll never ask. She will bite your lip, the inside of her cheeks, and your tongue until it's raw and bloody before she lets the words slip through the gap of her teeth. 

(He feels the rough, chewed ridges on velveteen flesh when he rolls his tongue between her ivory teeth, swiping over the insides of her cheeks; broken skin split and metallic—a testament to her own selfless desires.

He tastes it on his tongue long after she's gone. Wet pennies. Dandelion sour.)

It knots inside of him. She'd ruin herself before she asked him for more. 

Maybe somewhere in his avoidance, his distance, she knows he's ruining himself by just giving her this much. Nothing, and yet—

Everything to him. 

An impasse, then. Uncrossable when he's already two feet out the door. 

"Joel—"

"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, low. Rucked gravel. Falling rocks. It jars him how easily he responds to her. She says his name, and he'll drop anything in his hands to get to her quickly enough. "I know." 

The wound on her side pulls taut when she moves. It draws his eye like a beacon. Makes him grind his teeth together until it sparks pain down his jaw, the enamel sawed to the raw nerve. 

His hand slides over her molten flesh, trailing over the soft curve of her waist, until his thumb brushes the seam that keeps her insides from spilling out. The swollen, bruised skin is warmer than the rest of her body. Glossy where it tugs against the black threads keeping her whole. 

Joel didn't go with her on this particular trade. She went with some new kid they'd picked up, all varsity grins and clean hands. He seemed so damned eager to get her attention in the pub. Her age, too. 

Made a pretty couple, Ron said. Fucking loud mouth Ron. 

He was supposed to go, but when the kid caught him in the corner, nursing a beer that sat in his guts like a stomach ache, and said, hey, man, can I take your spot? he didn't know how he was supposed to say no and still cling to the degrees of separation he wedged between himself and the world. 

So, he raised his mug to his mouth, and forced himself to drink, to nod. 

Knock yourself out. 

The flash of sadness that flickered over her face meant nothing at all—nothing—but he felt something churn inside of his rotted guts. Atrophy, he thinks. He isn't meant for this. Doesn't want it. Need it. 

She's a bigger liability the closer she gets. A slow-moving black hole consuming all of the counterscarps he dug until nothing is left but crossable rubble. 

It's better, then, to cut it at the root before it infects the rest. 

So, he does. 

Maybe, he expected something different. For her to call this thing what it was, and then demand more of him, yell and scream and beg for the things he wouldn't give her—if only so he could break her heart into pieces, and force her to let go. To stop. 

Force himself to do the same. 

But she doesn't 

It's a quiet acquiesce; a little more than a nod, and a grim line of her pretty mouth. Okay, it says. If that's what you want. 

And that's what she always says, isn't it? If that's what you want, Joel. Whatever you say, Joel. Sure, Joel. Okay, Joel. 

A spitfire in ochre. A bright lighthouse in the middle of the grey sea. 

(The only person she dims for is him.)

Joel doesn't see her off. Doesn't say be careful or come back safe because words like those don't fit between his teeth. They aren't meant for the nothing between them. The chasm of everything she can't pry from his gnarled fingers. 

She leaves with him. 

He drinks alone. 

Despite whatever nonsense Tommy says, spouted over rationed potatoes and deer meat stew, he isn't sulking. 

"Let your girl go out alone? Unlike you, brother."

The way the words sat in his chest felt like an anvil. 

"Ain't my girl," he muttered. He wanted to be angry but all he felt was numbness. "Ain't my anything."

It's Maria who gets under his skin when she scoffs.

"Joel Miller, you're the biggest dumbass I ever met, save for your damned brother. Gonna push a good thing away and die alone." 

"No one asked you." 

Maria tries to fill in the blanks of something that doesn't exist. 

It peels back the gossamer from his eyes, and he sees, then, the way they skirt around him and her like it's something. As if his name is permanently attached to hers. 

He pretends he doesn't feel the burn in Maria's glare when he doesn't see her off at the gate.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't. 

He isn't there when she comes back, and hates, even more, that he feels something prickle inside his chest when Maria catches him near the stables, and says, I expected more from you, Joel.

It doesn't feel good when he bites back, that's your problem, Maria. Shouldn't have gotten your hopes up. 

Joel lives in his vindication, in his pettily forced indifference. She hasn't come to see him, anyway, and he's sure that she and Varsity jacket are meeting at the pub for that date he'll never give her. 

Doesn't matter, he thinks. And then, if only to burn himself in the flames, he adds: better this way. 

She'll know when he's not there. She's smart like that. Know him in ways he doesn't think anyone else ever could. Ever wanted to. 

(He hates it, and her, sometimes, for it.)

She'll understand. She might corner him one day with that dry ire dripping from the corners of her mouth, patronising and grim, and she'll do what she does best when she strips him bare and leaves him to rot. 

Her eyes are cobra pits. Her teeth leak venom. 

But she won't push. 

It'll simmer out when she blinks, knowing that this is it, and she'll say: okay, Joel. 

Okay. 

He braces for it—hates that has to because that means something, something he isn't ready to acknowledge—and—

And it's all moot. 

She never shows up at the gate. 

It punctures something in his lungs when Tommy looks up at him, face ashen and worried, and says: "she didn't come back. They didn't come back."

It takes an hour to find her, left for dead and beaten within an inch of her life by the side of the road. A wound in her side—a gaping hole he swears he can see through. Milky bones poke through, drenched in red, and—

His heart doesn't stop, but a piece of it breaks off and lodges itself in his throat. He can't swallow. Can't breathe.

Something curls out from the moon-white line of her rib. 

A bud, he thinks. Distant. Warbled. A saprophyte. 

He has the image of her in his head. The same one he sees when he closes his eyes and falls into a fitful sleep. 

Beautiful even as the cordyceps split her skull into blooming monkshood in hideous grey and plum. Pale and lifeless; a marionette on toadstool strings. A puppet in fluorescence. 

"She's—"

Tommy's hand reaches down, fingers curling around the sprout. 

Don't— not Tommy, too—

He pulls back, and Joel catches the tremble in his joints, the whites of his knuckles, when he spreads his fingers. 

In the palm of his hand sits a leaf. 

A leaf. 

The bark that leaves his chest tears right through the clot in his throat. Rips him open from the inside out. 

"A fucking leaf—"

He carries her back, and doesn't let go until the doctor is there, urging him out of the room. 

"You'll get in the way." 

He sees the looks they give him when he passes, but Joel never cared what people think. 

Doesn't plan on starting now, either. 

He's on the wrong side of fifty, and has more blood on his hands than the looted bars of soap could ever scour clean. He knows who he is, and maybe, maybe, knows what he wants, and Ron's loud mouth never meant much to him, anyway. 

Joel gets a name when she's sleeping after surgery—lucky, he overhears, got there in the knick of time, any later and—and brings nothing with him when he leaves. He won't need it. Doesn't want it.

He finds them chatting over an open fire, and beats them to death with nothing but his bare hands. 

He doesn't burn them. Doesn't bury them. 

When he's finished, covered in blood and aching, and satisfied, he drives an ice pick through their skulls (the same thing, he finds, that caused the hole in her side), and leaves them to rot. 

They say nothing about the blood on his shirt, or the broken, mangled fingers of his hand. He's content to leave them. To feel the agony as his broken bones split through cracked skin.

(He thinks of her—broken, blue—and clenches his hands so tight, the pain makes him blackout.)

He only lets Maria patch him up when she hisses about infection, and blood poisoning. 

Says nothing at all about what he'd done, where he'd gone. 

She doesn't ask. 

When she's finished, she says: "woke up yesterday."

He knows. Still: "that right?" 

"Gonna go see her?"

"Don't need me crowding around her bed."

"Maybe she, for some reason, wants to see your ugly mug."

"She tell you that?" 

"Didn't ask about you, if that's what you're asking." She snorts. Shakes her head. "Both a'you are really perfect for each other, you know?"

"We ain't." 

Her brow raises. Something prickles across her expression. "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head with a small smirk. "Just… didn't know you knew the word we, is all." 

"We done here?"

He doesn't go to her. 

Stubborn as an ox, she comes to him. 

She says nothing about the bandages on his black and blue hands. Nothing about the way he can't make a fist through all the swelling. Her hands are soft, and warm, when they wrap around his. Small, delicate. A baby deer cupping the paws of a grizzly bear. 

His eyes flash with something that tastes of the same rotten satisfaction he felt gnarled inside of his chest when the man who left her for dead on the side of a road wheezed as Joel broke his nose, and then battered the broken bulb into a messy, mushy pulp. 

He didn't stop until grey matter leaked through the holes. 

She knows what he did. He feels it in the way she stares at the black, swollen mess of his fingers. Bones broke on teeth, on a fractured skull. 

He doesn't regret it. He doesn't even think he enjoyed it much, really. 

It had to be done. Had to. 

They took a life. Varsity Jack, she tells him. Stabbed in the heart when he tried to defend her with the same ice pick that ripped through her flesh. 

Her tone is flat. Empty. 

He sees bruises on her knuckles, those little fists were her only defence against them, and the red welt on the man's face makes sense now. 

He feels proud. 

She's not broken—battered, beaten, torn to pieces—but she still stands, whole, intact. Resilient. Strong. 

(A survivalist. The only time she ever alluded to more was to tell him that he was worrying for nothing. That, above all, she would survive. Outlive him, even.

"What are you so afraid of, old man?" A cheeky wink. Her tongue dips out, and touches the upper corner of her lip. "I'm gonna outlive you, anyway."

God, he thought, he really hopes she fucking does.)

It doesn't surprise him to see her eyes cloud with anger, arsenic white, when she brings his hands to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. Anyone else might have asked why. Said thank you, even. 

She just murmurs, "I hope they suffered." 

Saccharine sweet. 

Rotten to the core. 

He saw the same shade of calamity in her eyes when she wandered in, grim and distant, as the one that stared back at him in the mirror. Her complicity in this doesn't surprise him. If anything, he wonders if she's angry he left nothing behind for her. 

