#Under Southern Skies | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

noxturnalpascal · 9 months

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The Hunted

SerialKiller!Joel x F!Reader (8.2k)

DARKAU! POV will switch between Joel and Reader. This is dark compared to anything I’ve ever written before. I am a spooky girlie at heart and I wanted to give this idea some legs. If it’s not your thing, that’s okay. Spooky Halloween everyone!

Summary: This Ken is a Ski Instructor. This Ken is a Veterinarian. Well, this Joel is a Serial Killer. The canon Joel is actually kind of a serial killer too, if you think about it. But this version is No-Outbreak, 56-years old, and a Violent, Deranged, Serial Killing Loner. When a new victim practically falls in his lap, he doesn’t take the time to see that she could be his undoing.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI. This is a little dark (for me). Murder, Dead Bodies, Sex, Kidnapping, Bondage, DubCon (they want it but they’re tied to a chair), creampie, blood, violence, semen, crime scenes.

A/N: This is: creepy plot with porn at the end. It’s my first posted tumblr story. Spooky Season is upon us!! Please be nice 💜

He’s been enjoying the silence of the cabin in the woods all afternoon. The only sounds surrounding him have been the soft bird songs and din of cicadas drifting through the open window from the outside, and the rustling of his own body moving about the small rooms inside.

The sound catches him so off guard, that at first he looks around the inside of the cabin, trying to figure out where the hum could be emanating from. The cabin is not hooked up to electric, so what could be making that sound? Then he realizes it's coming from outside. He looks out the windows and sees a figure hunched in the bushes, a stone’s throw away from his front door.

He steps to the front door and quietly opens it, watching her at the wood’s edge. It’s definitely a woman, he can tell by the double braids winding down the back of her head, ending in pigtails. She is wearing dark wash blue jeans, a green jacket, and has on a rust-colored backpack. He can hear her humming even clearer now, the melody traversing the short distance to his ears.

He watches as she stays hunched over, reaching into the bushes and rustling the leaves. Nearly a minute passes before she finally stands, wiping her hands off on her thighs. He notices a small wooden bowl at her feet, stuffed full with berries. She is sucking on her fingertips, stained a light purple, when she turns and meets his eyes.

“Oh!,” she says, startled by his presence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone was in this ol’ thing.”

She gestures towards the cabin. She has a point. Even at first glance, the woods surrounding the cabin appear to be putting forth their best effort to reclaim it. The roof is covered in fallen leaves, moss and lichen cling to every surface, and the front steps - made of flattop logs - are sinking down, seeming to retreat back into the forest floor. And what he knows that she doesn't - yet? - is that the musty smell of the forest has permeated every square inch of the old log cabin’s interior, and everything inside of it.

He puts on his warmest smile, softening the way his eyes are squinted, and blinks slowly. “Yeah, she’s not much but she keeps me honest,” he says, and he notices the way her body relaxes at his gentle, comforting tone.

“I’m guessin’ I’ve wandered too far. Sorry, I didn’t notice any signs posted.” The gentle lilt of her southern accent hits his ears like a sweet melody.

“Yeah, state land ends at the treeline at the bottom ‘a that hill,” he gestures to the distance, her gaze following where he points. “But I don’t shoot or bite or nothin’, so don’t worry about steppin’ on my property,” he chuckles. He can see her continuing to relax under his welcoming reception.

“I appreciate that. I’ve got one ‘a those little vans in the clearing down there, ‘n I expected more people to be around if I’m being honest.”

He notices she’s said I, not we.

“It’s gettin’ the end of camping season, so there’s fewer ‘n fewer out here, I think,” he waves his hand, hoping to convey how little he even notices the campers on the adjacent land.

“Well I’m sorry about stealin’ your berries. You want ‘em?” and she takes a few steps forward, closing the gap between them, holding the small bowl in her outstretched arms.

The pigtails make her look young. So does the innocence in her eyes, which are partially hidden behind her thick-framed glasses. She stops short of the steps, still about six feet away now, still holding out the bowl.

