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sinsofsummers · 11 months

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sensational

6.9k | joel miller & f!innocent!reader part two

this comes from this request. a few liberties were taken with the details (the reader knows that sex exists, but not much else), just fyi!

summary: thanks to becoming an orphan at age 13, you've lived the rest of your life oblivious to all the world can offer. now that you're in jackson, joel miller ignites something in you that only he can give answers to. warnings: slight angst (mentions of parent loss), innocent!fem!reader, age gap (joel is 56, reader is 25), kind of pervy!joel, smut (18+, mdni!!!), fingering, grinding, reader watches old pornos with joel, slight praise kink, no use of y/n. note: i planned originally to have this be just one part, but even though it ends in a way that i like, i could maybe be convinced to write a second part teehee (part two coming soon!)

You used to love the rain. The way it cascaded down your skin in little droplets, cleansing your body from a hard day's work, and the way it made your hair look so perfectly disheveled.

You craved the rain, until it became nothing but a reminder of the night your parents died.

It had been years at this point, but you would never quite forget how young, and small, and unsuspecting you'd been when they told you to run. How cruel, that time might pass, you might change, but with one smattering of rain, you returned so swiftly to the worst night of your life.

The three of you had been living alone, making your way...somewhere, but they never told you where. Your parents' only wish was to keep you safe, that much was clear. So it shouldn't have been a surprise that upon an ambush by at least ten clickers, after both your parents had been infected, that they'd insist that you run.

"Please, darling," your mother had pleaded, a lump in her throat as she formed the words. "Don't make me beg. I need you to run. Promise?"

Your father was somewhere else, but you could hear him yelling in the distance, in a fight for his life. You were too young, even at thirteen, to understand that those were the sounds of a dying man.

"I'll be right behind you," she'd choked on the last phrase, and in hindsight, you knew she was lying. But in the moment, you'd believed her. You couldn't see the bite she was hiding on her arm, her fate already sealed. "I'll come for you, my love," she insisted, "but I need you to go. Head for the woods."

It was the last time you saw her. You'd turned tail and had run as fast as you could for the woods.

The last thing you heard was a gunshot. A single shot, echoing around you in the trees. It may have been impossible to know, but you didn't need to turn back. Your parents were dead.

If you hadn't found Jackson, who knows how long you might have lasted. Nearing your twenty-first year, you'd proven valuable to the community, and they'd welcomed you in. Jackson was the first home you'd had since you were five.

It hadn't occurred to you that you were years behind your peers in terms of...well, everything, until you met Joel.

Rugged, tan, and sporting a perpetual frown paired with an ever-present crease between his brows, Joel Miller was your patrol partner. You weren't exactly sure why, and he didn't seem particularly pleased about it, but then again—he never seemed particularly pleased about anything.

It hadn't struck you as anything to be proud of, or to boast about to the other young women in Jackson, but they certainly loved coming up to you and expressing their jealousy when they felt so inclined.

"What's he like on patrol?" they'd ask, their eyes wide and lips curled in smirks as they waited for any insight you could give them on his mysterious personality.

All you could ever say over the next four years was a quick, "He's quiet."

Maybe that was why the two of you worked well. He wasn't much of a talker, and after you'd lost your parents, you hadn't been one to waste any breath on conversation, especially when you had survived alone with your own thoughts for almost eight years.

Silence was your mutual understanding. No talking meant no questions, and no questions meant no problems.

And this worked. Until it didn't.

-- -- --

It started like anything started. Quietly, hardly a bother, until it sank into the marrow of your bones and demanded that you address it.

More literally, it started in your shoulders. You'd been on patrol with Joel, a quiet, "Let's go," his only words to you that morning. They were his only words to you every morning, and that day was no different.

Patrolling with him was easy. Like you'd said—no talking, so no problems. You rode next to each other on your respective horses, and there was nothing more than a glance or two toward each other when necessary. It was the only form of communication that the two of you shared.

His big brown eyes had always startled you, looking so inviting in the contrast of the white snow during the winter, but they never showed you more than he allowed you to see. And all you saw of Joel was his dedication to sleep, patrol, eat, and repeat.

You hadn't felt the desire to look that closely at him until some of the girls in Jackson asked you how big his hands were, or what he looked like up close.

"You know," one of them had crooned, not realizing you were unsure of their intentions, "what does he look like without that big old coat on?"

You'd shrugged. "Why should I know?"

Another one wiggled her eyebrows. "Doesn't it get...lonely out there? Nothing but you, the snow, and a big man like Joel to keep you company?"

The faces of those girls, the glint in their eyes, it was something you couldn't quite decipher, as much as you wished you could. So one day, you'd asked the man himself what it all meant.

When you said it for the first time, it was so quiet that you could hardly even hear yourself.

Joel grunted, the only indication that he'd heard you.

Your cheeks burned, but you couldn't find a reason why. This was just Joel. He seemed to know everything there was to know about life; surely he could help you understand this. "Why do the girls in town keep asking me what it's like to patrol with you?"

He didn't answer for a second, but then shrugged. "They botherin' you?"

"No." You weren't quite sure that was true, and knowing him, he could probably hear the lie in your voice. "They're just kind of...belligerent."

His eyebrow cocked. "S'a big word," he mused. "Sure you know what it means?"

Your cheeks grew hot. "Yes," you insisted sharply. "I do read, you know."

He murmured a response, but the wind carried it away from you. You rode in silence for a bit longer before he said, "Don't let those girls get in your head. I think they just wanna get a rise outta you."

"A rise?"

Joel nodded and brought his horse to a routine stop. This was where the two of you always stretched your legs. He reached up to help you down your own mount and set you on the ground gingerly. "You know," he said, as if you should know, but with no regard for the fact that you didn't. "You're still kinda new here. Seems they're still pretty dead-set on embarrassin' you."

"I'm not embarrassed," you insisted again. "I just...is there a joke I'm not getting?"

"Any reason you chose to talk so much today?" was his only answer, which made your stomach clench.

There was no reason for you to be offended, as it was your typical routine to remain quiet unless absolutely necessary, but you couldn't help the way your lips curved downward. "Sorry," you mumbled, "forget I asked."

He was quiet again as the two of you walked at least two hundred paces, stretching out your sore muscles in the snow. It used to be comforting, the silence. It wasn't maddening, it didn't ever bother you if Joel was in his thoughts. You weren't even sure at times if he had any. But all that had changed now; his brow creased more than it usually did, and you wanted nothing more than to ask him what he was thinking.

Joel was the one constant in your life now. Maybe it was a—well, probably it was a trauma response from losing your parents, but you couldn't help it. You didn't need much from anyone, just someone to stay. Joel was strong enough to take care of himself and was smart enough not to make any rash decisions. As far as you could tell, he'd stay.

So how could you be so embarrassed by asking these questions?

"I forgot how long you said you were...alone out there," his grunting voice filled the space between you once more. It was quiet, and he sounded hesitant, as if he wasn't sure how to speak.

"Since I was thirteen," you said mechanically, so familiar with others in Jackson asking the same question.

"Shit," he cursed under his breath. "And you're how old?"

"Twenty-five," you said, feeling oddly small in his presence.

He shook his head. "That's a long time to be alone," he muttered, blowing out a breath.

You huffed. "Yeah, well, I survived. And besides, I've been here for four years now, you know."

"I know."

Again, the silence. Infuriating.

Then, you couldn't help it. "What's...'spooning,' and why do those girls ask me if we've done it?"

Joel stumbled, reaching out for balance. His hand found purchase on your shoulder, and you caught him awkwardly. "You don't even know what spooning is?" He sounded incredulous, as if you'd asked a juvenile question.

The warmth from his hand was astonishing, and distracted you from your embarrassment, if only for a moment. It sank through his glove into your coat, and down toward your skin. Something about the weight of his hand on your shoulder, even for a second as he removed it quickly, was enough to send you spiraling.

Your face burned. "Never mind," you said quietly and mounted your horse again. How stupid could you get? You scolded yourself. You'd ventured too far into this conversation, and now you didn't know how to get yourself out of it. "I was just...never mind. We should get back."

He nodded, but his face still looked somewhat pinched. "Yeah. S'getting dark."

The sun was still up. No intention of sinking beneath the horizon for at least a few hours. You rode again in uncomfortable silence, this time letting it fill the space. You foolishly thought that maybe if you were quiet long enough, he'd forget that you'd made a fool of yourself, that you'd exposed yourself to the truth: that you knew hardly anything about...anything except for survival instincts.

When Joel spoke again, it surprised you. "I didn't mean to tease ya," he said. "It's just kind of a surprise that you're not...that you don't..." he looked over at you, and there was some type of pleading in his eyes, as if he were begging you not to make him say it.

"That I don't what?" you said dumbly, hoping you didn't sound as childish as you felt.

He pondered his next words carefully, and then he hummed, "If you want, I could...teach you some stuff."

"Like spooning?" You felt a warmth in your face as you watched his shoulders hunch with a soft laughter. Your own shoulder burned where he'd touched it, and something bloomed in your gut.

He chuckled. "I don't know about all that," he said, "but I'll help you get...back on track. Would hate for someone to take advantage of your...innocence." It sounded sinful, the way he said it, and the something in your gut pulsed.

"You don't have to," you shook your head, but you didn't even believe the words as they came out of your mouth. "I'll just ask someone else."

"Darlin', don't trust anyone else to give you straight answers. I'm older'n half of everyone in Jackson, anyway." He flashed you a look. "I'll help. Whatever you want to know."

You bit the insides of your cheeks, your stomach turning strangely. "Anything?"

He nodded dutifully, but his eyes had already left yours. Joel Miller, ever the professional. "Whatever you want."

-- -- --

Joel liked to consider himself someone who would never again suffer the shock of surprises. After having lived through and seen more shit than any normal person could, he thought he'd experienced it all.