The thought makes his lips quirk in a needle of something he hasn't felt in a long time. 

"They did."

The words are uttered like a promise. His busted pinky twitches, and it makes her smile. A bloom of petal pink flowering across her face. Soft and tender. The swell of a sea mark burgeoning out in the gloom of grey. 

And all for him.

Joel pulled her in close. Closer still. 

(Too close, maybe, because now he doesn't know how he'll sleep without her by his side)

His thumb slips over the tumid skin poking out from tight, black sutures. The threads are the only thing keeping her together. 

Beneath it is a bruise. Black. The tip of his thumb presses against the cresting peak. Knuckle to skin, it's a perfect fit. 

(In all the same ways he and she aren't.)

"I'm okay, Joel," she whispers, and the thick, dulcified tone of her voice shakes him from the labyrinth of his mind. 

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry. 

"Yeah," he intones, and he isn't sure if he's speaking to her, himself, or a god he hasn't spoken to since he was eighteen and Sarah got sick for the first time. Maybe everyone, all of them, all at once.

It makes her huff. "Am I losing you already, old man?"

"Ain't that old," he bites back, hips lifting when she slides down. It makes him nudge something that has her eyes fluttering, mouth dropping, slack. Her nails catch skin when they rake over his chest. 

Sex has always been an outlet. A comfort. It blankets that part of his head that never quiets—failures, failings—and offers a respite from it all. Her weight on his hips, chest, thighs doesn't dull it all but buffers it. 

White noise in his ears when her nails rake over his skin. The scent of her clings in the air around them—sex, kerosene, cinder, ash: the scent of a wet forest after a wildfire scorched the earth—and clots out the fetor of decay, of mildew, and moss, the earthy tang that reminds them of death. Of them. 

It's a distraction. Distance in skin, sweat, and heat. 

It's just sex, just—

"God, Joel," she gasps loud, sharp, when he pitches his hips into her, blunt and unforgiving, and hits deep. Carves out the shape of him in her soft, fluttering flesh, and tries not to get lost in the thick scent of her. 

It dusts over everything until he still smells her even when she isn't here. 

Temporary made permanent. 

It's the very thing he runs from finally catching up. He feels the graze of fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck when he looks at her, poised and centred above him. Aphrodite in flesh and bone. Her fingers prickle his skin with their sharp tips, and the indents left behind are soothed over when she gasps his name like it's something special. Meaningful. An orison murmured in the quiet box of a confessional booth. 

The curtain rustles. 

"Yeah," he grunts, low and filthy; the noise sticks in the back of his throat when he feels her tighten up around him. A little apple-sized fist of pleasure. He flexes his thighs, hands grasping her tight, and knows he's going to keep her here again tonight. "Fuck, sweetheart—"

The way she moves is liquid. Mercury. He watches, eagle-eyed and enraptured, as she squares her shoulders, and takes him to the root. The base. 

Her presence in his life atrophied his defences until they lay scattered on the sheets that reek of her. In the folds of his pillow where he rests his head at night. The featherlight wood of his guitar when she leans over his shoulder, and says, play me another one, Joel. 

He's a dog without an owner. A stray mutt on the outskirts of town, wandering through the city in search of sustenance. 

She's the one who keeps feeding him. Lays out a dish just for him, and scratches her nails behind his ears until the curl of his lips subsides. A slow broiled trust. He stops showing her his canines, his claws, when she shows him the vulnerable curve of her neck, and lets him mark her skin with his touch. 

Joel will mourn her the same way he does everyone else—achingly empty, and tearless—but he thinks, now, that he might think of her once, and then never again. He's selfish. Always has been. 

(Can't afford not to be when she looks better bearing his mark. When he sleeps easier with her breath in his ear.)

Just sex. The words are weak in the back of his head, and he feels the shaky resolve begin to crumble, chossy wobbling under unsteady feet, when her head falls back in a mockery of prayer, the utterance of his name heavier than the sins on his shoulders. Just sex. Just—

The grille falls, and shatters into smelted pig iron at their feet.

—it's just her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of. Won't. Not now, not ever. He won't give her anything, nothing but the touch of his hands, and the weight of his body, but it's juxtaposed to the worry heavy in his chest, the anger still lacing the broken bones in his fingers when his thumb brushes the curve of her wound. 

It splits in her ardour. The bottom scab tugged too much, lifting from broken flesh. 

Ichor pebbles on the seam. It pools an angry merlot against the indigo scab, but when it slides down her flesh, it's Phlegethon red. 

His thumb catches it. It's warm, and sticky. He smears it over her quivering belly, and fights the urge to try and lick it clean. Knows, somehow, it would taste of Lethe. 

Joel's teeth ache when he grinds them together, tongue lashing across the ivory seal. He's thinking too much—abstracts, concretes; they blur together in a cacophony of want, take, run, hide—

Keep. 

"It's okay," she says again, as if all his secrets laid bare. As if the talons digging into his flesh somehow tapped a vein, an artery, that leads directly to his stem, and she's syphoning the thoughts in his head with the same ease that she steals the breath from his lungs. "It's okay, Joel. It's—"

She doesn't finish. Her words are shorn, bitten at the grain when he reaches up, holding her around the waist, and brutally fucks into her weeping cunt with the finesse of a starving man invited to a feast fit for a King. 

It jostles her. Breasts swaying, head bobbing back and forth as he nearly lifts her off the bed with the force of his thrusts. 

The brutality of it screams one shrill echo of it isn't. None of this is okay. None of it. 

She's chiselling him open until he's a raw wound exposed to the unforgiving air. Until he bleeds and thinks of her. Until the only sound that drowns out the terror raking across his synapses is her voice when she murmurs his name. 

"We're fine, Joel—," it carries the flavour of axiom. Aphorism when she says: "we'll be okay."

She trembles over him, muscles straining to keep up. This isn't her taking; despite being perched above him like a queen astride her throne, she gives. Lowers herself the way he likes. Circles her hips until he sees white behind his eyelids. 

The weight of her feels like an anvil. The heat is enough to liquefy his bones. 

"Keep goin'," he rasps the words out—a strange limbo of being both an encouragement and a demand. It lacks the bite it had before, when he'd bend her over and fuck her until he was satisfied, until the howling in his head, and the ache in his bones was eased with the soporific gossamer only sex could give him. "Just like that, pretty thing—"

It's a slip. An accident. 

Her rhythm stutters. Her ribs expand wide under his palms; ballooning up so much he wonders if she's trying to burst them at the seams or float away. Irrational, of course. Sex makes him stupid. Makes him hungry and needy, and has him feeling like he's almost, almost human, and—

He holds on a little tighter. 

Pretty thing. Her lips form the words in a soundless exhale. Pretty thing. She's used to him calling her all sorts of sobriquets smeared in a palpable stroke of derision. It's not contemptuous, but he makes his mockery of it clear with the flout in his tone. Sarcastic, caustic. 

Sure thing, beautiful. If that's what you want, sweetheart. Go on then, gorgeous. 

She always wore the same sour twist to her lips, the exaggerated eye roll. The heavy huff. 

It was never flirtatious, never complimentary. 

This—pretty thing—is the softest he'd ever regarded her. 

He watches her throat bob when she swallows, eyes tracing the nervous flutter as she struggles to grasp the concurrency of his words, the way he said them. Their meaning. It flickers through those depths that threaten consumption whenever they dust over the length of him. Thinking. Thinking. 

They were always abstract, but his words are concrete, and she isn't sure how to carry the heavy cinder he drops on her. Her fingers are used to the ephemeral weight of his scorn; the delineation of distance—unspoken but unignorable. Unequivocal in its separation. 

"Wow," she breathes, tremulous. She grasps at normalcy but he can see how much those two words have rattled her. She swallows again. Eyes narrowing. Viper pits. "Getting soft in your old age, huh?"

Joel isn't ready to acquiesce. 

He pitches his hips up, letting her feel the solid length of him—blunt, burning iron—and feels his chest flutter when she whines, head dropping back as he bludgeons into her core. 

"Fuck, Joel—"

He isn't soft. Isn't malleable. He's made of carbonised grief, anguish, despair. Reinforced with volcanic clinkers running rivets of apoplectic fury. 

He isn't soft. Isn't what she deserves, or needs, or should even want—

But the way she says his name is pyrolysing. 

Cinder. Soot. Ash. 

He spent so much time holding firm against the walls to keep her out, he never bothered to filter the air he breathed. She clots in his lungs. The scent of her builds. A mass forms. Metastasises inside of him. 

Her hands fall there, palms drawn to the steady thump of his beating heart. It drums under her skin, a stuttering rhythm that makes her own chest swell with her shaky inhale. 

His slide, rough skin scraping over her soft flesh. She burns hotter than the acorn stove in the corner of the room, and he feels the heat simmering in his veins. Scents the sulphur and volcanic ash in the air when she leans down, bending at the elbows to press her lips against his. It's chaste, as far as their usual kisses go. Biting and vitriolic. As if being sweet, tender, was forbidden. 

Maybe it was. He doesn't know what he'd have done if she kissed him like this back then. Honeyed rich, and molasses slow. It tastes like smoke but reminds him of the rock candy he'd make at home with Tommy when he was young. 

She moans into his mouth when his hands slip around her waist, her thigh. He holds her steady, and rocks up into her to the same tremulous beat as her clumsy, fragile kisses. The vibrations buzz on his bruised lips, and the tingle of her voice washing over him makes his cock twitch inside of her. 

The press of him, unyielding and firm, against her soft, soft walls makes him grunt. Another noise pulled into the cacophony of them. It's lower than anything he's ever made before. New. Novice. 

Fucking her now feels marginally different than it had only yesterday. It's raw. Vulnerable. 

He thinks of a slow burn. A candle wick. 

Wonders, then, if she feels it, too. This rawness that sits in his thundering chest; a scraped-out, hollow feeling that draws in more and more of her until the crater is filled with the essence of her sweat, the heavy breaths she tries to stifle in her throat to keep kissing him like she'll never get the chance to again. 