“No, ‘course not,” he gives her a sideways grin. “Those were gonna get eaten by birds before they got eaten by me. You enjoy ‘em little bird.” His guts twist at the smile that breaks out on her face. The way she looks down, almost bashful.

She turns to walk away and then stops, turning back to look at him. He watches her as she gives the outside of the deteriorating cabin another once-over, and then looks him up and down. “Can I ask you somethin’?” and before he can even respond, she continues. “Is it safe around here?”

His stomach clenches. He gently furrows his brows, “yeah, sure it is, why?”

“I’ve heard a couple things recently about people going missin’. Hikers and campers near here,” she gestures in a circular motion with her finger. “You heard anything about that?”

She is worried. He can tell because she looks worried. God, every emotion she has is playing across her face right now. He can read her like a book. She is so vulnerable. She’s a young woman camping all alone in the woods and she is worried. She should be.

“I haven’t heard anything myself, no. But that happens every year. People underestimate it.”

“Underestimate what?” she interjects, her doe eyes scanning his face.

“Nature,” he replies, and now he gestures around with his finger.

He gives her another soft smile and blinks his eyes slowly. She lets a genuine grin break through her worried features and she nods, taking in his response.

“I wouldn’t worry too much, there’s no one out here to cause ya trouble,” he offers, hoping she notes that he is clearly not a danger. “Besides, if anything happens, you can come back here.”

This time her smile falters a bit. He’s pushed too far. She’s worried. She’s alone. She’s not looking to seek refuge in a stranger’s cabin. He backtracks.

“I’m sure the worst thing that’s gonna happen is ya find a spider in your van,” he continues, “But please don’t come back here for that!”

He gives a low chuckle and is glad to see she does the same, good humor returning to her now relaxing face. She gestures to the bowl of berries and flashes a toothy-smile as a thanks, before turning to retreat down the hill. He hears her call out a goodbye after she turns and he calls one back in response.

He goes back inside and finishes watching her leave until the trees hide her departing figure. He has about seven more hours until dark fully takes hold. Seven more hours until he can seek her out in the clearing with the safe knowledge of remaining undetected. Plenty of time for him to finish prepping the cabin and get himself some dinner.

*****

He thinks he might be getting too old for this. His lower back is aching, his thighs are on fire, and he’s had a stabbing pain in his neck for the last twenty minutes; all due to the fact that he has been hunched against this tree for over an hour. Usually he wouldn’t still be here. He’d have made some observations, taken some mental notes, and planned for additional reconnaissance later on.

But he doesn’t know how long you’re going to be here. You haven’t unpacked anything - not even a folding chair - to indicate that your campsite setup will be anything more than a one-night stay. If you’re gone tomorrow and he has missed his opportunity, he’ll regret leaving now. He has spent the last eight hours thinking about nothing but you.

He’s thought about the way your delicate lips wrapped around your fingertips and the gentle melody you hummed before you knew he was there. He has thought about the kind way you offered him the berries you picked and the way your jeans hugged your ass as you sauntered away. What would your eyes look like if he took your glasses off, if he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, if he wrapped his big hands around your delicate throat?

No, he has to do it tonight. He can’t wait any longer.

Your van is all black. Besides the windshield, there are windows only at the two front seats and the rear double doors. However, you have all the windows covered with blackout panels. Smart. You’re a young woman camping alone, keeping your privacy is a smart thing to do. And keeping peeping eyes out of your space is probably important to you.

You’ve been playing music inside the entire time, though he doesn’t recognize any of the songs. Sometimes he thinks he can hear you humming along. He imagines you’re eating the berries you picked from the bushes outside his cabin. Maybe you’ve changed into more comfortable clothing, maybe you’re sitting on your bed, maybe you’re reading a book. Maybe you’re even thinking about him. He tried not to make an impression earlier but part of him hopes he did.

He really can’t wait any longer.