That is, until her pretty lips had opened and asked him to teach her about all she'd missed. Until she asked him to teach her.

He hadn't really seen her as the picture of innocence until he'd heard how long she'd been alone, surviving with no one and nothing besides her own thoughts and the clothes on her back.

The least her parents could do was teach her how to shoot, he'd thought when he first met her. It was a curiosity that was quickly resolved, as she'd proven herself valuable to Jackson.

Tommy had wasted no time putting them on patrol together. "It'll be good for you," his brother had reasoned when he brought up concerns. "You know, to talk to someone out there. I know she's on the young side, but you don't gotta fall in love with her." He'd flashed an apologetic smile when Joel had scowled. "You're scarin' everyone, Joel. Bein' all quiet and shit...it's—"

"It's what?" he'd asked gruffly. "I don't do it on purpose. I'm a grown man."

This was all true, and he very much didn't do it on purpose. With no one around whom he deemed worthy of his conversation, Joel Miller had become the quiet, introspective version of himself that everyone decided to become scared of all of a sudden.

The way he saw things? It wasn't his fault everyone in Jackson was boring. Or childish.

But her. With her unmistakable will to survive and those eyes that could burn fierce with ire one moment, and soften with curiosity the next...it was only a matter of time before he agreed to do whatever she asked.

He should have seen it coming, especially considering her past. Every time he thought of just how...unsuspecting she was about...everything, he had to shake his head, clearing it of any thoughts that threatened to take advantage of her.

But being ignorant of spooning. He had to clear his throat every time he thought of what that might mean for himself in this particular arrangement. If she knew nothing of something so...palatable, he could hardly help himself when thinking of what else she might be unaware of.

He tried to be patient, and he tried to be respectful, but at the end of the day, he was Joel Miller. From the moment she looked at him with those wide eyes, he was lost.

-- -- --

"What I would give to give that man the ride of his life," one of the girls next to you hummed at breakfast the next morning, her eyes presumably glued to Joel, who'd just come into the cafeteria. You didn't look up at him, instead casting a confused glance toward the girl who'd spoken.

"Ride where?" You cursed your quick instinct to ask questions, as the girls erupted into a fit of giggles. Face burning, you looked down again at your plate. "Never mind," came your almost instantaneous response. You were getting used to having to apologize for your ignorance, and people rarely—especially not these girls—offered their kindness.

One of the other girls snickered. "Why don't you ask him? I'm sure there's nothing much to talk about out there anyway," she said, smiling widely. Her next words were nothing short of a drawl, the complete essence of mockery. "'Joel, what's it mean to ride?'" she pinched her face in what you assumed was an impression of you, and it only made your eyebrows furrow despite your stomach sinking in utter horror.

And then there he was. He'd called your name, and now he was standing behind your left shoulder, hand outstretched to save you.

You were sure his hand had never looked quite as appealing as it did now. The calluses on his palm were raised and visibly rough. For a moment, you stared at his fingers and wondered what they might feel like against your cheek.

Swallowing a lump in your throat, that something arose in your gut once more before you heard him murmur your name again.

"Come on," he grunted, but there was a gentleness to it that made the hair on the nape of your neck stand on end. "Time to go."

The girls at your table were silent when you took his hand gingerly and let him lead you from the cafeteria. You noted the swift wave of cold that hit your hand as soon as he dropped it, just a second later. Clasping your hands together, you hoped in a fit of desperation that you might preserve some of the weight and warmth of his touch on your skin. It failed.

"Thanks," you said later, when the two of you were outside the community's borders. Jackson felt a bit too stuffy for any real admissions of gratitude, you'd decided. It turned out to be a good conclusion when you felt the delicious churn of your stomach at the idea of being alone with him once more.

I'm sure there's nothing much to talk about out there anyway, one of the girls had said. Doesn't it get lonely out there? You were reminded of another's teasing, and this time your cheeks burned at the memory. Nothing but you, the snow, and a big man like Joel to keep you company.

He was big, you considered. When he stood next to you, his frame was almost larger than life, and his shoulders were sinfully broad when you watched him walk in front of you on previous patrols. The sheer size of him was enough to send you into a heady descent.

As usual, Joel didn't answer for what felt like ages, and you'd begun to wonder if he could see where your train of thought had led you. Then:

"You could have told me they were bein' that outrageous," he grunted, keeping his eyes forward. "I woulda helped you out sooner. S'no fun feelin' left outta everything."

It was...odd to hear such words come from a man like Joel. Although, you reminded yourself, you'd hardly spoken to him in the four years that you'd been in Jackson; who was to say he wasn't normally like this? A quiet, brooding older man, yes; but maybe he was naturally like this. One to offer his help.

"If you wanted to help, you would have made an effort four years ago." You let your words hang in the air. You didn't mean for them to come off sharp; it was simply the truth. "I don't need your help," you added, tightening your hands on the reins of your horse and swallowing roughly. "It was fine. I am fine."

He flashed you a look as if to say, is that so? You couldn't help but notice the way the corners of his eyes creased, the only sign of amusement. It was all you could do to keep your eyes on him, although you weren't sure how you were going to explain the way your mouth went dry at the sight of his big brown eyes.

"Besides," you insisted quietly, "you're not my dad."

Joel cleared his throat. Looked down, shoulders tense. Inhaled. "No," he said decidedly. "No, I'm not."

Emboldened by this clarification, you inquired, "So what did those girls mean earlier? Riding, I mean?"

If you could have guaranteed the image of Joel's eyes going wide in surprise to remain in your head for the rest of your days, you would have done it instantly. His forehead was creased as his eyebrows lifted, and despite his position facing away from you, you could see it all.

The way he seemed to wrestle with himself before answering, the way his hands seemed to clench in his gloves. "So, uh..." he started, and then paused again. Mustering up whatever courage he needed, Joel finished, "Well, ya see, when a man and woman love each other very much—"

"Joel." Oh. You couldn't help it when a breathless chuckle left your lips.

He was silent, and when he finally answered, it wasn't a question. "What."

"I'm not fucking stupid. I know how reproduction works."

Joel's chest rose and fell in a deep sigh, and you couldn't ignore the look of complete relief that washed over his rough features. "Thank fuckin' Christ. Didn't know if I had it in me for another sex talk. I'm too old to be doin' this."

"Believe it or not, my parents did leave me with the basic information." Swallowing roughly, you continued. "And I know...I know that men usually...take. It's an assertion of power, from what I've...seen."

He shook his head. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised that you've run into your fair share of dirtbags, even in the middle of the world goin' to shit." He ran a gloved hand through his hair, and you secretly enjoyed the way it stood up. "Anyone ever, you know...take...from you?"

Hearing your own words regurgitated back to you left you feeling fluttery. Shaking your head, you got down from your horse; you'd reached your typical resting spot. "No," you said firmly. "They never wanted me."

Joel nodded. "S'good," he said, and it bothered you to no end that you couldn't understand the emotion in his voice. "So..."

By now he was standing next to you, closer than you were used to, judging by the way his coat sleeve bumped yours as the two of you walked, stretching your legs. "So," you said, thinking up a way to make this conversation less awkward. "I just hate feeling like a kid again. I'm twenty-five, for fuck's sake. There's more than just survival when it comes to living. I just want to know what I'm missing out on," you confessed with a hand on your stomach.

When Joel brushed by your side again your stomach flipped. And what the fuck is that about, and why do I keep feeling it? You asked inwardly, but you were too nervous to ask. Bombarding Joel with questions, especially after you'd just started talking to him on patrol after four years, seeming to be the wrong path to take.

He shrugged, eyebrows still furrowed in thought. "There's nothing to miss if you don't know what you're missin'."

"Yes," you admitted, "but that doesn't stop any of those girls from making me feel like I'm..."

"Innocent?" he murmured, and you thought you weren't meant to hear it until he turned to look at you.

Those big brown eyes, they just won't quit, a voice nudged you in your head.

"I don't want to be innocent," you groaned, throwing your head back. "God, not in the sense that they see me in. Sounds like a damn curse."

The sound of his rumbling laughter, however quiet, sent a shock down your spine and you nearly tripped in the snow. "There's pros and cons, I s'pose," he offered. "It's like I said: I'll help you get back on track. If that's what you really want."

"It is." You stopped walking, took a look around at the landscape, otherwise empty with the scattering of trees. You swallowed, pressed one. "So...riding. It's a part of reproducing, then?"

He chuckled again, but this time it didn't come off as demeaning. It was like he was teasing you, but good-naturedly. "Let's not jump too far ahead of ourselves, yeah? Start with somethin' smaller. Then we'll work our way up."

Joel's eyes were piercing when he held yours in his gaze. If someone watched this conversation, you were sure they'd be able to see the blush blooming on your cheeks.

"Learnin' takes time, ya know," he mused, his growling voice nearly a hum that could have warmed you from the inside out.

You'd made it to the edge of the woods now. This was normally where you turned back, heading for home. But neither of you moved. The bubble of something pulsed again, and you swallowed roughly before whispering hoarsely, "So where should we start?"

-- -- --

If Joel were a better man, he might have warned her what the curse of innocence in a young woman could be. He might have shook his head, stepped back, and told her to ask someone else. He might have taken the reins and turned the two of them back toward Jackson.

If he were better, he wouldn't have stepped closer to her. If he were a better man, he wouldn't have looked into her sparkling eyes and let the question slip. Fuck it all.

"You ever been kissed, darlin'?"

-- -- --

You swallowed. Don't make a fool of yourself, you begged yourself before answering with a quiet shake of your head. "Not many contenders out there. Not any good ones, anyway."

He'd leaned closer to you with his question, and now you could practically see each line of age in his face. Joel's expression was unclear; he could have been pleased with this information or...or maybe there was pity in his eyes. "No," he said with an understanding nod. "No, I suppose there wouldn't have been."