And that must be it. 

This isn't what he normally gives her—bruises and bites, beard burns over the delicate softness of her flesh; he leaves her kiss-bruised and drunk off of the taste of him, malt-heavy and whisky sour. 

Intimacy is saved for moments when she cums around him, tightening up like a strung bow in his archer's hold; when she squeezes herself into the nook of his shoulder, whimpering as he fucks her through her high, and chases his release in the spasming clutch of her willing body. When he cums, painting her stomach, her thighs, her ass, with the stain of his spend, the only physical proof he'd been inside of her, and smears the wet mixture of them on her heated flesh, still buzzing with the aftershocks of her orgasmic haze. 

It's reserved for the microcosm carved from their shared release, drenched in the glow of the chemical slurry that saturates their brains, releasing endorphins until they feel nothing but the buzz of each other. Skin to sweaty skin. Each breath a gasp. 

He lets her linger in these soft moments. This singular dissonance sits incongruously with everything else between them. But then she shifts. The microcosm that filmed around them bursts. 

She slips away after he does, slowly leaning over to pull on her discarded clothes, and wipe the stain of him from her body. 

His fingers itch for a cigarette when he watches her through lidded eyes as she stumbles around on fawn legs. 

She always hesitates for a moment. Joel often wonders if she's waiting for him to ask her to stay. 

He never does. She leaves. 

(Rinse. Repeat.)

But now—

"Easy, now," he murmurs, tongue slipping through the gap of her teeth to chase her taste. "Don't rush this, sweetheart."

Everything about this is unlike him, and she moans her disquietude into the scant space between them, brow knotting together when her stitches pull, and he leaves a bloodied trail across her waist, knuckles split and bleeding anew. 

They're both bloodied, he finds. Drenched in each other's sweat, spittle, and blood. 

It makes dizzy. Makes his fingers dig into her flesh, holding her closer to his heaving chest as he takes. His hips raise off the bed—a clumsy slant into her welcoming sex, and he feels her shudder when he hits deep, cock nudging that soft place inside of her that always makes her forehead crease. 

He can't see it when she leans down, peppering wet kisses across his grey beard, and painting hard through her nose when he presses the flat of his palm against the base of her spine and fucks into her with sharp, unrhythmical thrusts. 

"That's it, take it just like that—," he grinds the words off, and tastes the condescension in his tone. 

In response, she bites down on his pulse point. 

Another break in the routine. The rules lay scattered around them, smouldering embers of this incipient beginning to something neither of them is ready for. 

Her hands wiggle out from between their chests, bringing them closer together than before, and when she tangles her fingers in the damp curls behind his ears, he swears he can feel her heartbeat echoing through his ribs. 

He spears himself into her faster, seeking that place he knows will make her melt—

"Joel, oh—ah, fuck—"

—and once found, he cruelly angles the head of his cock into it, rasping out words of patronisation into her ear. 

Good girl, he says, and groans when her cunt tightens around him like a nautical bow. Taking me so good. Gonna cum for me? Gonna cum around my cock—

He can feel his release brimming up like a fever in his veins. White-hot and arctic cold. It sets his nerves on fire, and the pressure of her around him makes him see pure white. 

He thinks of church on Sundays when she chants his name like a hymnal—Joel, Joel, Joel—and finds nirvana when she sinks her teeth deeper into his flesh, unmarked and unclaimed until now. He'll have the perfect impression of her teeth embedded in his skin, and thought alone makes that gnarled spool inside of him loosen. 

Joel is taken by surprise when she cums—voice a shaky, shrill howl of his name, and the sound of it, the blood that stains his beard when she turns, baring her teeth and pressing them flat to his jaw, makes him grunt. It's raw. An oozing wound.

She flutters around him like the beat that echoes through his bones, and feels a hunger inside of him grow. 

The uncoiled knot inside of him rears, once dormant and dead to the world, now gnashing its jowls at the hands that prodded it from its slumber. Rapacious. A black hole when it yawns. 

The town knows she's his. Has since she sidled up to him, all soft smiles and viper eyes, and asked him to dance, for a drink, and what's a handsome man like you doing in a place like this? Got anyone I should worry about, Joel? Wanna dance? Wanna fuck—

And they know, now, that he's hers when he carries her in his arms, and knocked his forearm into the necks of anyone who tried to pry her from his clutch. 

They know. They know, but it's not enough. 

He wants to mark her, stain her. Leave her with the permanent smear of him on her pretty skin. 

Fuck—

This wasn't supposed to happen, but the keen awareness comes much too late. 

He fucks the frustration into the tight clutch of her willing, forgiving, body, and tries not to come apart at the seams when she mewls his name like he's just as much of a burden to her as she is to him. Bankrupt. Bereft of the walls and the rationale that kept him lightyears away from everyone else around him (until Ellie, the hospital—this place that reeks of stagnancy and burrowed into his marrow), he crumbles in her hold once more. 

His release hits him like a sucker punch to his gut, and the force of it makes him ache.

He doesn't pull out like he always, always, does despite the contraceptive she has, and spilling inside of her spasming cunt feels too much like heaven for him not to come apart at the seams. For him not to shatter into pieces when she pulls him closer, and murmurs, that's it, Joel. That's it—cum for me. Just let go, I got you—

And for the first time in a long time, he does.

It's an awkward assemblage of limbs that don't fit together, bodies that are too incompatible, but he tugs her down onto the mattress beside him, and makes it work. She rests the flat of her palm over his sweat-slicked chest, nails raking through the dusted grey smatter of hair on his chest. The inside of her thigh is wet with him, with her, them, when she slides it over his hip. 

Her head rests on soft tissue where his arm and shoulder meet, ear nestled into his armpit. His arm around her back, fingers resting on the curve of her elbow. It's then, when he finds his thumb brushing small circles into her dewy skin, that he realises what this is. 

Cuddling, he thinks, a touch derisively, in the apocalypse.

It was never a burning release, the aftermath of that intoxicating chemical bath of endorphins, oxytocin, and then a quick until next time. 

Being trade partners for most of the scheduled shifts—his brutality, and her knowledge of survival made them a perfect match outside of this clumsy moment of intimacy—meant that she often stayed for a few hours afterwards discussing plans, and who to barter with next or the places they haven't yet scavenged. Lying naked beside each other, shoulders sometimes brushing as they spoke—that was the extent of their post-sex ritual. 

This, he knows, is new. Different. 

It has the same cadence as last night when his massive hand swallowed her wrist in his palm, and he said, just sleep here, but it's a syncopation. Lighter, somehow, than the gruff way he demanded her company, the brutal divot between his brow. 

She moves, slow and languid, and for a moment he thinks about letting her leave. Repairing the chasm that crumbled between them into heaps of broken ruination and anguish, her hand brushes his when she pulls away, and he knows he won't. 

For such a massive presence, she's surprisingly small in his grasp. The bump of her wrist bone fits snug against the broken, swollen knuckle of his middle finger when he folds his hand around hers. 

The hitch in her breath, the rapid flutter of her pulse beating against his too rough, too worn palm are the only measure of her hesitation, her confusion. 

They're not themselves in this moment. 

The moor around him collapses. A sinkhole forms. 

He clings to her and drags her under with him.

The words won't form on his lips. His throat is bereft of what he feels in his marrow, unable to utter them aloud, to make them real. As if speaking his burgeoning desires is somehow worse than a death sentence. 

Wanting in this world is dangerous, and ruinous, but when Joel sees the dawning realisation buoying to the surface in those unfathomable black holes, he knows there's nothing more worrisome, more deadly, to him than her insatiable appetite. Her desire for more. 

More—

And just him. 

Something in her gaze splinters. Cracks. Her shoulder slump in something that tastes of the same defeat that taints the pinch in his brow. 

"You are getting softer, Joel Miller," she takes a stab at a joke but her hands shake too much for it to land properly. "Who'd have thought all it would take is old age and mortality—"

"Shut up," he grumbles, and fights the thrum of satisfaction that spumes in his veins when she lays back down beside him. "Didn't hear you complainin' this much five minutes ago."

"Yeah, well—" her hands settle on his chest, fingers carting through the damp, matted hair. "There's a reason I'm always on top, you know. Worried you might throw your back out." 

"You say that like I haven't already." 

Her chin scraps over the soft flesh where his bicep meets the curve of his shoulder, eyes bright in the morning sun that smears rays of ochre across the bridge of her nose.

She's pretty, he thinks, and feels that same gnawing in his guts, that same hunger, when she dips, and presses a kiss to his skin. 

"Poor baby," she coos, brows drawing together in mock sympathy. "I can't believe a little missionary ruined you so badly. Guess I should take better care of the elderly."

"Wasn't the missionary," he huffs. Her skin is soft, tacky, when he runs his fingers over her shoulder. "It was carrying your heavy ass home."

"Did my heavy ass snap your hips, too—"

"Christ," he bites out, but it lacks any heat. "You just never shut up, do you?" 

He hears the click in her throat when she swallows. 

"Guess you'll just have to shut me up, won't you, old—"

He presses his lips to hers, and steals the goading words from her quivering mouth. 

"Call me an old man again, and I'll spank your ass, little girl."

The condescending tone is thick, but where he expects her indignation over the same words spoken to her by everyone else when she said she wanted to go with him on runs—stay here where it's safe, little girl—it instead makes her suck in a sharp breath between her teeth. He feels the vacuum of it against his lips, and blinks up at her. 

"Did you like that—"

"No," she snaps, and drops her head to his chest. "God, Joel, you really know how to ruin a moment."

"Is that what this was? A moment?"

"Yes," she volleys back. "You don't think it was?"

He swallows down the tang of panic that salts his tongue, and presses his lips to her crown instead. 

"Ain't much of one, was it?"

"We'll make a better one," she murmurs, the lilt of a promise heavy in her words. 