He moves slowly, not just because his body is quite literally creaking, but because he has to keep his head on a swivel and continue to make sure there are no eyes watching him. He makes his way towards the van, choosing his steps carefully. His head moves back and forth, checking in front of and behind him, watching for any movement. The night is so quiet all he hears is the gentle wind rustling the tall grass and the constant cricket song.

He finally reaches the side door of the van. The music inside is louder from here but he still doesn’t recognize the song. He pats his pockets, obsessively triple-checking he has the supplies he’ll need. He pulls a small tool out of his shirt pocket and sticks it in the door lock. He feels rather than hears the soft click that he knows means he now has full access to you.

He puts his hand on the door handle and inhales a breath, holding it with full lungs. He closes his eyes and imagines what he’ll see when he opens the door, warm light spilling onto him from the inside. What will you be wearing? Will you look excited to see him? Frightened? Will you scream?

“Hey there little bird,” he says quietly as he throws the door open. Confusion falls across his face. He looks down onto the floor of the van, where a single bluetooth speaker sits, still playing music. The single overhead light from the van’s interior barely illuminates the inside, but it doesn’t matter, since there isn’t anything to see.

The inside of the van isn’t a camper. It’s an empty utility van. There are no seats and no wall panels. In fact, the entire inside of the van is covered in thick plastic sheeting, which vibrates a strange buzz from the reverberation of the bluetooth speaker.

He has barely taken it all in when he feels a pinch in his neck. He grabs at it with his hand but there is nothing there and before he can react further, everything goes black.

*****

You hear a couple deep breaths and then some grunting. Maybe this means he’s finally waking up. You walk around in front of where he sits bound naked to a chair, and bend over, hands on your knees, face close to his, cooing gently for him to wake up sleepyhead.

Standing up straight, you watch as he slowly opens his eyes, bit by bit, working to focus. He is blinking long, slow blinks, and his eyes raise to your face. His pupils start going big and then small, his eyes start rapidly blinking as his swirling thoughts begin to come back to him.

Then you see it - recognition.

He crinkles his brows, the crease between them going so deep. His mouth begins to form a question but only a short, dry croak comes out. You can’t help yourself, you laugh at him. A quiet, melodic chuckle.

“Sorry, I think I gave you too much back there,” with two fingers you brush some hair off his forehead that has fallen forward. “I thought you were fatter under all these clothes, but you’re doing alright for yerself there.”

His eyes fall to your shirt - well, his shirt - and then to his own lap. He’s just realizing he’s naked. Then his eyes trail back up your body as he takes in the fact that you’re wearing all of the clothes you stripped off him.

His mouth opens again but you don’t let him even try to speak this time. You grab his face and his eyes snap to meet yours. “Remember when I asked if you knew anything about those campers and hikers goin’ missing?” You drop your hand from his face and step to the side to reveal a folding table set up behind you. Along the table you have laid an array of different souvenirs he had plucked from his victims.

“You told me you didn’t know anything,” you continue, as you watch his eyes grow larger as they rake across the table, taking in the items he had hidden away in his cabin. “But honey, I think you know a lot more than you said you did.”

His eyes slowly come back to yours and you can’t hide the smile you now have plastered across your face. “I don’t-” he starts. You quickly shove your finger overtop his mouth in a shush motion.

“Don’t even try that honey, we’re way past denial now. I already found all yer little trophies.”

Now he flexes in the chair. Your finger drags down his neck and across his shoulder as you walk around the chair, circling him. You watch him continue to strain, testing the ropes, checking to see for himself if you knew what you were doing when you tied him to the chair. You did.

“So what is this?” he mutters, “One a’ them yer friend? Your brother or sister or somethin’?” He continues to push against the unforgiving ropes. “This some kinda revenge plot you got brewin’?”