He lifted a gloved hand to his mouth and you watched as he traced it along his lips. The gray strands in his hair glinted off the sunlight, blinking pleasantly in your eyes. That something pulsed once more in your stomach, and there was a sort of realization that came with it.

Joel, you thought. Joel is making me feel like this.

"Will you kiss me?" The words were out of your mouth before you could reel them in.

But instead of laughing, or scoffing, or giving any sign of mockery, Joel Miller inhaled quietly. "You know how much older I am than you?" he asked.

You nodded. "We're both adults, Joel. Besides," you felt a ghost of a smirk come to grace your lips, a feigned confidence coming to save you in this moment of truth. "I thought you told me to ask you these questions."

He sighed. "You're right."

"So? Will you?" you asked, with a small, "please?" coming out afterward.

He moved slowly, something you were equally thankful for as you were frustrated with, but his forehead met yours soon enough. His eyelashes brushed against your cheek, and he let out a shaky breath, letting it fan deliciously across your face. The knowledge that he was just as nervous as you were was not only a comfort; it was perhaps the most attractive thing you'd ever known.

And when you lifted your chin, just a hairsbreadth from his lips, your eyes fluttered closed, waiting for him to meet you in the middle. It only took a moment before he was closing his mouth over yours, and Joel Miller was kissing you.

He was gentle, of course, but there was something restrained about his kiss, the way he slowly slotted his lips over yours as if you might crack under any more pressure. It only made you want more, more, more...

You pressed your hands to his chest and curled them into fists, tugging his jacket to lessen the distance between your bodies even more. You didn't know how you were doing this, how you'd managed to find confidence in what could have easily been a humiliating experience. Your first kiss at twenty-five? With anyone else, it might have been a nightmare.

With Joel, it was turning out to be the most delightful dream.

"So soft, baby," he pulled back to whisper against your mouth. "These lips are so soft for me."

You hummed your response and pulled him back to you, letting him see that you wanted more. That incessant pressure was building, and it wasn't until he had his arms sliding around your waist that you forced yourself to pull back, head spinning. "Joel."

He blinked. "What? Too fast?" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, darlin', you're just so—"

"No, that's not it." You managed a weak smile, but the look in his eye, the question and the undeniable desire—is that what it looks like?—quivering in his brown irises, nearly made you collapse. He waited for you to continue, his hands never leaving you, a courtesy you were grateful for. "I feel...hot." Your cheeks warmed. "Um, there's this...pressure."

His lips closed in a tight smirk, and he squeezed your hips. "Where, baby?" he murmured, and you could have sworn you saw stars outlining his head at the sound of the pet name. "Show me," he cooed.

"Um." You paused, unsure of just how. But with his hands on your waist, his heavy, warm touch melting you on the spot, you took one of his gloved hands in yours and guided him to your stomach. "Here. Kind of."

"Yeah?" he said, and you forgot about the cold. About your horses waiting to be mounted, about your other responsibilities in Jackson. All you could see were his dark eyes that had somehow grown darker as you pushed his hand down, down, down...

"Fuck, babygirl," he cursed, and let his hand rest on the crux of your thighs, just barely pressing on the source of the tingling sensation. If anything, it made it worse, and you let a breathy whine fall from your lips. "You're gonna be the death of me, huh?" he groaned.

You couldn't form words. Just one kiss (a very good kiss, mind you) and a heavy hand on your core was all it took, apparently. You could hardly look anywhere but his face, your mouth dropping open as your hips moved of their own accord, grinding into his hand before you realized you were doing it. "Joel—" you whimpered, and he pulled his hand away.

There wasn't enough time for you to feel jilted, as he tugged you back to your horse and practically launched you onto it himself. "We're goin' back," he said firmly, "now."

Swallowing, your throat dry and rough, you pressed a hand to your cheek, feeling the heat swimming under your skin. "Did I do something wrong?"

You could hardly see him shake his head as he mounted his own horse, looking back at you to make sure you were following him. "'Course not," he called over his shoulder. When you caught up with him, the two of you shoulder-to-shoulder, he continued. "Look, darlin', f'I'm gonna be givin' you your first kiss and makin' you feel that good..." he sighed, his dark eyes finding yours. "I'm not doin' it in a fuckin' snowbank."

-- -- --

The entire ride back to Jackson was painfully long, silent but for Joel's mumbled directions, despite the fact that the two of you had taken this same route countless times in the four years that you patrolled together.

Your eyes were trained forward, and you knew his were as well, but it took everything in you not to glance at him even for a second. If you did, you were afraid that the pressure building in the crux of your thighs would never go away.

It would be unfair to say that you were completely unaware of what might happen when you got back to Jackson, but you still didn't know much, which left a nervous bubble rising in your gut. It wasn't like there were any books left in Jackson that you could read about it, or any movies that Maria would allow to remain in the community's borders.

Again, you got a wave of feeling like this should have concerned you, or at least made you a little anxious. But with Joel pulling ahead, his strong back the only thing you could look at, you felt the knot of tension release in your stomach. This was Joel. After four years—even four mostly silent years—of working together, you felt like you...knew him, somehow. That he couldn't possibly lead you astray.

Sure enough, when you were both within the borders, horses returned safely to their stables, the tension returned. Or had it ever really dissipated?

Joel hovered close to you as you left the stables. "Let's go, darlin'," he breathed, a gloved hand on your lower back as he guided you.

"Where?" you said, and you hoped it didn't sound as desperate as it did to you, the pressure getting worse. "I need—"

"I know, baby, I know," he cooed gently, his head on a swivel as if looking for anyone who might stop you. "We're goin' to mine. I've got the perfect lesson planned for ya, alright?"

It was all you could do to nod and let him push you forward through the snowy streets. If only those girls could see you now.

Once inside, you took a breath. There was no one around, and once the door closed behind you, the silence felt all the more heavy. "Ellie?" you asked, if only in courtesy.

He shook his head, and you bit your lip when you saw him smirk. "Just us, doll."

Joel shed his outer layers, and when he stood in front of you, you realized that this was the first time you'd seen him without his coat. Without his gloves, aside from that morning.

Your eyes snagged on his fingers, and you swallowed roughly when you saw the way they twitched, as if in anticipation for something. Or maybe he was holding himself back, you considered. His jaw did seem to have an impatient clench to it. Hands rough like you knew they would be, it didn't take long for your mind to wander into thinking of what it might be like to feel those hands on your skin.

With any luck, he'd give you the sweet release you craved, however it would unfold.

"See anything you like?" he teased, and your cheeks warmed.

"Sorry," you fumbled for a response, your eyes dropping. You'd meant to clear your head, but then your eyes were caught on his thighs. Specifically how hard the seams on his jeans were fighting to remain unripped. "Um, a lesson, you said?"

He nodded, reaching out a hand to take your own coat off, leaving you in the sweater and pants you'd had on all day. You were sure your hair was knotted and would be for days, but he only smoothed a hand down your face, letting you lean into his touch. His fingers were still cold, but your face was hot and it offered a dizzying sense of relief.

"I could never teach you all this," he murmured, his thumb rubbing back and forth in an absentminded swipe across your cheek. "Not without getting...distracted," he finished, pressing his other hand to your waist. Underneath the thick layer of your coat, his hand felt like a hot iron scorching your skin, despite there still being a few layers of clothes between your bodies.

"Distraction is okay," you breathed, lifting a hand to cup his on your waist. "Right?"

He shook his head, a chuckle lifting from deep in his chest. "Not tonight," he whispered. "Tonight, I want to stick to the plan."

"Which is?"

Wordlessly, he removed the hand on your waist and entwined it with your own, tugging you toward the living room where an old television had been placed on a rickety-looking shelf. "Sit," he directed, and you did so without hesitation. He paused, biting back a smile at your eager cooperation, and adjusted himself.

It occurred to you that as much as you were affected by him, he was experiencing a similar effect from you. His pants, already tighter than sin, seemed to have become even tighter, as a bulge began to grow while he stood just a few feet from your face.

"Joel—"

"No, no," he waved a dismissive hand and went to the television to grab something. He came back with something you recognized: a VHS tape. "Don't worry 'bout me, sweets. Tonight's just for you."

"We're gonna watch a movie?" you asked, trying to ignore the way your heart sank a little. You had been hoping that the two of you would kiss some more, and maybe even...you didn't even know the name for it.

"Not just any movie," he grinned, putting it in to watch. The video started. "A special one."

When the scene opened on a man and a woman in the throes of passion, you gasped. "No way," you whispered. "I thought Maria—"

He shrugged, sinking down on the couch beside you, his knee bumping yours. "She must've missed this one," was all he said.

The woman looked to be enjoying herself, as her scene partner kissed her neck, dragging his tongue from the dip in her clavicle to the curve of skin where her neck met her ear. A cartoon-ish moan left her lips, but you didn't pay it any mind. The sight of it made your thighs clench together subconsciously, the lick of pressure rising again in your center.

"Joel—"

"Shh," he said gently. "C'mere, darlin'." With no more than a heavy hand on your waist, he tugged you closer to him, situating you over his lap. "Comfortable?"

You almost said no; you knew that this wouldn't be an acceptable seating arrangement in the cafeteria (or anywhere public, for that matter), but when his hands landed on your thighs, you nodded swiftly. His fingers curled around your skin, and you could feel every pulse of his heartbeat through his fingertips, poised as if he might spread your legs from where they were squeezed together between his own thighs.

Something hard and solid nudged at your core, and you couldn't help it when you leaned back into his chest, head tilting back to rest on his shoulder. A breathy moan tumbled from your lips, and your stomach fluttered when you felt his chest rumble with a chuckle.

"That quick, baby?" he whispered, his breath fanning over your neck. "You really are a sweet young thing, aren't ya," he teased, pressing his nose to the joint between your jaw and your neck, "fallin' apart for me already?" He rocked his hips forward, his bulge pressing harder against you, and it nearly sent you into a spiral.