When she settles in his fold, cheek laying flat against his chest—hiding her embarrassment he tones with a particular thrum of fondness so sweet it makes his teeth ache—he folds his arm over her shoulder, keeping her tucked into the bracket of his body. 

She's too small for him to ever be a perfect fit. Too hard inside that pretty little head for him to ever wiggle through. Too soft for him not to ruin her completely when he holds her too tight in his hands that overlap in a way that sometimes makes him dizzy, feverish with want, with fear. 

She doesn't click in the same way Tess does—did. 

A silent agreement of unspoken distance. Never ask for more, it hissed because you'll be brutally disappointed. Never hunger because you won't ever be satiated. Don't yearn. Don't want. Don't, don't, don't—

No, she doesn't click. She doesn't fit. Not with him. Not at all. 

(Tess left him whole. 

She devours.)

Consumes. 

Her eyes are black holes, and ever since she looked at him through the fanned ring of her lashes, and said: you won't break me that easily, he's been standing on the edge of her event horizon waiting for that perfect singularity to swallow him whole. 

(He thought her pull would happen quickly. Instantaneous. 

But she's been ripping him apart the entire time; morsel after morsel until all that remains is raw nerve. Scraps.)

A slow descent into comfort, kinship. 

She's on the same plane of existence as Tommy, Ellie. Maria, too, he supposes, a touch begrudgingly. His circle widens, expands. The bubble encompassing her, too, and he knows that he'd mourn her in the same hushed breath as the rest. 

I'll outlive you, old man. 

(He's never wanted something more in his life right now than for those words to come to fruition.)

For the first time since the walls reared, since the gunshot that still echoes in his ears like a reminder of his sins, his failures, Joel thinks of tomorrow. And the one after that. And after that. 

He thinks of her, and them, this, in the afternoon. Over old stew. Tommy's laughter. Maria's knowing glances. Ellie's anger. Her scorn. Distrust. 

Wasting the night away in the bar that's always several octaves too loud not to make him tense, antsy. Watching her dance around the room, ballerina nimble with a sprinter's pace. Listen to her joke and laugh with the men who look at her a touch too long, and a shade too intense, and—

Bringing her home after. Back here in this small house where he rots. Where he plays his guitar as if the chords of Hurt would ever be enough to drown out the bullets and the bloodshed. The clicks, the groans. The scent of moss, and fungus. 

Taking her to bed in the sheets that hasn't stopped smelling like her since he fucked her three times over Christmas until she sobbed into his pillow, and begged him for respite. When she brushed the grey hair from his temple with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling despite the ease in her grin, and the polynya in her eyes as she regarded him with more than just desire. More than just sex and sweat and the comfort that comes with losing yourself to the chemical high of another body tucked into the crevasse of your own. 

She doesn't fit. She doesn't belong. 

But fuck—

He knows he's gone when he can't imagine her anywhere else. 

"Sure," he says, and wonders when she let herself into his life, into the gnarled remanants of his chest. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

(He only dreams in black and white, but when he closes his eyes and dreams of her, it's in a startling palette of browns, reds, and blues.)

[sock-to-the-third]

Fiction

Categories: Neopronouns / They-them /

Key

💥 tw SA // 🍑 includes smut // 💧 erotica // 📚 disability // 🌹 transgirl mc // 👑 transguy mc // 🐸 outside binary rep // non-fiction

.

2019-2024

Tiliikum by Llama Goddess

Karmic Retribution by mercy_run 🍑

Little Red by Spectascopes 👑

Compound Fracture by Lady_Kit

Ain’t this the life by nilchance 💧

Killing Moon by nilchance

A Fixed Debt by undertailsoulsex

2022

The Henna Wars by Jaigirdar

The Invisible Life of Addie Larve by Schwab

The Impossible Knife of Memory by Anderson [PTSD]

Get A Life, Chlore Brown by Hibbert 🍑

Welcome Back, Maple Mehta Cohen by McGovern 📚

Star Trek: Cast No Shadow by Swallow

Nevada by Binnie 🌹

Young Mungo by Stuart

A big ship at the end of universe by White 👀

Manhunter by Felker-Martin 🌹 👑

Tell Me I’m Worthless by Rumfitt 🌹

Set this House in Order by Ruff [DID]

Parable of the Sower by Butler [seed religion] 💥

2023

The Kissing Quotient by Hoang

Silver Canyon by L’Amour

Body of Stars by Walter [magical realism] 💥

Augustus Kitko and the Mechas from Space by White 👀 🐸

Koko Takes a Holiday by Shea [merc]

Funny Gyal by Johnson

When London Falls by Stone [barista x famous band guy]

An Untamed State by Roxane Gay 💥

Left Hand of Darkness by Guin [alt society] 🐸

Queen of Teeth by Hailey Riper

Hell’s Corner by Baldacci [gov agent]

Koko The Mighty by Shea [sequel]

Divine Justice by Badacci [gov agent]

Invisible Life by Harris [black bi lawyer]

The Cipher by Koja [psych horror]

The Delicious Death by Cottingham [ghoul girls, ya] 🌹

Escape from Asylum by Roux [horror]

2024

Fall of Ruin and Wrath by Armentrout

2 Sisters Detective Agency by Patterson

quite an ugly morning by brookmyer

From Blood and Ash by Armentrout

Ripe by Etter

Kingdom of Flesh and Fire by Armentrout

I Am Not a Serial Killer by Wells

[new blog]

Six of Crows by Bardugo [dyslexia?]

All the Rage by Summers

Beartown by Backman

Ninefox Gambit by Lee [dyscalcula]

Raven Strategem by Lee

Ninth House by Bardugo

Shadow and Bone by Bardugo

The Fifth Season by Jemisin

Crooked Kingdom by Bardugo

Revenant Gun by Lee

Queer Werewolves Destroy Capitalism by Lyons

All Systems Red by Martha Wells

[comments]

The Meet Cute Diary by Emery Lee [xe/xyr, e/em]

A Voyage to Arcturus by Lindsay [ebook]

The Obelisk Gate by Jemisin

Artificial Condition by Wells [te/ter] *

Dragon Pearl by Yoon Ha Lee

Dead Space by Wallace

The Familiar by Bardugo

Rogue Protocol by Wells

Outlawed by North

Ocean’s Echo by Maxwell [xam]

Exit Strategy by Wells

I Never Promised You A Rose Garden by Greenberg

Tehanu by Le Guin

Tiger Honor by Lee [they/them] multi

Fox Snare by Lee [they/them]

[lokisgoodgirl]

Soooo I’ve been pondering on The Wetsuit : Tight Passageways all day and I have a question. Not on the smut or anything, that was all Top Shelf Champagne with Actual Gold Flakes in the bottle lol, and I apologize if this was already asked. But I’m curious, what do you think Clint and Barton were talking about while Loki and the reader were occupied in the cave? Do you think they knew what was up (pun intended) in that damp cavern (pun intended again) 😂😂😂

I fucking love asks like this @currish-rosewolfe so firstly THANK YOU.

I think it wouldn't even have crossed their minds that anything sexual in nature was happening. We find out in The Red Dress that Loki and Agent have a history of animosity ("you guys are pals now huh?") and so I think Clint and Steve would be none the wiser (well, for now 😂)

They already took ages behind them due to the cave incident in The Wetsuit so maybe Rogers and Barton are still under the impression loki isn't a canyoning afficianado so takes longer.

This doesn't particularly add anything to the discussion but I am bored so here's my interpretation.

❤️❤️Thanks again for asking, I love that you thought about this 😂

@simplyholl @coldnique @gigglingtigger @xorpsbane important HF canon obviously

[darylsgarden]

Imagine Daryl making you ride his thigh. It all begins with you give him sweet little kisses and in no time he has pulled you over him, you legs straddling his thigh and he keeps deepens the kiss. His hands grip your hips and he pushes you down into his thigh until your cunt is harshly rubbing against his jeans. He rocks you back and forth until your clit is tugging against his rough denims making you moan in pleasure. You yourself start to move against his thigh faster and faster, creating even more friction at your clit.

.

.

"Damn girl, my pants are fuckin soaked" he said, eyeing the huge wet spot that you created.

"Such a filthy little slut riding mah thigh like that"

His disgusting words made you moan and you rub your cunt harder against his thigh .

His one hand left your hips and harshly pulled your tank top down , revealing your bouncing tits to him.

His hands caught them firmly and started fondling them. He squeezed and pulled at your nipples. His calloused fingers abusing your sensitive nipples took away any ability you had of thinking straight. The sensory overload on your clit and your nipples become too much as you came on his thigh, burying your head into his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.

[avalentina]

Still working on my project, but wanted to give y'all a little teaser, this is a little over 6 years after the story starts, and can also be read as a standalone.

Warnings: SMUT! 18+, Bit of breeding kink,

But mostly just a whole lotta fluff! ☺️

The Shower Incident ❤️‍🔥🧸

"Alexa, shuffle songs by Harry Styles." You ask of your ai friend who you keep in your giant bathroom. It's after 10 AM, and your boyfriend of almost six years is still zonked out in bed. Yeah, technically the two of you have a lazy day planned (thanks to Auntie Gemma taking your daughter), but still, you have plans. You get in, taking your time, shaving, trimming, the works (lazy days with H always involve sex, ALWAYS!).

You're dancing and singing your heart out, you always do, and more often than not (without you knowing sometimes) H watches you from the doorway. Like he is now during Music for a Sushi Restaurant. He loves it. You're not even doing anything super explicit, just a few hip moves, head bobs, and spins. OH, and the stomps, you love doing the stomps. H probably has at least 150 videos on his phone of you doing the stomps. You even taught Calleigh (your calico cat) and Kiwi (your miniature red merle aussiedoodle) how to do the stomps. To the point where if Satellite starts playing anywhere, Kiwi stops and spins around doing stomps. Cado and Palmer (your other 2 dogs) will sometimes join in too.