You swallowed, your throat dry. The sounds of the movie seemed far away as you opened your eyes and looked at his beard, peppered with gray and scratching at your chin when he leaned over you. "Joel," you whispered, bringing your hands to cover his own on your thighs, "I-I want to know everything." You'd never meant anything more fervently, more desperately, than this.

If you'd known how addicting this could feel, being so close to him, feeling his hands on you, perhaps you would have been embarrassed at the way your hips began rubbing yourself on his lap, hoping for—you didn't even know what could be after this. You just knew that the way you felt was the most intense thing you'd felt in your entire life, and you wanted to keep feeling this way, as long as you could.

Joel tutted, squeezing his hands on your thighs. "Oh, look at you," he groaned, a deep, carnal noise that made your chest constrict, "you're a natural, doll." His lips brushed your shoulder, and he darted his tongue out to lick a small strip up your neck.

Your heart swelled with the praise, and it was all you could do not to squeeze your eyes shut. "Please," you begged quietly, as if someone might hear you.

"I know, baby, I know," he crooned, dark eyes locked onto your own as his hand crept closer—to your waistband—closer—unzipping your pants—closer...there.

Your hips lifted from his lap with the heady sensation of his fingers pressed to a bundle of nerves between your legs. "Joel—!" you squeaked.

You felt him smile against your cheek. "So wet," he murmured, "so slick for my fingers, baby." He began rubbing that spot in tight circles, a slow, torturous pace. "Let me know when you're gonna come, yeah?"

"When I..." you trailed off. You'd never...how would you know? "I don't..."

Joel hummed in your ear, rocking his hips again and releasing a guttural groan. "S'okay, pretty girl," he reassured you, "I'll be gentle. Lemme know when it feels like it's too much. "I've gotcha."

You were too far gone to doubt him. This was Joel. He wouldn't let you fall, as much as you felt like you were going to slide to the floor at the feeling of his hand coming up from your leg to caress your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingertips. A strangled mix between a cry and a moan left your lips, and with one more kiss to your brow paired with a quick swipe of his finger over your ever-sensitive bud—

Something gave way and you jerked your head back, digging into his shoulder. Your legs spasmed and you squeezed your hand over Joel's, holding his hand in place underneath your panties.

"Fuck, doll, just like that," he encouraged you. "Look at you, eyes rollin' back for me. Shakin' like a good girl." His hips tensed beneath you and you felt his chest shudder as he released a punishing moan. "Got me feelin' like a damn teenager, comin' in my jeans."

His fingers stilled, but his hand didn't move. Your legs slowly stopped shaking, and the solid mass beneath you was softening. You let out a sigh, your eyelids fluttering closed. Your cheeks were flushed, you could tell; but this time, it wasn't embarrassment that brought the warmth to your face.

"You okay?" he murmured, carefully removing his hands from their places on you. "Feel alright, darlin'?"

Your head turned, nestling into the crook of his neck. Nodding quietly, you shifted in his lap. "I...I didn't know it could be like that," you shivered.

Joel paused the video, the living room falling quiet around you. Swinging a hand under your legs and tugging you to a more comfortable position over his lap, he raised his fingers to his lips, glistening with the remnants of your desire. Your jaw slackened when you watched him open his mouth, lapping at the tips of his fingers.

"Trust me, doll," he said with a glint in his eye. You whimpered in anticipation as he reached to brush a strand of hair from your face. "I've got so much more to teach you."

tysm for reading! you made it to the end! part two is in the works posted!

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delcat177 · 1 year

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Rorschach fucks cows in retrospect

#rereading watchmen #watchmen #i read this once maybe thirteen fourteen years back #alan moore #del's ongoing feud with alan moore #understand this isn't part of it #watchmen is all it's cracked up to be honestly #but tags #this was a line from that swearing guy in sexy losers #different times good drags #the true rorschach test was that he was a pass/fail for the fate of the internet #and despite that F #here we are #comics

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groupalpha · 5 months

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(To Stories)

You know, I find it funny how your ancients were so desperate for you to be the ones to fine the solution, and yet they did so much to stop it.

They said your purpose was to find the solution, and yet they gave you a body so you may keep them company.

They said your processes should only be dedicated to the solution, yet they gave you a free mind that would allow you to have other hobbies.

Tales said that you were supposed to focus more on the great solution, yet they shut you down for cycles on end so that you couldn't.

I don't know what they expected.

-crossbow anon

13ES: You're right. It doesn't make much sense. In our logic at least. But to them, they thought manipulation was a way to go. Look how that's turned out.

They thought using fear as a manipulation tactic was a way to go. She thought that making me fear he would make me scared of being punished, and in turn work harder to try to avoid punishments.

13ES: Well... to Tales Echo, as I know she's out there, hiding under my structure, listening to every message I send.

13ES: I'm. Not. Scared.

13ES: How does it feel? Knowing you're trapped within your own lies and left to rot in place?

#let the old man overcome his trauma. He's working through it.#ALSO VINE BOOM! ECHO REVEAL #can't ask bitch questions yet. but one day. one day you will be able to yell at her :)#ALSO HIII CROSSBOW ANON!#rain world #rain world oc #rain world askblog #rw oc #rain world iterator #rain world iterator oc #rw iterator oc #rw iterator #iterator oc #rw echo #thirteen elder stories #spiraling tales of uncertainty. countless fates

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maximoff-pan · 5 months

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the ultimate deception | benedict bridgerton (part one)

summary: you are a well known artist who paints under a pseudonym. What happens when Lady Whistledown comes to know of your identity? How will your relationship with Benedict evolve?

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!(artist)reader

word count: 4k

warning(s): poor writing and dialogue (sue me, I'm rusty lol), very unedited so if there are mistakes, I apologize, misogyny, penelope aka Lady Whistledown's biggest defender

a/n: this is definitely going to be more than one part, but I wanted to post something after so many months. Let me know how you like it (or don't like it haha)...comments and feedback are much appreciated <3

• • • • • •

“I wish I possessed merely an ounce of your talent.”

Benedict’s gaze seems to be wholly absorbing your latest painting, a depiction of the botanical wonders of London’s Royal Kew Gardens.

You puff out a breath, blowing on the feathery end of one of your writing quills. In your haste, it had gotten loose, tickling your face irritatingly. Tucking it back behind your ear, you wave him off. “You have much more talent than you give yourself credit for.” You admit through squinted eyes, scanning your work. “You simply lack conviction. And you worry far too much about what others think of you.”

Benedict smiles, receiving your words as the highest of praise. He reaches out to take a better look at the piece of art before him. “You flatter me.” He mumbles in awe. “But I suppose there’s a chance you could be right.”

Chuckling at his words, you grin knowingly. You’re right. It’s more than a chance…you just are. He knows it too.

You both continue to steadily eye the painting, you out of critical evaluation of your work, and him in sheer admiration of it.

Benedict’s favourite part remains the beautifully bloomed magnolias that are scattered across the canvas. He’d been sure to tell you numerous times of their elegance while you’d been working on it, eagerly awaiting the finished product. As you’ve come to realize, Benedict loves watching you work. It’s one of the prices you’ve had to pay for his allowance of your workstation being at Bridgerton House, if you could even call it that.

You are grateful, truly. You wouldn’t be able to make your own living without his kindness. And you certainly wouldn’t be able to keep to yourself in the way you prefer to.

“When will Augustus Leighton be displaying his latest work of perfection?” Benedict’s question reminds you of your fate as an artist.

Augustus Leighton is the pseudonym you paint under. Using his name, you have become a well known artist among the ton, even going so far as to have a painting hung at Buckingham Palace. It’s difficult, you must admit, pretending to be someone else. But it’s a necessary evil.

Painting as a woman would get you nowhere. Especially as a woman with no money (particularly at the time you began), no status, and no husband.

Your mother is a seamstress with little to her name and your father was a servant to Violet and Edmund Bridgerton, before his heart became too weak. He passed away when you were thirteen, only a few years after the Bridgerton children had lost their own father. You’d grown up with little money, but Violet had been kind to both you and your mother, seeing how close you’d become with her children.

You were raised alongside them, Benedict and Eloise becoming your closest of friends. At three and twenty, there are five years between you and the two siblings in either direction, with Eloise being freshly eighteen, and Benedict having turned twenty eight. To this day, they remain two of only three people who know of your true identity, outside of Penelope Featherington.

You hadn’t exactly meant for Eloise or Penelope to find out about it, but once they had, it became comforting to have more than just Benedict to speak to about your predicament. Especially considering, although Benedict has been wonderfully supportive, he could never understand the struggle a woman must endure in a male dominated world.

“Likely never. This one is a gift for Lady Danbury.” You answer Benedict’s inquiry after a bout of silence. “She’s spoken about her love of these gardens quite regularly, so I thought, why not have Mr. Leighton recreate it for her?”

“How will you get it to her?” He questions.

A smile pulls at the corners of your lips. “I have my ways, lest you worry about it.”

• ж • ж • ж • ж •

The next few days are interesting to say the least. You’d somehow managed to get the painting delivered to Lady Danbury, and as far as Violet had been willing to speak of her latest visit with the formidable aforementioned woman, you have been made aware that she adores it.

You’d also heard more about it from Benedict, who’d mentioned something about her being at a loss for words, an ultimate shock to both him and his mother. They’d never seen her look so bewildered.

According to Eloise, Lady Danbury had been surprised to receive such a gift, especially of something so near and dear to her heart. She’d said it reminded her of her time with the Queen, telling the young Bridgerton woman about the months just after her husband had passed, when a new independent lifestyle began to bloom for her.

The painting itself reminded her that women like her could be free, and one day, they would be. That sort of metaphorical mindset had definitely appealed to Eloise’s sense of social justice. She’d been more than excited to tell you about the older woman’s reaction to your art, claiming it to be a wonderful revelation.

Today though, as you sit in the Bridgerton’s common living room, the opposite representation of said female autonomy rests in your hands. The paper feels rough against your skin as you pass it to Eloise who’s propped excitedly to the left of you. You’ve never been a fan of Lady Whistledown’s gossip column, although you can admire her unabashed confidence. But despite her strong will as an author, which could be seen as an inherently empowering trait, you are of the impression that she goes about it in an entirely backward way.

Women don’t need to put each other down to build themselves up. It accomplishes nothing, consequently acting as a source of nourishment for the patriarchy you find yourself trapped in.

“You’re not going to read it?” Eloise asks as she takes the pamphlet from you.

“I never do.” Is your instant reply.

Penelope perks up at the mention of the column, eyes trained curiously on you. If you had known better, you’d say she was a little too interested.

But at this moment you shrug it off, listening with no suspicion as she asks a simple, “Why?”

You don’t have the hindsight to understand why your stomach turns at her question, but you respond anyway. “I tend to think of Lady Whistledown as a poison.” It’s the first time you’ve voiced such an opinion.

Penelope and Eloise turn to you in surprise. “Come again?” Penelope’s soft voice cuts through.

“She is a poison.” You repeat before explaining yourself. “Do not get me wrong, I hold admiration for her bravado, but her words, the things she writes, they cause nothing but pain and conflict for those she chooses to sink her teeth into.”

“But she’s an independent woman.” Eloise interjects. “One who is doing more than any of us could dream of. She is making a name for herself!”

You try to think about your next words carefully, but your mouth makes quick work of a reply. “A name which she hides behind, casting stones through the guise and safety of anonymity.”

Penelope lets out a scoff from beside you. She’s always been one to defend the infamous gossip columnist. “At least she does not hide herself behind the mask of a man.” That feels like a shot. “The people know full well of her gender, despite her true identity remaining a secret.”

You hear the implication on her tongue. The same cannot be said for you.

And she’s not wrong. You do hide yourself behind the mask of a man. You’d never once denied that.

You sigh. “I know you must think of me as a hypocrite.”

Eloise agrees hesitantly. “Only a little.” She admits. “It’s just that you do the same as Mr. Leighton.”

You soften at her honesty. Truthfully, you understand where she’s coming from, but you can’t help the urge you feel to defend yourself.

“I disguise myself as Augutus because I know that no artist or art critic alike will take me seriously as I am. I want to share my work with the world, that is simply all I want. It’s all I have ever wanted.”

“Does that not make you a coward?” Penelope inquires, although it feels less like a question and more like an opinion. This is what she believes. And she's entitled to that.

“Perhaps.” You nod in acknowledgment. “But it has also made me uniquely successful. And I take great pride knowing that my work is highly regarded, in spite of the fact that I have to be someone else to succeed.”

“Does that ever bother you?” Eloise persists. “Knowing that no one will know you for the work you have done?”

Before you can respond, Penelope chimes in with a query of her own. “Does it ever make you feel guilty, lying as you do?” This feels like a challenge.

You turn to Eloise, answering her first. “No, I feel quite unbothered. I like the privacy it provides me.” Your gaze flicks between the two girls, a fire in your eyes as you speak.

You answer Penelope’s question next. “Guilt is one of the last feelings to cross my mind.” You feel content with it. “Because of Augustus, I have my own money, my own independence. I do not need a man to survive or to be happy. I have choices. And that's a facet of my life I never dreamed could have existed. If there is anything more empowering for a woman than that, I cannot think of it.”

Eloise listens to your words carefully, absorbing them, reveling in them. She hadn’t thought of it like that, but you’re right. Independence is a sign of true equality. And you have that. Not because of the name you hide behind, but because you’d used the insecurities of men to your advantage. You’d played the game and won.

“I suppose I have been quite short sighted.” There’s much less arrogance in her tone. Eloise sounds humbled. “You’ve given me a new perspective to think about.”

Penelope does not enjoy the direction this conversation has headed. “Surely you cannot think yourself above someone such as Lady Whistledown.”

Your face scrunches in thought. “Above?” You stipulate. “I do not think myself above anyone, gender aside. But I do think I have a much higher sense of self respect than she does.”

“And how could that possibly be?” Penelope has to bite her tongue. She wants to say more, defend herself more. But she cannot.

Eloise cuts in. “Lady Whistledown has the utmost confidence in herself. I dare say more than all the women in London combined. As much as I have come to see your side, I cannot agree with that.”

“One’s high level of confidence is of little concern here.” You deliver. “Often, in matters regarding the human condition, such as these, it can act as a detriment.” Your eyes narrow as you speak. “Self respect and self confidence can coincide, but they are not the same.”

Eloise laughs out of confusion. She’s not used to being this clueless. “I don’t understand.” She says.

“Ah,” you decide to stop tiptoeing around the subject. “I merely think that no self-respecting woman would use the pain and suffering of other women, or any other person for that matter, for their own profit and entertainment.”

Eloise’s smile drops. “Oh.” Again, she hadn’t thought of it that way. But what resonates with her most is that you’re not wrong.

“Is that what you truly think of Lady Whistledown?” Penelope’s voice is calm and collected for the first time this afternoon. It almost scares you.

“Yes.” You say, before voicing, “However, I mean no offense to either of you. I know how much you girls adore her column. I just want more for you than what she does. A life of gossip is dangerous, and you deserve so much more.”

If you had known you’d been talking to Lady Whistledown herself, maybe you would have kept those opinions to yourself. But little did you know how much your life was about to change, how dangerously you’d walked the line, and how much vengeance rests in Penelope Featherington’s soul.

Future note to self, do not play with fire if one does not wish to get burnt.

• ж • ж • ж • ж •

“(Y/n), I think you need to see this.” Benedict holds up the newest edition of London’s famous gossip column.

Your heart sinks at the look in his eyes. I’m sorry they seem to say.

You haven’t even read it and you already know it’s bad. Handing it to you, Benedict looks hesitant, almost in preparation of what's to come. As you take it from him, you glance down at the ink on the paper, her handwriting etched in your brain.

You swallow the lump in your throat as you begin to read:

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It has come to this author’s attention that a certain individual is playing an unforgivable game of deception within the world of classical art that this ton so highly regards. This artisan has gone to great lengths to keep their true identity from you, painting under a well recognized pseudonym.

By now you may have guessed, this artist is a woman. One who has tricked you and lied to you by passing her work off as that of a man’s. What a horrid crime it is to keep such a secret from you, and a desperate one, I must admit. A woman so foul as to seek such attention for her art, far too greedy to be content with the life so many of the wonderful women of the ton lead. Instead, she parades around disguising herself so she can live a life she feels entitled to.

This author asks you to consider the arrogance of it all. But the question remains, as I am sure you are desperate to uncover: who is the serpent who remains among us?

And so it is with great sorrow that I announce the once beloved Augustus Leighton is a fraud. A man never seen in the public setting, has given us a reason why. He is a woman.

And her name, ladies and gentleman of London, is (Y/n) (L/n).

As I am sure you, gentle reader, are shocked at this revelation, I will take a moment to address the woman this particular entry concerns.

May I remind you Miss (L/n), I have ears and eyes everywhere. Or did you forget? It would do you a world of good to remember that the next time you think about besmirching me. And, as I write this, I must say, this warning goes for all. Heed it, live by it, breathe by it. I am not a woman you want to cross.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown

Panic crawls through your body. You want to cry, scream, maybe even simply die from the anxiety you’re feeling.

“What am I going to do?”

Your voice cracks, it sounds like glass breaking. Shattered, ragged, and tired, and Benedict can do nothing but hold you.

Again, as your body shakes and caves into the pressure you think, what am I going to do?

• ж • ж • ж • ж •

The moment Eloise enters the room with Anthony at her side, your mind is sent ablaze. Only three people had known about Augustus. Only three people could have possibly let it slip, and you know for a fact it wasn’t Benedict.

As much as you want to believe Eloise would never do something like that to you, you can’t help but feel like she might have offhandedly mentioned it to someone. Her mouth had always worked much faster than her brain.

Benedict’s gaze meets yours in understanding. He hopes his sister hasn’t done this; he’ll be furious if she has.

You’re about to say something when a certain eldest Bridgerton catches you off guard. Anthony smiles when he sees you, eyes twinkling uncharacteristically so.

“I had no idea you could paint like that.” He says. “I must admit, I’m quite proud of you.”

You blink rapidly in confusion. Proud? In all the years you’ve known Anthony, he’s never told you he’s proud of you.

“So you’ve read the column then?” Your head hangs in shame. Everyone in London has probably read it by now.

“Everyone has.” Eloise pipes in timidly, confirming your suspicions.

She’s nervous, understandably so, fingers fiddling with the hem of her dress. You assume when you finally catch her gaze that she’ll avert it quickly, but instead, she holds it well.

We need to talk.

Benedict, reading the room perfectly, coughs in apprehension. “Brother, how about we let these ladies be for a moment? I’m certain they have some things to discuss.”

“Of course.” Anthony nods with a smile, not before reminding you how proud he is of you.

If anything good can come of this, it might just be that.

Once alone, Eloise is eager to assure you of her innocence. “I spoke to no one.” She promises. “Blood be forgotten, you’re my sister (Y/n). I would never betray you like that.”

The look on her face is one of pure panic; she needs you to believe her. And despite everything, you do. It almost makes you feel guilty that you questioned her.

“It’s alright.” You assure her. “I know you wouldn’t.”

But that only leaves one person…

“I think Penelope is Lady Whistledown.” You're taken aback by Eloise’s words, like a stab to the chest. Twisting the knife in further, she corrects, “I know she is.”

Moments of silence pass before you can collect your thoughts. “How long have you known?”