Today is one of those days that you know he's watching, and as Music for a Sushi Restaurant ends and Adore You begins, you start getting into it, over the top, drop it like it's hot, into it. Which finally entices him into the shower with you. So when Canyon Moon comes on, you butt yourself up against his chest, wrap your arms around his neck and grind away, slowly, very slowly, your only purpose right now is to taunt him. Something you continue as that song fades into Watermelon Sugar and you shave your legs, and trim. Making sure he sees just how wet you are, and not from the shower. H promptly groans, but doesn't move his gaze away while you finish trimming. As soon as you're done though, he is quick to press you into the wall of your shower and kiss you senseless. Reaching back to shut off the water without breaking the kiss. He presses his stiffie against you, just to make you aware of what you always do to him. Then he backs away and towels you both off.

"Your poor cunt needs a good filling, doesn't it love?" He teases, blowing on your clit as he towels off your legs. Tossing the towel to the side he sweeps you up and swiftly walks you both back to bed where he tosses you down gently and hovers over you.

Yeah, you're in for a long day, and you wouldn't trade it for anything.

Hope you enjoyed!

[kylowritten]

If the Slipper Fits

Pairings: Kylo Ren x ForceSensitive!Reader

Summary: Nobody wants to be the woman whose foot fits that slipper.

Warnings: mentions of death, verbal abuse from dear ole stepmom (always let me know if I miss something)

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: I apologize for how long it’s taken me to get this part posted! This week has been crazy. Smut to come😏

Part Eight

You remember the last time you made a choice for yourself.

You had been twelve.

In your district, it was common for the women to end their schooling prematurely. But you had been accepted into a private academy in the third district, one that would expand your knowledge and allow you to explore a world different then the one you grew up in. The invitation from the academy had arrived on the heels of your father’s death, and at the time you couldn’t imagine a better way to continue his legacy. He believed firmly in your education.

You accepted the invitation, forging your stepmother’s signature and sending it back before she could be any the wiser. In your twelve year old brain, you figured that you would run away in the fall when it was time to attend the academy and never look back.

How wrong you were.

The next day, she slapped the envelope down in front of you. Her face was bright red with anger. She snapped, “What is this?”

“I-I don’t,” you said.

“Don’t lie to me,” your stepmother replied. She straightened. Your stepsisters stood in the doorway, watching the interaction with interest. Your stepmother snapped her fingers, drawing your attention back to her. “Don’t look at them for help. They’re the ones who told me what was going on.”

She continued, “What did you think you were doing? I should have you imprisoned for faking my signature.” She crossed her arms, a sneer forming on her lips. “Imagine my surprise when I saw what it was for. The Third Academy? As if they would want you. You probably cheated to get those test scores.”

Your stepsisters snickered.

“I didn’t cheat,” you insisted, cheeks flaming. “And I’m going to that school. My father —”

“Your father is dead.”

You flinched as if she struck you, which she very well might of done. She looked the least bit apologetic about your reaction and, if anything, it only seemed to spur her anger.

“You will not be going to that stupid school. You will stay here, where you belong. You will continue to serve me and do as I say. Is that clear?”

Your voice wobbled as you replied, “I have a full scholarship. You don’t have to pay anything, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Ha!” She crowed. Your stepmother slammed both hands down on the table and leaned in, within an inch of your face. “As if I would even spend a cent on you.”

“But I want to learn. I want to explore. Why can’t I go?” Your voice rises with hysteria. You immediately wished that you had better control on your emotions. But you were embarrassed to have been caught and humiliated, and now denied the one thing you wanted most.

Your stepmother spat, “Because I said so. You’re too young, you’re not capable of making these decisions on your own. You need me to guide you, to tell you what to do and what not to do. And I’m telling you — you’re not going to that academy. End of discussion.”

Now, in the present day, as you look expectantly at Leia, you feel a semblance of what you did that day. You waver, and for a moment you are twelve again.

Leia gazes at you steadily. “Are you sure? It could be dangerous.”

“I’m sure.”

Another pause. It’s as if a canyon has opened inside of you. Blood rushes in your ears. You’re standing at the edge, and trying not to look down.

“Okay then,” Leia says simply. “That can be arranged. I’ll let everyone know that the plan has changed.”

You’re too shocked to speak. She edges around her desk, presumably to notify the others, but you stop her. “That’s it?”

Leia turns in a half circle. “What’s it?”

“That’s…that’s all it takes?” You ask. You feel as if she’s built a bridge for you, a pathway from one side of the canyon to the other. The sun shines here, soft like melted butter, washing over you. “You’re just going to say yes?”

“Of course I am.” Leia searches your face. “Did you expect me to say no?”

You lift your shoulder. It would take too long to explain to her. “Maybe.”

Leia softly says your name. “You are capable of making your own decisions. And you’re doing me a favor. The least I can do is help.”

She leaves without another word. Clearly, she doesn’t understand the gravity of this moment, and how could she? As you understood it, Leia grew up in the royal family. She probably had been making her own decisions since she could walk. You on the other hand…

You collapse into a plush chair across from Leia’s now empty desk. You’re attempting to sort out your rampant emotions when you spot a picture frame on the bookshelf behind her desk. The frame is simple wood. The picture itself is partially obscured, but the focus of it is clear to you. It’s Leia. And Han.

And Ben.

No, you mentally amend. It’s Kylo.

Han has his arm thrown casually around Leia’s shoulders. Her head is tilted back in a laugh, and he’s smiling at her.

King Han could be impulsive, and terribly charismatic when it came to getting what he wanted. Your father spoke his praises but you knew that wasn’t the case for all of the kingdom’s citizens. Either way, he didn’t deserve to die the way he did, at the hands of his beloved son.

You shift your attention to Kylo.

He couldn’t have been much older than you when you were accepted into the Third Academy, stuck firmly between boyhood and manhood.

He still carried the face of a boy — young, hopeful, his dark eyes dancing. He hadn’t smiled for the picture but the ghost of happiness lingered permanently on his lips.

It struck you as strange, seeing him like this.

You had always found it interesting to watch a boy become a man, losing their softness, their innocence, in a way that women just don’t seem to. You suppose it’s because girls are only innocent for so long before they’re forced to harden themselves against the world.

Seeing Kylo as a boy is like seeing the butterfly while it’s in the cocoon.

“Cute, hm?” You whirl around. Leia has returned and caught you staring. “You never would’ve guessed what was going on behind those eyes. He was quiet. I just figured he was shy.”

You mutter, “You couldn’t have known.”

“Maybe not,” she said.

She didn’t sound convinced.

The first time you saw the palace, you couldn't imagine what horrors were held inside.

Now you knew, and the feel of your name on his lips.

After your conversation with Leia, you spent the rest of the afternoon preparing: packing your meager belongings (Kylo's ring) and saying goodbye (to Rey, Finn, and Poe). Still devoted to your decision, you have the rebels drop you off at the edge of the forest you had only just ran through a few days before. You would walk up alone.

You're here.

His voice, without warning. You scan the palace walls. Where was he?

For now, you reply.

I said you would be back.

His tone is not smug or taunting, but knowing. Measured.

"Are you going to let me in?" You ask. There's no discernible doors or entrance to the palace, just the same sleek black walls. The only conceivable way to enter the palace is using a ship but, clearly, that's not something you have.

Are you going to run away again?

Depends.

On what?

I can't run away if you don't let me in.

His response, a darkened chuckle, echoes in your mind. Fine, he says, but this is your next opportunity to practice.

Last time ended with me getting hurt.

A beat. Do better.

You growl in your head, not deigning to respond. If he was going to be like this again, then so be it. Unlike before, during his first "training session", you had a mission. You had to earn his trust. And the best way you could do that was conceding to him.

Okay, then tell me, oh wise master, what do you want me to do?

"You need to get inside."

Whipping around, you spot Kylo — but another incorporeal version of him. The surrounding forest is visible through his form. Today he's standing, resuming his straight, stiffened posture that looks equal parts intimidating and, frankly, uncomfortable. Did he ever relax?

"How do I do that?" You ask him.

"I think you know."

You tilt your head back and examine the palace. "Let me guess. You want me to use the Force."

"You're learning," he remarks.

"Usually, the teacher actually teaches the student before asking them to demonstrate," you say. You wiggle your fingers nervously. Where would you even start?

"I will, in time," he hazards. "Right now you need to focus. You first learn to manipulate inanimate objects. With the Force, you can’t change the shape or size of something. You simply reach for its presence in the world and then influence it.”

“Simply,” you mutter.

Kylo ignores you. “For instance, you need to manipulate the wall by pushing it aside.”

“The whole wall?”

“It’s made up of several different sections. If only you reached out through your magic, you would know that,” he coolly replies.

Your molars grind together as your jaw sets. Taking a deep breath, you try to summon whatever preternatural power everyone believes you possess. For effect, you close your eyes and curl your toes.

You wait.

And…you don’t feel any different.

Kylo growls, “You’re not taking it seriously.”

“I am,” you persist. “How am I supposed to do this? I don’t even know what I’m trying to do.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Maybe you’re just not that great of a teacher.”

“Listen to me.” Kylo stalks toward you, dark eyes flashing. Even though you know he’s not really there, you stumble back a few feet, until your back collides with the trunk of a tree. He’s developed a dangerous edge to his voice. “You’re lucky that I haven’t ended you for speaking to me as such. The Force is connecting us so I’ve been trying to be tolerable of your attitude but I’m losing my patience.” His anger is palpable, radiating from him. “You’re going to stay here, alone, either until you show me respect or you decide to listen to me. Your choice.”

And then he’s gone, just like that. Like the initial pain of burning yourself and the following relief after withdrawing your hand.

A part of you wants to implore him to come back. But the other half, the half that had felt the heat of his rage, knew that he wouldn’t return unless his demands were met.

It was going to be a long night.

Admittedly, you had no skill when it came to surviving outdoors. Especially in an unfamiliar setting. Fortunately for you, the temperature didn’t lower much as nightfall set, and you stayed huddled against the palace wall — at least that way you knew no one could sneak up on you.

Sleep eludes you, of course, but you catch fragments as you slip in and out of consciousness. Fatigue claims you, and, in a viscous cycle, you nod off before something inevitably wakes you again. By the time the sun rises and buttery light blankets the forest, you’re grateful to at least be spared from the agony of chasing sleep.

You tried to find the Force. You really did.

But it was about as useless as finding respect for Kylo Ren. You just couldn’t, despite how much you needed to.

You were fully prepared to spend the rest of your life as a hermit outside of the palace when a familiar voice calls your name. “Is that really you? What are you doing out here?”

A figure in a blue cloak appears before you, carrying a wooden basket over their arm. They pull back their hood, and Lyssa’s face peers back at you, torn between shock and confusion.

“Are you okay? I thought —” she shakes her head. “Never mind that. Let’s get you inside. How long have you been out here?”

You ignore her flurry of questions. You are too exhausted to answer most of them so you don’t bother with any. “How do we get inside?”

Lyssa looks strangely at you. She turns and, in the light of morning, identifies a nearly invisible panel in the palace wall.

Your mouth drops open. “That was it the whole time?”

“Don’t feel bad,” Lyssa rushes to say. “They’re hard to see, and it’s not exactly something that’s shared freely. You have to know exactly where they are.” She studies you. “Have you been trying to get inside? Why are you back?”

“How much time do you have?”

Lyssa escorts you inside as you explain the past several hours, leaving out anything to do with the rebels and your mission. She listens with pursed lips, clearly holding her tongue about the teaching tactics of the prince.

“I don’t want you in trouble for helping me,” you tell her.

She waves a hand. “It’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about me.”

As politely as possible, you request a room different then the one you were contained in before. She drops you off in a room devoid of color, sparsely furnished and illuminated by lights installed in the seams of the walls. It’s clinical, impersonal.

“Shall I tell the prince that you’re here?”

“No, thank you. I shall like to surprise him.”

You recognize the path Lyssa takes you towards the feast hall, where she informed you dinner is regularly held. The whispers of servants reach your ears. If your reappearance wasn’t enough fodder for gossip, Lyssa also dressed you in a divine dress, understated, but perhaps even more wonderful than the one you wore to the ball.

This time you don’t mind their stares. In fact, you encourage them, because by the time you enter the feast hall, you’re certain Kylo has already heard of your presence. He confirms your suspicions, however, when you round the large dinner table and find him lounging in a throne-like chair at the end. His expression is neutral, uncaring, but there’s a wicked gleam behind his dark eyes that excites and frightens you.

“Your Highness,” you greet Kylo. You slide into one of the chairs lining the dinner table, purposefully a few seats from Kylo.

“When I first met you,” he says, low and unbothered, “I thought that you would be a little mouse. I see now that you’re actually a rat.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Does it please you to be in the company of such lowly vermin?”

You fold your hands in your lap. “Rats are quite interesting creatures, actually,” you tell him, as if discussing the weather. “They slip into your home and infiltrate your life and before you even know it, your walls are crumbling.”

If Kylo tries to respond, he never gets the chance.

The chef and other kitchen staff burst into the room with platters of food. You watch in fascination as an array of soups, salads, breads and roasted meat appear before you. Remembering what happened last time you tried to eat in front of Kylo, you quickly shovel food onto your plate and into your mouth.

One of the servants approaches Kylo with a beverage pitcher. “Your Highness?”

“Leave it,” he orders. He dismisses the servant, along with the rest.

The servant obeys then slips away, head bowed. Your gaze flickers from their retreating form to Kylo, who is already staring at you.

One of your brow raises. “What, afraid they’re going to poison you or something?”

“I’m giving you another chance to redeem yourself,” Kylo says. “To listen.” He leans back in his chair. “I want you to serve me.”

“Serve you?” You hands clench into fists.

“Yes, little mouse.” The hint of a smile curves on his plush lips.

He commands you to make him a plate of food, correcting you if you don’t follow through exactly as he says, down to the position of food on the plate. You bite your tongue and do as your told, mostly because you’re still nervous about him punishing Lyssa for helping you before. If you have to give up your dignity to protect her, then so be it. Finally Kylo declares he’s ready to eat, but orders you to stand up and walk the few feet to his side to lay the plate down in front of him.

With a saccharine smile, you oblige.

He hums in approval. His hand finds the curve of your ass, pulling you closer, possessive. He then holds up his empty goblet. “Now, the wine.”

You seize the beverage pitcher. Kylo’s smug expression has you tightening your grip just to prevent yourself from lashing out. Annoyingly enough, you also can’t ignore the flood of heat between your thighs at his touch.

“Come on then, little mouse,” he says.

A surge of anger explodes inside of you. Maintaining your saccharine smile, you mumble, “Oops.”

The entire pitcher of wine upends on Kylo’s lap.

You’re not sure what to expect. Perhaps for him to startle, to leap back in profound shock. You’re not even entirely sure why you did it, besides the fact that you’re sick of serving others, but there’s no way you could’ve anticipated for him to grow unnaturally still.

It surprises you so effectively that you set down the pitcher and stare. Vaguely, you think that it’s the calm before the storm.

Finally, he turns to you. One hand remains on your ass as the other falls to his belt.

“You’re going to clean up your mess with that smart mouth of yours. And I’m going to show you exactly what happens when you don’t listen.”

Part Nine

- - -

@eternal-mikrokosmos

@juniperwoodwell

@judypahtootee

[thenaughtynorth]

Untold Admiration

Javier Escuella was such a beautiful, yet extremely dangerous man. Evelyn certainly learned that the hard way.

Javier Escuella (RDR2) x original female character

Warnings: Violence, swearing, slow burn and yearning for each other, eventual smut

—

Chapter 5:

The Lemoyne air was thick and heavy with the scent of damp earth and tobacco, the oppressive humidity clinging to every breath. At the camp near Rhodes, the gang was restless. Dutch had been pacing in front of the fire all morning, muttering about plans, Pinkertons, and the so-called “bigger picture.” Evelyn could hear his voice even now, faint through the trees as she readied her horse by the edge of the clearing.

Javier appeared from the shadows of the camp, his rifle slung over one shoulder and his hat pulled low against the midday sun. His presence was magnetic, as it always was—effortless and unspoken. Evelyn didn’t look up when he approached, focusing instead on checking her saddle straps.

“You’re in a hurry,” he said, his tone light but with a hint of something sharper underneath.

“Arthur wanted this done today,” she replied, keeping her voice steady. “Figured I’d get moving before Dutch roped me into another one of his speeches.”

Javier smirked, leaning casually against a post as if he had all the time in the world. “And he sent you alone?”

Evelyn tightened the girth strap with more force than necessary, finally lifting her gaze to meet his. “Not anymore.”

“I see,” Javier said, the smirk shifting into something softer, more unreadable. He straightened, his boots scuffing against the dirt as he moved closer. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you company.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It never was with him. Javier Escuella had a way of inserting himself into situations with such ease that people rarely noticed until it was too late. Evelyn wanted to argue, but she knew better. The truth was, a part of her didn’t mind. And that was the problem.

“Fine,” she said, mounting her horse in one fluid motion. “But let’s make it quick.” She wasn’t sure what she preferred. The mission was undoubtably more dangerous alone, yet it almost felt safer to not have to deal with the insanely frustrating chemistry and tension between her and Javier.

The camp seemed smaller as they rode out, the low hum of conversation and the clatter of chores fading into the distance. Evelyn glanced back once, the sight of the gang’s ramshackle tents framed by swaying cypress trees already fading into the humid haze. The road ahead wound through the thick greenery of Lemoyne, the oppressive heat of the swamp giving way to drier air as they climbed toward the canyons north of Rhodes.

They rode in silence at first, the only sounds the rhythmic clop of their horses’ hooves and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush. It was a welcome reprieve from the noise of camp, but the quiet between her and Javier was a different kind of weight, charged with something she didn’t dare name.

The fading sun bled red and gold across the endless expanse of the sky, a blaze of light mirrored in the slow, rippling current of the river that cut through the canyon below. Evelyn tightened her grip on the reins, her horse shifting restlessly beneath her. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not alone. Not with him.

“Quiet tonight,” Javier said, his voice low and smooth, carrying a hint of something unspoken. He sat astride his horse just ahead of her, his silhouette sharp against the fiery backdrop. It made her heart skip a beat.

“Too quiet,” Evelyn replied, her tone clipped as she scanned the jagged ridges above them. The Pinkertons had been closing in for weeks now, and the gang’s every move felt like a gamble. But tonight, there was no sound but the whisper of the wind and the faint creak of saddles.

Javier turned in his saddle to look back at her, his dark eyes catching hers. For a moment, she thought she saw something there, something more than the cautious camaraderie of outlaws on a mission. Evelyn stiffened, cursing herself for noticing.

“I don’t like it,” she added, more to herself than him.

“Neither do I,” he said, but there was a softness to his voice now, like he wasn’t talking about the quiet anymore.

She dropped her gaze, letting her horse move closer to his as the trail narrowed. Javier’s presence had always unsettled her, though she could never decide if it was his charm or his ruthlessness that did it. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was something else entirely, something she couldn’t afford to think about.

“Arthur’s gonna have our heads if we come back empty-handed,” she said, breaking the silence before it could stretch too long.

Javier chuckled, the sound low and warm, curling around her like smoke. “Arthur can wait. We’ve got time.”

“Time?” She shot him a sharp look, masking her unease with sarcasm. “For what, exactly? To get caught? To argue about what’s worse: Dutch’s speeches or Hosea’s plans?”

He grinned at that, his teeth flashing white in the dimming light. “For whatever comes, querida.”

The word hung between them, heavy with meaning she couldn’t ignore. Her chest tightened as she straightened in the saddle, putting a deliberate inch of space between them. It was the first time, in what felt like an eternity, that they had been just the two of them alone.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost lost to the wind.