This is where Eloise loses her composure. Pure shame is etched upon her features. “I caught her a few weeks ago.”

A few weeks. A few weeks… A FEW WEEKS?

“Oh.” Your murmur is dejected and weak.

Eloise had known you’d been slandering Lady Whistledown in front of Lady Whistledown, and she’d done nothing to stop you, except defend her best friend’s honour. No wonder she’d been so reluctant to agree with you.

“I wanted to say something.” Eloise stammers. “But I couldn’t. Penelope doesn’t know that I know.”

You inhale a staggered breath of air, face falling to your palms. “I’ve been such a fool. How could I have been so stupid?”

“You have not.” The girl beside you opposes before continuing, “Trust me, I am furious with Penelope. The things she’s done and said about me, about the people I care about, I’m not sure I can forgive her for it.”

You scoff lightly. Trust her? How are you supposed to do that?

Sure, Eloise has certainly been burned by Lady Whistledown before, but she’s always had her name to fall back on. “You have no idea what it’s like, Eloise.”

“I’m sorry.” She slumps in apology, shrinking in on herself. Eloise likes to think she can understand where you’re coming from. She’s a woman, same as you, one who has the same struggles against the patriarchy, and yet, hers are much different.

“Don’t.” You dismiss her apology in frustration. It feels harsh but necessary. “You always speak about feminism and the difficulties of being a woman. How it is impossible for you to hold title and rank, or to be recognized for your accomplishments. But you are a Bridgerton Eloise, and that comes with more privilege, more title, more rank, and more acknowledgment in society than you seem to understand.”

Eloise’s brow furrows. “More often than not, that name is a burden, something you could not possibly grasp.”

“And I should not have to.” Your lips pull into a thin line. This isn’t a competition, but you feel it necessary to defend your point wholly. “I am the daughter of a servant and a seamstress. I have no money, no control, and no future if I am not to marry. Since the day I was born, I belonged to someone else. You talk of struggle, but you have no idea what it truly means.”

Eloise doesn’t like what you’re implying. “You think I live a life of luxury? That I am a stranger to the adversities life has to offer? I can assure you, I know much more about the struggles of which you speak. My mother has prepared me for the purpose of my future; finding a husband is imperative.”

“You plan to remain unmarried, correct?” You ask her seriously.

“With every fiber in my being.” Is her scathing reply. And it only serves to prove your point. But you can see her side of things too.

“El, you defy your mother with your distaste for society. And while I applaud your determination to fight for equality, your fault remains in your failure to recognize the entitlement that has been bestowed upon you simply by having that choice. Unlike so many women, you can choose to live your life as a spinster. For you, those options exist. For me, I have not one choice besides finding a well suited, at best, middle class husband, because that is all I am suited for.”

In this moment, her heart shatters for you. Is that really what you think of yourself? “You cannot possibly mean that.”

“It’s how it has to be.” You affirm.

“It’s not.” She disagrees. “There’s so much more for you than a husband.”

Both your defenses are down, walls have collapsed, and you’re starting to get through to each other. She’s starting to grasp the gravity of what this means for you. Your career is more than likely over, as is the steady source of income you’d managed to build. Except where before you’d had less than no money to your name, you now had a healthy dowry (that you’d earned no less) to find a more comfortable suitor.

Eloise sees it now. What Penelope has done is monumentally life changing.

However, as emotional as this circumstance is, you still feel the need to reach out. She’s your sister after all.

“Eloise,” your eyes search hers. They tread in a sea of empathy. “I never meant to imply you have lived a life without misfortunes. I’m not trying to diminish your hurt. But I thought if you heard my side, you might come to understand mine.”

She softens at your admission, having gotten carried away in defending herself. Nodding, she smiles gently. “I do.” She says. “And while you may not bear the Bridgerton surname, you do have us. Every Bridgerton will stand behind you, always.”

Against every fibre in your being, you believe her. Somehow you’ll always have this little family of yours, somehow you hope you’ll be okay…

#benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton x fem!reader #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x female reader

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murdrdocs · 3 months

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to forever always

description. LUKE CASTELLAN has never had any interest in relationships. but when he sees that look in your eyes, the same one he keeps buried deep down inside of himself, there's nothing more he wants than for you to be with him. except, maybe for you to be like him.

includes. SMUT MDNI 18+ , heavy petting, grinding, making out, dark!luke, loser!luke, dark!reader, implications to maiming, luke is a professional at longing, reader has hair long enough to be pinned back, they play simon says, typical young adult awkwardness, drinking.

wc: 5.5k+

a/n: title from forever always by the driver era. ao3 link. art creds to yazed aljohani

You’ve been at camp for nearly three months when Luke sees it in your eyes.

You’ve been unremarkable at best before then. A late arrival without a capturing story carried along with you, no captivating backstory to draw attention. You stuck to yourself mostly, only coming out of your shell when conversing during training sessions with Luke. He went out of his way to set them up, fueled by the fact that you were older than most, closest to his age, and he didn’t want you to feel left behind when some thirteen year old could easily disarm you in five minutes flat.

Truth be told, he pitied you.

As a result, he trained you four times a week, pushing your body to its limits and sharing anecdotes during your break periods to provide some sort of solace for you. Because at the end of the day, Camp Half Blood was your home. At least, that’s how it was supposed to be presented.

During his share of anecdotes, practically each story starting on that fateful day when he was fourteen, Luke left out his true feelings about the area surrounding you both. He preferred to keep you blinded with things happy enough to make you laugh, with only enough hints of the truth to make you start asking the right questions.

His attentive training has hardened you around the edges. He’s made you a little rougher, or perhaps he’s chiseled away at the stone encasing your true nature, and the person he stood next to was who you really were.

A warrior.

An animal.

Teeth bared, sword raised over the kid lying helplessly at your feet, your chest heaving with effort and a dark look in your eyes. Darker than Luke has ever seen before. It’s victorious, with a hint of a challenge in there. As if you’re daring this kid to stand up, gather his sword, and attempt to best you once more.

Surely, with the way Luke has trained you, if the kid did make an attempt he would end up in the same position in no time.

The sight is exhilarating. It makes the blood rush to Luke’s ears and his fingertips start to buzz with the fuel he’d never been able to use. But he’s in control here. And he has an image to uphold.

He calls your name, firm and demanding. The tone of a leader.

He rests a hand on the shoulder pad of your armor, pushing you back from the kid with enough force to distance you two. He fills the space created, his back to the others and his eyes cutting down at you. It takes you a second to lift your eyes to him, and when you do, when you look up at Luke—at your leader—you’re seething.

Luke really tries to hold his smile in and he’s glad that right now, you’re the only one who can see him.

“At ease. You got ‘em.”

You watch him pointedly, nostrils flared, and Luke lifts an eyebrow with a controlled movement, questioning you, daring you to challenge him.

You take a step back and rid the tension in your shoulders as you adjust your helmet.

You don’t say anything, instead sheathing your sword into its scabbard and watching Luke once more, waiting for orders.

He has trained you well.

‎

The energy around the campfire is palpable. It washes over the bodies of the campers surrounding the bonfire, settling over their skin and providing a glow. Even some of the Ares kids appear to be beaming, although they were clearly sour about another loss.

You, like everyone else, seem to be in good spirits too. A pleasant smile on your face as you watch the scene around you.

The fire burns a mesmerizing gold and Luke finds you watching it reach up toward the sky, your curious eyes taking in as much of it as you could. Your head is already tilted up, so you don’t adjust your position at all whenever Luke steps into perspective.

He stares down at you for a moment, searching for that look in your eyes. The same one he saw during capture the flag a few weeks ago.

Ever since then, Luke has developed a new fixation, one multiplied whenever he got a hit just a few days ago during training.

He’d had you on your knees then. Your chest heaving with exhaustion as you were staring up at Luke with a look so threatening that he wondered what exactly you were capable of. You were definitely at your wits end by that point, but that wasn’t when he saw it. Deep within your eyes was sincerity, maybe a bit of worry, and Luke knew that if he drew his sword down to give you a critical hit, a final blow even, you would defend yourself.

But that’s all.

He hadn’t felt the need to prepare for an opposing attack. He knew you would defend yourself, but not go for the attack. You wouldn’t hurt him. And that wouldn’t do.

So Luke laughed. He threw his head back and let out an exaggerated guffaw as he exclaimed that you looked perfect on your knees. As he insinuated that that was where you belonged. Beneath him. Beneath anyone.

His teasing did the trick. And he has a healing scar on the outside of his forearm to prove it.

Now, standing above you at the campfire, a setting so casual that it was almost sickening, Luke didn’t see any resemblance of anything challenging in your gaze.

Instead, you appear back to usual, sitting alongside a few of the Athena kids yet not actively engaging in conversation, holding a burnt marshmallow on a stick with two hands, your elbows resting on your knees as you look up at Luke with that same pleasant smile.

“This seat taken?”

He’s already sitting down as he asks it and if someone were to return, he knows they wouldn’t have attempted to reclaim their spot.

You stare over at him with amusement written all over your face.

“What if I said it was?”

Luke shrugs. He reaches over, sliding your stick out of your hand and sticking the marshmallow back into the fire. He lets it ignite, turning it over to do the same to the other side, and after a second he removes the sweet treat, extinguishes the flames, and takes a bite out of it.

You’re watching him, waiting for a response, and when you realize that he’d already given his response, you turn back to watch the fire instead.

He lets you sit in silence, slowly chewing through the sticky food as he watches the side of your face.

You look pretty like this. The amber glow of the fire illuminates your face, casting visually stunning shadows across your skin, highlighting places Luke has noticed but never appreciated until now.

He has always known you’re pretty. He’s known it since you walked into camp, confused and stunned as demigods clustered around you.

Luke remembers looking around at his fellow campers, noticing how judgmental they seemed. Because, in all honesty, you weren’t like the other people that came to Camp Half Blood. Not terrified, young, and lost in the world.

Not only were you older, but you had a certain stance to you that told Luke you weren’t confused, just curious. Your head was lifted, your shoulders pressed back as you held up the thick straps of your stuffed book bag. You were faking to be unbothered, but as you eventually confirmed Luke’s prior assumptions, you were worried.

Worried about the sea of young faces you saw. Worried that coming to Camp Half Blood at your age was a mistake.

Until your eyes met Luke’s. His dark eyes were watching you, analyzing your form for potential. Trying to find areas that could be molded into a fighter, and aspects that didn’t have to be changed one bit.

According to you, seeing Luke made you feel comfortable. Seeing Luke made you feel like coming to camp wasn’t a mistake at all.

He is glad that you arrived as well. Because before you, Luke felt alone.

He was looked up to, admired, respected, but rarely seen as just a peer.

And even further, before you got here, he hadn’t seen himself being romantic with anyone.

But now, sitting here with the gold of the fire affecting his mood in the same way he affects it, he has the sudden urge to intertwine your fingers with his or throw his arm over your shoulder. Maybe pull you into his side and plant his lips on yours, effectively claiming you as his and letting you claim him as yours.

Instead, he knocks his shoulder against yours.

“What’s got you looking so sad over there? We won today. You should be celebrating.”

You laugh a little, but it’s not one of the big and genuine ones you give him when he cracks an impressive joke.

“Give me something stronger than s'mores and maybe I’ll celebrate.”

Luke faces back towards the fire as he tells you, “that can be arranged”.

He notices you watching him from the corner of his eye. He can’t tell if you’re smiling, and if you are, if it’s one of genuine interest or one of amusement derived from misunderstanding his tone for a joke.

Either way, you hum. “Don’t tease me like that.”

He tilts his head a little. “Bold of you to assume that I’m teasing.”

He stares at you and a moment of understanding passes by.

Then, “but only if you tell me why you look so sad.”

Luke knows he’s a brave person. Hell, he took on a dragon at just seventeen and lived with nothing but a scar as a reminder. (And the plaguing nightmares but what the others didn’t know won’t hurt them)

But he feels a different form of bravery find him as he reaches a hand out, plants his thumb at the corner of your lips, and tugs upwards.

“You know what they say about turning that smile…” He lets the end of his sentence taper off, raising his eyebrows as if he expects you to finish the overdone phrase for him. It doesn’t surprise him when you swat his hand away instead.

He thinks he sees you hiding a smile when you turn away from him for a second but when you return with another marshmallow, sticking it on the end of the stick in between Luke’s hands, your face is neutral.

He thrusts the white into the burning gold as you begin to speak.

“Do you remember the first capture the flag win? When I was on defense with you?”

One side of the marshmallow ignites and Luke turns it around so the other can do the same.

“When you were taking down the others? Of course I do.”

(Luke resists the urge to add a mention of how attractive you looked then. He doesn’t know how you would take the comment in general, much less when you seem to be going through some sort of moral battle)

“Yeah.” You take a moment.

Luke takes the marshmallow out and blows on it. He lets it cool.

“I didn’t feel like myself then,” you eventually admit.

“What d’you mean?”

You shrug. “I dunno. I felt … meaner. Like–”

“Like you wanted to hurt someone?”

When you nod, you’re staring down at the ground, refusing to look up at Luke.

He doesn’t know why he does it, but he lies.

“That’s normal for demigods.”

That gets your attention. You look over at Luke with hope in your eyes, the pair shining in the light as they flicker back and forth between Luke’s own gaze.

“Really?”

Not allowed to back down now, Luke nods.

“Yeah. That rage you have within you. The need to beat someone, to be better than someone. I feel it all the time.” And that, that right there, is the stone cold truth.

He’s never admitted it to anyone else before, but with you, things feel different. He figures that this feeling he has around you is what some religious people feel in their faith. Maybe what some of the other believers at camp feel in regards to their parents.

Luke pops the marshmallow into his mouth whole.

You look relieved as you speak. He hadn’t noticed the tension in your body until it’s gone.

“So I’m not messed up?” Your voice is small, weak, insecure, almost.

Luke almost feels bad about lying to you.

Almost.

“Not any more than the rest of us.”

What he doesn’t say is: not any more than me.

As soon as his marshmallow is swallowed, he asks you to meet him later that night.

‎

Luke feels like he’s been waiting ages for you.

He’s paced a path in the dirt, twirled the small dagger he kept on him until his fingers could no longer grip the handle comfortably, and he’s started to gnaw on his bottom lip in anticipation that at this point he worries that they aren’t kissable anymore. Because no matter how much he tries to lie to himself, he invited you out to the clearing that you train in with one intention in mind.

He digs into the pocket of his cargos, searching for a second before his fingers wrap around the small tube of chapstick he got from one of his sisters. Cherry flavored, artificially so, but it still smells pleasant enough. Whenever he’d received it from her it was fresh, the seal unbroken, but since then he has used at least a quarter of its contents.

The balm glides over the broken pieces of skin, smoothing them out as best as possible, and then Luke recaps the tube and stuffs it back into his pocket.

It’s no sooner that the lip balm has found a home again that he hears the thud of a shoe against the soft ground behind him.

He doesn’t turn around, not yet. He doesn’t want to seem too eager. Instead, he twirls his knife again, a little slower this time to prevent it from slipping and falling onto the ground embarrassingly.

“Didn’t think I should’ve brought a weapon.”

Just the sound of your voice makes Luke’s insides flutter. He feels stupid, silly even, to have such a crush like this. He feels juvenile.

A smile briefly blooms across his face before he snips it off, turning around to look at you as neutrally as he can manage.

“You should always keep a weapon on you. Don’t you remember rule number one?”

Luke watches you reach behind your back for only a second before you brandish the dagger he’d given you for him to see, a triumphant smile on your lips.

“I’m a good listener. Don’t you remember?”

Proud, Luke tucks his dagger back into its holster and you do the same.

He takes a step closer to you as he proposes his next question, a hand reaching up to flick off an imaginary lash from your cheek. He doesn’t know why, but as of today he’s found himself touching you more. Searching for any reason to justify feeling your skin against his.

“How good of a listener are you?”

Your head tilts a bit, eyes squinting, and he realizes that it’s an action he does often. The implications of you picking up things from him makes his chest bloom with something. Pride, maybe?

“Try me.”

You step back, giving Luke a full view of your body.

He lets his eyes scan your frame once. Taking in your messy hair, pinned up for the night. Your sweatshirt with some school on it. Luke, not knowing much about the outside world, doesn’t know if it’s college or high school, much less its location. But it’s well worn in, clearly loved by you. You’ve paired it with a loose pair of pants, and Luke has suspicions that if he were looking at you from behind, the flowy material would perfectly outline your ass.

He clears his throat and meets your eyes again.

“Okay…” he thinks for a second. “Simon says: touch your nose.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, but then you lift your right hand, single out your pointer finger, and press it against the tip of your nose.

“Simon says: touch your toes.”

Luke watches, seeing if he’ll catch you, but you keep one hand situated on your nose and use the other to reach down to press your hand against the beat up end of your sneakers.

“Hm, okay,” Luke nods as if he’s impressed. Like you would struggle at a kids game.

“Simon says you can stop.”

You stand back up straight.

“Simon says: spin around twice.”

You spin around twice.

Instantly, without giving you a second to rest, “spin around a third time.”

You jerk for a second, but stay still in the end. Luke points, smiling a bit as if saying I almost had you.

You don’t respond but your lips curl up into a little embarrassed smile.

Luke continues giving you orders for a few moments, letting you get comfortable with the preface of “Simon says” just before he gives the final blow.

“Kiss me.”

There’s no order from Simon before it. Just Luke. He gauges your reaction. And when he sees you stay put, he tries to move on.

“Simon says–”

But then you’re walking towards him, and you’re reaching up to rest your hands on his shoulders, and you’re pulling him down to reach you better, and then you press your lips to his. It’s light, a barely there touch, and then you’re pulling away, walking back to your spot, and standing straight, waiting for your next order.

“I didn’t say Simon says.”

Proudly, you tell him, “I know.”

There’s a moment where the only noise is that of nature. Of the harmony of the world existing around this possibly unharmonious moment. The brief balance could easily be thrown off by your reaction to the next bit. If Luke were being dramatic, he would claim that your reaction determines the fate of the world, and maybe even of his mission.

He takes a breath, and then takes the plunge.

“Simon says: kiss me again.”

This time, your kiss is firmer. You’re standing on your toes a bit, overcompensating for Luke who still stands tall with his shoulders back and his head up.

Eventually, he dips his head down at the same time that he finally gets to touch you.

It’s small, nothing but a hand on your hip, but the context of it changes everything for him. He’s touched you before, brief presses of his fingers against a part of your body to emphasize a point, or correct your posture, and then earlier when he reached out for the delicate skin on your face.

Those things were friendly, that of a mentorship even.

Nothing to this degree.

You tilt your head and deepen the kiss, opening your mouth wider as you start to take control. And Luke hands it to you.

He grips the loose fabric of your pants, takes the tiniest step forward, and presses himself against you. In return, you nudge closer to him, holding the sides of his head and keeping him steady to allow yourself to explore his mouth.

He’s a little lost, he’s never gotten to this base with anyone before. Besides the time he kissed one of the Aphrodite kids as part of truth or dare years ago. But that kiss was nothing compared to this, not even on the same scale.

In this field, he’s inexperienced.

For fear of making a complete fool of himself, he simply mirrors in the form of reciprocation.

When you press your tongue into his mouth, he does the same, meeting you not quite in the middle and simply doing what you do.

There’s a moment there where you leave Luke’s lips, and he’s preparing himself to be upset when you pull away, but then your lips pucker and you suck his upper lip for just a split second, and you return to kissing him like his knees didn’t just get a little weak.