Javier’s smile faded, but his gaze didn’t waver. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to.”

They rode in silence after that, the tension between them thicker than the shadows gathering at the base of the canyon. Evelyn knew better than to trust moments like this. Javier Escuella wasn’t a man who believed in lines he couldn’t cross.

But she did.

For now, at least.

The trail wound tighter, the walls of the canyon rising steep and jagged around them, cutting off the last of the sunlight. The horses’ hooves echoed faintly against the rocks, a stark reminder of how exposed they were. Evelyn reached for the rifle strapped to her saddle, her fingers brushing the cold steel as a nervous habit.

Javier glanced over his shoulder, catching the movement. “You expecting trouble, or just keeping your hands busy?”

“Can’t it be both?” she replied, her tone sharper than she intended.

Javier tilted his head, studying her like he had all the time in the world. It made her stomach twist, the way he looked at her—not just noticing, but knowing. It was infuriating.

“You’re tense,” he said finally, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re observant,” she shot back.

“Come on, Evie. This isn’t your first ride out with me. What’s got you on edge?” He knew exactly why she was tense.

“Other than the fact that you’re a magnet for trouble?”

His laugh was soft, almost teasing, but it didn’t break the tension between them. “Maybe,” he said, turning back to the trail ahead. “But you’re not scared of trouble. Not the kind I bring.”

Evelyn felt her chest tighten again, a flare of something dangerous and uninvited surging through her. She bit it back, forcing herself to focus on the rocks above them, the quiet too heavy for comfort. Her heart was forcefully pounding in her chest, and she was petrified that he could hear it beat in the silence. Was he as flustered as she was? Was he just masking it expertly well?

“We should’ve taken Arthur or Charles with us,” she said, ignoring his comment entirely.

“And miss the chance for some peace and quiet? No, gracias.” Javier’s tone was light, but there was an edge to it, a weight beneath the charm that she couldn’t ignore.

“Peace and quiet,” she echoed with a scoff. “That’s what you call this?”

“I call it what I want,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to make her shiver.

They were riding closer now, the narrow trail forcing their horses to step nearly side by side. Evelyn felt the heat of him, the scent of leather and tobacco that always seemed to linger around him. She hated how it made her pulse quicken, how his presence filled the space between them like a storm waiting to break.

“This isn’t peace,” she said finally, her voice quieter now, like she was afraid of the truth in her own words.

“No,” he agreed, and when he looked at her this time, there was no trace of the grin, no teasing remark to follow. “It’s not.” Life didn’t offer peace to outlaws such as them.

They stopped near a bend in the trail where the river cut deeper into the earth, the sound of rushing water muffling the quiet. Javier swung off his horse with practiced ease, the movement fluid and precise. Evelyn hesitated a moment longer before dismounting, letting her boots hit the dusty ground with a soft thud.

“You sure this is the spot?” she asked, glancing around.

Javier didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, closing the small distance between them. Her heart leapt unbidden, a betrayer in her own chest.

“Evelyn,” he said softly, her name rolling off his tongue like it belonged there.

“Javier,” she warned, her voice low and steady.

“I know,” he said, and there was something in his tone that almost sounded like regret. Almost. “I know the rules.”

“Then don’t push them,” she said, taking a deliberate step back.

But he didn’t move, didn’t let the space widen. His dark eyes bore into hers, the canyon walls pressing in around them like the world itself wanted to hold them there, in that moment.

“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he said finally, his voice a low whisper. “Tell me you don’t feel whatever the fuck this is, por favor. I know it keeps you up at night - it keeps me up too. You occupy my every thought.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because she did feel it. She felt all of it - all of the time.

Because it wasn’t just the canyon pressing in on her—it was him, the weight of what he was asking her to admit, the weight of what she couldn’t afford to give.

“My thoughts of you, Evie..” he chuckled, “they’re very disrespectful. The need to have you in the most sinful of ways consumes me. Don’t you see?”

“Don’t do this,” she said, and it wasn’t a command, but a plea.

Javier sighed, the sound heavy as he stepped back, finally giving her the distance she needed to breathe. He ran a hand through his dark hair, the easy confidence he always carried flickering for just a moment.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, his voice hardening again as he turned toward the trail ahead.

Evelyn didn’t move right away, her hands gripping the reins so tightly her knuckles turned white. She told herself it was fine. She could handle this. Whatever this was.

But as she followed him deeper into the canyon, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the real danger wasn’t the Pinkertons or the law closing in.

The real danger was him.

And the worst part was, she didn’t want to run from it.

All chapters

[blackvelveteen1339]

I just saw 'Red Canyon' for the first time and oh boy, Mac was a nasty piece of work. Norman is the sweetest person and seeing him in this role as a violent gŘapist was quiet shocking for me 🫣😲Yes, I know he's acting but still🫠 I confessed it really turned me on though😏 I had to come up on this app to find some Mac smut and GAWD this one did not disappoint 😩💦

Hi anon!!

Sorry for the wait but like people says "better late than never" I was... I have no excuse, simply I can't find the words to write, sometimes happen to me, I really sorry.

Anyways, I hope you'll like it, I take some liberties, but nothing huge.

Enjoy!

*************

The Bus Stop.

Mac x Reader.

Anon Request. One shot.

Warnings: Dub-Con. Smut. Semi public sex. Rough sex. Mac. Not plot.

Words: 3100

Taglist: @phoenixblack89 @browneyes528 @lilythemadqueen @darylsgarden @thefemininemystiquee @green-eyedladywrites @hail-yourselves @ruinedbythehobbit @xxtinasxxblog @ravenwings73 @spenciepoo338 @b-tchymoon @minervadashwood @darylssluttt @let-love-bleeds-red @ravendixon @livingdeadblondequeen

*********

You are mentally exhausted, it has been a horrible day at work and to top it off you still have a long commute home. Your weary body stops at the bus stop that you have to catch to go home, it's late and the area is barely illuminated by a few street lamps with tinkling lights. You hug your body and rub your arms trying to stay calm. Your gaze sweeps over the place, there is a bar nearby, there doesn't seem to be much noise inside, you would like to have a drink before going home, maybe the alcohol will help you calm your body and fall asleep faster. You check your bus schedule on your phone and knowing you still have 30 minutes, you adjust your bag on your shoulder and walk to the bar ready to relax with a drink.

When you walk in, the atmosphere is quiet, there are more people than you thought, but not too noisy, some are drinking, some are at the pool tables or playing darts, some couples are dancing on the dance floor. It's been a while since you've been out partying, too busy with work, you smile a little disoriented and approach the bar to order a beer. You sit down on one of the stools, your gaze roams the place once again with curiosity, you have to admit you like it, you've seen it every day you leave work and you've never stopped for a drink there. As your eyes roam the place, your gaze connects with that of a man, about your age, ashy blond hair, his blue gaze bites into you like ice floes, he's drinking a beer, but he doesn't look away from you. It's Mac, you've heard of him and you've seen him in his old truck driving back and forth to town, but you've never talked to him. You smile sheepishly and thank the bartender when he brings you your own beer, which you take a long swig of, feeling the alcohol cloud your tired head.

You're finishing your beer, the man's gaze hasn't left you for a moment. You have to admit that he is attractive, that he exudes a mysterious aura, he even looks dangerous with that intense gaze, a shiver runs through your body. He's one of those people that your own sanity screams at you to stay away from, even if you know nothing about him. You check your watch and there are five minutes left for your bus to arrive, you pay the waiter and look at that man again, you smile as a farewell and leave the establishment walking back to the bus stop.

You rub your arms, that night is cold, your body had warmed up with the atmosphere of the bar and now you feel that the cold quickly takes over you, at the bus stop there are more people than when you arrived and you are grateful not to be there alone waiting. Your gaze perceives movement near where you are, you turn your head to discover the man from the bar, to one side, smoking a cigarette, with one hand in his pocket, oblivious to you, or so it seems. You get goose bumps and suddenly your nerves get the better of you. You've been doing that shift for a long time and you don't remember ever seeing him, maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe.

You get into the vehicle, greet the driver, you've known him for a long time and he's almost like a friend, you go to the back of the vehicle and settle into the seat by the window, to escape during the trip. However, you soon feel the man's gaze on you again, you look at him out of the corner of your eye and discover that he is walking straight towards the free seat next to you, for a second you want to place your bag or say that it is reserved for someone, but he has already sat down, he settles into the seat, legs slightly spread, hands clasped on his own stomach, not even looking at you, his eyes now fixed on the seat in front of you. You swallow saliva several times, he gives off a strong smell, gasoline, oil, probably sweat mixed with the tobacco and alcohol he has been consuming, your heart beats nervously in your chest, but you try to relax looking out the window again.

You have almost a 45-minute drive before you get home, but for some reason you feel that the trip is going to be longer than usual that day. You tense up for a second when you think you feel a touch on your knee, you try to ignore it, refocus on getting the ride over soon. You feel it again, a soft, subtle touch, you glance sideways towards your companion and see that his knee is glued to yours, and bumps against yours again. His eyes lift up to look, the hair stands up on the back of your neck discovering that he is staring at you.

"I'm sorry..." You apologize, not quite sure why, pulling your knee away to give him more room.

But his hand is placed on your thigh and your breath gets stuck in your lungs. Your first intention is to push it away, to push him away from you and shift in your seat, but you freeze as his hand moves to the inside of your thigh, squeezing your skin above your jeans. If your heart was beating fast, now it's racing. You look forward, your seats are far enough back that the driver can't see what Mac is doing, you'd like to get the attention of other passengers, but his hand goes much higher and you have to grab his wrist to get him to stop.

"Mac..." You call out to him and for a moment he seems surprised that you know who he is.

He releases from your grip without much trouble, he has more strength than you, his hand reaches your core and squeezes there, a whimper escapes your mouth and you bite your lip, no one has bothered to look back. You see Mac move to your side, turning towards your seat and leaning into you, his hand still pressing your core and now his other hand brushes the contour of your breast. Despite how violent and uncomfortable this situation is being for you, your body reacts by getting excited, his hands move expertly, he knows where and how to touch you, it's a bit rough, but he doesn't give you time to think about it, his tongue goes into your ear and that's too much.