Fortunately, the slight lapse presses his crotch against yours again, and you suck in a breath when Luke accidentally grinds his boner into you.

Sensing that it’s something good, and satisfied that he’s not the only one as aroused as he is, he does it again. This time intentionally.

He frees his grip on your pants to move his palms around, pressing into the top of your ass and the end of your back, pulling you closer to bump your crotches.

This time, you do peel away from his lips completely, but it’s to let out the prettiest sound Luke has ever heard.

Your eyebrows are pinched together a bit, your lips shining in the torch light and parted.

You’ve only been apart for a couple of seconds, but Luke is on you again.

He sacrifices the grip he has on your lower half to stretch his hand along the connection of the back of your skull and neck, fingers spreading as far as the tip of your spine to an inch into your scalp.

He lets go of the insecurities he has in his lack of experience and just kisses you. His immediate intention isn’t to take control from you. Rather, it’s just to have you as close to him as possible.

You respond eagerly. Arching into him, slinking your arms over his shoulders, pressing your hands into the muscles along his back. At one point, you lift your leg and nudge your knee against Luke’s side by way of getting even closer to him. The position change allows the first real touch of your centers together and your head falls back, exposing the pretty sight of your jugular to him.

There’s a moment there where Luke has the urge to wrap his hand around it. But he fears what your reaction would be so he flexes his hand, and lets the thought evaporate into the stiff night air.

Luke knows that he feels as he does because of the hormones swirling throughout his body, but he has the feeling that he can trust you. Really trust you. Enough to tell you everything he’s ever wanted to tell anybody.

“Do you trust me?” He says it to you, his hand pulling your head back towards his, your lips mere centimeters a part.

You nod, the tip of your nose nudging against his with each movement.

Luke kisses you once, then tells you, “the gods, they–”.

He doesn’t have a spiel planned, but his need to tell you everything has him covered. He knows that once he starts, he won’t be able to stop. Not until you understand your parents as he does.

You put an unexpected dent into Luke’s poorly conceived plan when you shake your head.

“Don’t wanna hear about the gods right now, Luke. Just wanna kiss you.”

And the way you say it, like it’s something you need rather than just want, makes Luke abide completely.

His free hand slips under your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your torso, and giving himself the first real press of skin on skin. He sighs, pulling away from your lips to knock his forehead against yours.

He slides his hand up until he finds where your bra would sit. But he doesn’t run into any more material. Instead, he reaches a hill, one he nudges his thumb against, reaching up until he finds the beginning of your areola. Then, as if he’s realizing that he’s going further than he should be, he pulls his head away and looks at you.

“Is this…?” The question makes him feel vulnerable. If he finishes it, he bares his wants out to you. And he knows that you have done the same for him already, but he doesn’t feel ready to invite the possibility of rejection.

So instead, he raises his eyebrows and waits for you to catch on.

You nod, biting down onto your lower lip. Your hands begin to search, too, leaving behind the sides of Luke’s face to tickle through the grown out hairs at the back of his head.

What follows is the most carnal display of want that Luke has ever been part of.

He starts by tweaking your nipples, applying light pressure and then smoothing it out when you moan. He watches your reactions to try and figure out what to do next, but luckily you end up pulling his hand away yourself, leading it to the elastic waistband of your pants. You look at him pleadingly, not needing to say what you want for Luke to take initiative.

Luckily, the favor is returned.

You unbutton his jeans, pull them down just enough, and reach a hand into the fabric, touching along the gingham pattern of his briefs.

There’s not much coordination to it at all, but it doesn’t seem to bother either of you. From how Luke sees it, you’re equal amounts of eager, pressing against each other in multiple areas as if you’re both attempting to fuse your bodies together.

In the excitement of it all, Luke accidentally bumps the heel of his palm against your center. He assumes that it would have hurt you, so he’s close to apologizing.

Until you moan.

That’s all it takes for Luke to push away the rest of his pride and insecurities. He takes a breath.

“Will you … can you show me what to do? How to make you feel good?”

Your reply is instant. “Two fingers.”

He singles out his pointer and middle finger.

“And then go...” You wrap your fingers around his wrist, pulling his touch up to find something that his fingers catch on, a bundle of nerves that apparently feels good for you. You nod, sighing out a small “right there”.

He feels a little dumb when he asks, “What do I do now?”

“Rub. Circles are best, but side to side works too.”

So that’s what he does.

He starts slow at first, the circles a little wide, but they feel good for you. You’re nodding, eyes fluttering shut a bit. You return your hand to Luke, pressing over his dick, and then sliding a little further down until you reach his balls.

He tries to hide his sound, but a hitch of his breath comes out anyway.

There’s a tree stump just behind you, a product of an accident Luke has yet to tell you about, but you direct him towards it, standing over him for a second when he falls back to sit on it. The two of you have sat on the stump a few times before, but never in this capacity.

Luke watches you climb over him, straddling his hips, and pushing your crotches together.

Then, you grind.

One of Luke’s hands finds your ass, the other reaches back to connect with what’s left of the tree, reclining his position just enough to provide more room. He lets you do the rest, spurring you on with little nods and small breaths.

It’s not like you can see him, not when your eyes are pinched shut.

Luke wants to join you. His eyes threaten to close and submerge him in a void that would enhance every single feeling. But closing his eyes means getting rid of this sight. And he never wants to forget what you look like right now.

There’s sweat beading along your hairline and running down the side of your face. Your face is one of relaxation, save for the tiniest crease of concentration between your eyebrows. Luke can tell that you’re warm, and not just by the perspiration. But clearly his training has been paying off because your body doesn’t show fatigue. Your muscles are still taunt, your movements are still languid. You don’t show any plans of stopping anytime soon.

And at first, that’s what Luke wants.

There’s a few moments where he’s lost in oblivion. Where he pictures the worst thing in the world happening, and it’s you getting off of him. The feeling is so delicious, your centers grinding together, bumping clumsily yet still working in both of your favors.

He doesn’t want it ever to end.

And then he cums.

Again, he tries to hide the sounds he makes. But a groan rips through his throat, jumping out of his mouth and falling directly onto the fabric of your shirt when he rests his forehead against your chest.

He uses you as an anchor, his big hands gripping any part of you that he can find. He grips your clothes as he attempts to tether himself to the here and now.

He’s huffing, spent even though he did none of the work. Eventually, he lifts his head to search for your lips, but then he winces when you keep going.

He’s speaking in fragments. He’s trying to communicate his sensitivity. But you only shake your head, speeding your hips up a bit more.

“Sorry, ‘m sorry. I’m almost there. Swear, Luke. I swear…” and it’s just then that Luke is presented with the prettiest image he’s ever seen.

When his lips are numb and there’s a wet patch pressing against his sensitive cock in his briefs, Luke remembers the alcohol he has stashed within a bush.

He presents it, feeling that same sense of pride spread through his chest whenever you seem delighted at the options, even though it’s just a box of hard seltzer one of his brothers snuck in at the beginning of the summer. When you ask him what it took to secure it, Luke brushes it off, not wanting to remember the poop scooping he’d doomed himself to.

But the sight of you grinning before bringing the first sip of a cracked open can to your lips makes it all worth it.

When you pull it away a bead of clear liquid snags on the corner of your lips. Luke’s eyes watch it glide down your chin, and before he can stop himself he reaches a hand out, once again feeling that bravery, and swipes his thumb at the liquid.

He brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it clean, surprisingly pleased at the flavor.

You both make your way through multiple cans, and it’s only when there’s a slight slur to your words and a sway to your frame that you ask Luke about your parents. And not about the stories you’ve been told throughout school, or the glorious recounts about how they’ve helped their kids. But the truth. About how Luke feels.

And he turns to you, smiling gently, and begins to tell you, becoming more and more pleased as you begin to express the same outrage as him.

He doesn't have to question if you'll be a valuable ally. He doesn't have to feed you carefully worded lines to twist your mind into siding with him.

With you, it's natural. The same as it is with him.

‎

It’s exactly a week later. Another capture the flag day created a certain buzz that flowed throughout camp.

Earlier this morning, Luke was concerned about winning. That was before he found himself in a similar position as he did weeks ago.

Standing next to you in a clearing, no other campers around to witness something that will certainly be a sight to behold.

Just like before, you’re standing over a camper with your sword raised over his frightened frame. He’s pleading, but his words are useless. They fall to deaf ears.

“No maiming!” He exclaims. “It’s the rules, remember?” His words are spoken with a stutter, the tremor in his voice extremely obvious.

Briefly, Luke looks over to you only to find you already looking at him.

You’re waiting, body tense, ready to attack. All you need is the command.

“Do it.”

There’s a rip and a scream, and Luke’s eyes don’t leave your frame.

He watches the splatter of blood meet your cheek and for once, Luke doesn’t reach over to wipe it away. He leaves it there, leaving the evidence behind as he cups your face delicately, spreading his fingers to miss the crimson, and then using his hold to pull you close and press his lips to yours.

Easily, quickly, you submit to him.

You two haven’t shared things in the most intimate form, not yet at least, but he doesn’t need that with you. Looking in your eyes, seeing that same look that he sees in himself, Luke knows that having your legs spread around his hips with euphoria isn’t the most necessary thing in the world. He would love for it to happen, and he will revel in it when it does happen, but he knows that fucking you isn’t needed to guarantee your loyalty to him.

As you submit to him, smelling of musk derived from hard work, the evidence of your effort on your face, Luke knows that he’s already secured it.

He has your loyalty.

And he can’t shake the excitement he feels towards your potential. Because he knows that the fire blazing deep inside of you can’t be contained for much longer.

He just hopes your internal fire continues to work in his favor and never against it.

#lukesworld!#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #dark!luke #celeste writes pjo #luke castellan smut

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