You push him roughly, pushing him away from you, you scowl at him as you wipe the saliva from your ear.

"Let me out..." You tell him authoritatively, he seems to hesitate, but he steps aside and you get up from your seat to walk to another empty one.

For the rest of the trip you feel his gaze on the back of your neck, but you don't dare look until you get home and get off the bus. Mac walks up to the window and bites his lip, making an obscene gesture with his tongue before the bus starts up again and goes away.

That night you can't stop thinking about Mac, what he's done to you, how his hands have touched your body, how he's made you feel, even though you were scared at first, you have to admit you didn't want him to stop.

***************

You are nervous the next night, you feel like you want to see him again, you shamefully put on more suggestive clothes, you want to get his attention again. When you finish your shift, you button up your white blouse and adjust your skirt to your waist, you check your makeup in the mirror of your locker and grab your purse hurrying out of the building to go to the bus stop, on the way you think about whether or not you should go into the bar. If you really wanted him to know you were there, you should go in and let him know, but your sane mind is still debating whether it's a good idea, Mac touched you the night before without your permission, he didn't even care that there were people around you, and he didn't seem bothered that you went to another seat, offended. You sigh with your head in a mess, what could be wrong with wanting to have a little fun, he is attractive and seems to be curious about you, why should you pass up the opportunity? He may have been rough and the ways of touching you were not the most appropriate, but on the other hand you must admit that you liked that dominant side.

You dressed up for him, for God's sake.

Before you can take another step, you then feel a presence behind you. Goosebumps rise on your skin and you quickly turn around to discover him right behind you. Today he is wearing blue overalls, his hair is disheveled and the smell of garage, mixed with his own smell plus tobacco and alcohol hits your nose again. Maybe that's it, maybe it's that overpowering, masculine scent that gets your knees shaking.

Like the day before, he doesn't say anything, he simply stays close to you, waiting for the bus right behind, you dare to look at him sideways, his gaze glued to the back of your neck, his hands in the pockets of his overalls, he bites and licks his lower lip, devouring you with his eyes, however, he doesn't care that you see him, nor that you intuit what is going through his mind, he has a purpose and unless you choose to sit somewhere else, he is going to carry it out. As the bus pulls up to the stop it's your turn to get on, you squeeze the bag tightly to your shoulder, you can only be the one to choose what is going to happen now. Trembling, feeling your knees like jelly and your heart racing, you wave to the driver as you do every night and walk along the aisle, between the seats, to the last row, sit by the window and remove your bag, waiting.

It's not the time to be shy, but you can't help but feel your face take on a reddish color as your eyes detect his movement towards you, out of the corner of your eye you catch the dark blue color of his clothes, as he sits next to you, his body rubs against yours, his knee bumps into your knee again, but he still says absolutely nothing. That is his game, the calm before the storm, the silence, the feigned indifference, camouflage his dominant side, the imposition of his whole presence before you, his scent, his aura, for a second your mind wanders to how his hands will feel on your bare skin and you have to squeeze your legs together as you feel yourself spilling over the seat.

But Mac doesn't miss your gesture, his pupils dilate and his hand, like the night before, falls on your leg, again your whole body trembles, despite the cold outside, his hands are burning, a contrast with your skin that gives you goose bumps. Between your lips a gasp escapes you, but you don't pull his hand away, his fingers, long and thick, crawl up your thigh, his calloused touch, his nails slightly blackened, with traces of car oil on his skin, you should find it unpleasant, but it's quite the opposite. Suddenly everything is semi-dark because of the tunnel you pass. There are several tunnels going home, which gives you more privacy, you spread your legs apart, Mac reaches down to your inner thigh and slyly pinches your skin, you hear him let out a sharp intake of breath through his nose. You are not wearing stockings.

You pass the tunnel, his hand doesn't move anymore, but his fingers brush against the ends of your skirt, he wants to reach inside, you know it, and you wish he would, but maybe even for him it's too much. Another tunnel and you are left in a dim darkness again, you feel Mac's hand move away from you, just a few seconds, he settles down beside you, he slips his arm behind your head and with the other one he returns to your legs, this time he doesn't stay on your thigh, he hides his hand inside your skirt and you jump in your seat when he touches your pussy with his fingertips.

"Put yer leg on top of mines." He orders you and you obey by placing your leg over his, lying wide open for him, giving him greater access.

A moan wants to escape your mouth, but his hand stops you. You close your eyes breathing rapidly through your nose, you are nervous despite feeling aroused, you are afraid that you will be discovered or that Mac might hurt you, you don't even know him. A moan dies against his hand as he pushes aside your panties and his fingers caress your clit.

"Yer so fuckin' wet..." He whispers again against your ear. "Have ya been thinkin' about me all day?" he asks you as his fingers move down your slit and press against your entrance.

You close your eyes again and want to close your legs, but he stops you by pressing his hand a little harder against your mouth.

"No, ain't be ashamed..." His voice sounds an octave deeper. "I've dreamed of ya too, of yer mouth..." His fingers touch your lips. "Suckin' me so fuckin' good, makin' me cum, swallowin' it all." He keeps whispering in your ear as his fingers push inside your mouth and pussy.

Your whole body squirms at his double intrusion, your moan is muffled with his fingers almost reaching your throat, in your pussy they move slowly, inserting themselves almost up to his knuckles, you don't stop shaking and want to close your legs again, but you can't. Mac glues his lips to your ear, hissing to calm you down.

"Easy." He speaks without moving his lips from your skin. "We ain't wanna attract our driver's attention, do we?" His fingers move in and out of you, slowly, you can hear the wet sounds of your pussy muffled by the purr of the bus.

You shake your head and hold your legs as he has asked, fingers inside your mouth slowly moving down to your blouse, unbuttoning a couple of buttons to squeeze your tit, reaching into your bra. You bite your lip hard, his fingers squeeze your nipple, his fingers slip out of you and you whimper at the loss, you can feel him smiling against your skin at your protests, his hand rests back on your thigh and leaves your breast as well, you watch him from the corner of your eye, his eyes darkening, biting his lip several times.

"So needy... so desperate, ain't ya?" his nose brushes your cheek and you close your eyes. "Ya wanna me go with ya and fuck ya like ya deserve?"

You nod your head almost hurting your neck and he laughs through his nose.

"Use yer words."

"Yes, yes, fuck me, Mac, please..." You say between desperate whispers. "Please..."

"Good girl."

************

The bus stops at your stop, your heart is still racing as Mac gets up from his seat to let you pass, you get up too, look at him intently and dare to take his hand as you pass him. Mac doesn't hesitate, doesn't push you away, he holds you tightly and follows you off the bus. You say goodbye to the driver until the next day and the two of you walk out onto the street. Mac doesn't even wait for the vehicle to leave, he holds you by the back of the neck firmly leading you towards the alleyway of the stop.

"Wait, Mac, my house..." You try to reason.

"Shut up." He growls and pushes you against the wall.

"Mac..."

"I said shut up." He repeats against your lips.

You hear him unzip the overalls in a hurry, pulling them down his arms, getting them stuck on his hips. You unbutton your blouse quickly too, but Mac holds you down and turns you around facing the wall. He pulls your skirt roughly up to your hips, pulls down your panties scratching your skin and spanks you hard. A moan escapes you, but you no longer mind being loud, you are now out in the street and the darkness is your companion. Mac spits on his hand before taking his cock and rubbing the tip between your folds. You bite your lip leaning your body further forward, lifting your ass, you gasp as he spanks you again and thrusts inside you in one go.

The scream echoes throughout the alley, but Mac does nothing to stop, his hands clutch at your waist tightly, you're sure he's going to leave a mark and he starts moving hard behind you, hard, intensely, making you scream and moan, your insides stretch and clench each time his cock moves in and out, the knot of pain transforming into pleasure making you shudder against the wall. He holds you tightly by your hair, pulling your body back, arching you painfully, but at the same time, his cock squeezes inside you, stitches making you see stars, tightening you against him, begging for more.

"Mac! Mac more... slowly!" You ask him as you feel your pussy aching from his violent onslaught.

"Is it that hard for ya to shut up, bitch?" He roars, his hand closes on your jaw and grips hard, hurting you.

He lets go of your waist, pausing for a moment, he holds your leg, lifting it off the ground and your back is pressed against his chest, he leans forward, your body is pinned against the wall and the new angle makes Mac thrust much deeper now, without slowing down the speed and intensity of his hips, your bra doesn't stop cushioning your body, your skin scratching against the bare, cold wall, Mac hides his face in your neck, licking your ear again, like the day before, biting your shoulder, the pleasure intensifies and you can't control it as you feel the climax engulf you, shuddering in his rough grip, Mac fucks you through your orgasm and cums inside you with a languid moan against your ear.

Mac pulls away from you, his cock slipping out of you, settles back inside the jumpsuit and buckles it. You need a second to collect yourself, your pussy feels sore, it stings, but you can tell it was the best moment of your life. You smile looking at him, you reach for your panties to get dressed, but Mac grabs your arm forcing you to look at him again.

"Mac? What's wrong?" You look at him hesitantly.

"What yer doin'?"

"I-I'm going home... or d-do you want to come with...?"

"No."

"W-what do you mean?"

"Yer mine." He grins wickedly and holds you by the neck tightly. "And yer ain't goin' anywhere."

**********

The End.

***

Hope you liked it!

See you in the next stories!!

[darylsgirl]

Mac - Red Canyon Fan Fictions

Mac's Girl

Summary: Following the same story as the movie, You go to Cainville Utah with your 5 friends for the summer, Thinking it would just be a nice summer riding dirt bikes and drinking. Little did you know the sick twisted man known as Mac has his eye on you and is going to make you his.

Word count: 9.6k

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