You can’t help it, you laugh again. “Oh honey, is that what you think?” You place your finger at the top of his forehead and slowly run it down his face, “You think you’ve hurt me?” over his nose, “Think I’m your victim?” over his lips, stopping on his chin. You lean in and ghost your lips right over his. “I’m not your victim honey,” you whisper against his lips, “you’re mine,” pressing into him with a kiss.

You stand up and take a step back. “I know what you are. I know exactly what you are because I’m the same. Well, almost the same,” and you laugh again, breaking eye contact. “When I was young, my adoptive father recognized it in me n’ taught me how to direct it. He called it my dark passenger and I-”

“Y-yer what?” he interrupts.

“What?” You’re back to looking him in his eyes.

“Did you say your dark passenger?” He looks past the folding table strewn with his trophies and sees the ‘camper van’ parked with the side door still wide open, inside still covered with plastic sheeting. “Dark passen- isn’t that from that fuckin’ TV show? Dexter?”

“What the fu-,” you slap your arms against your thighs in frustration. “Don’t tell me you get fuckin’ Showtime in that piece a shit cabin. There wasn’t even a fuckin’ TV in that shithole.”

“Well I don’t fuckin’ live there sweetheart that’s just where I-” he stops short but just rolls his eyes at you. Then he gives you a look like he’s embarrassed for you.

“Oh well excuse me for wantin’ to add a little flair to this situation!” you yell out to the ceiling. “I guess we can’t have any fuckin’ fun around here.”

“So what’re you gonna do now Dex, chop me up and take me out to the ocean?” a cocky fucking grin settles on his face..

“Jesus Christ what’d you watch the whole fuckin’ series?” You look down at his smug face. He thinks he has the upper hand again. This motherfucker. Naked. Tied to a chair. Still thinks he’s smarter than you.

“You know how much fuckin’ work it’d be to chop your fat ass up?” and you watch his grin get wiped off his face. “Think I’m gonna take the time to dismember you? You? I could leave you just like this in a shallow ditch ‘n not one person would even miss you honey.”

“Then whatcha’ fuckin’ waitin’ for, huh?” He snarls, his smugness gone. “Get it over with, let’s go.”

You walk behind him and grab a second chair, dragging it noisily across the floor until it’s parallel to his own chair but facing the other way. You plop down in the chair and lean closer to him.

“I really don’t know how you’re still not gettin’ it,” you say quietly. You drag your finger along the ropes across the front of his chest as he lowers his chin to watch you. “But you are not in charge here.” He lifts his head and his hard eyes meet yours.

“Now… I’m gonna ask you some questions and you’re gonna answer me honestly.”

“And why would I fuckin’ do that?” he says calmly, quietly.

“Cuz otherwise I’m gonna call 9-1-1 right now. When they get here they’ll see I’ve done all their work for ‘em.” you hitch your thumb back to point it towards the table behind you. He sighs a deep breath and - growls? - under his breath.

You point to the table again and ask, “How do you choose your victims?” He shakes his head, tries to shift in his chair but the ropes are tied too tight to allow for much movement. You really do know what you’re doing. He still doesn’t seem to believe it, flexing his arms and chest against the ropes yet again.

“I don’t.” You give him a beat to add more to the sentence but he just stares at you with black eyes, mouth closed and tight-lipped.

“You’re gonna have to do a little better n’ that honey,” you gently coo. He suppresses another growl. You can tell that your little nickname for him is finally starting to grate on his nerves.

“That’s my answer,” he grumbles, refusing to elaborate, staring ahead at the folding table.

“Okay hun, no problem,” you reply as you lean forward and pull a cell phone out of your back pocket. You punch in the lock code and begin to dial. You type in 9 and you see him watching you out of the corner of your eye. You quickly type in the 1 and then hover your finger over the button, ready to repeat the motion. You pause and look up, meeting his eyes.

“You wanna call my bluff or you wanna start talkin’?” and then you smile as you hear jesus fuckin’ christ muttered under his breath and watch him spend some more time straining against the ropes. “Get it over with, let’s go,” you repeat his words back to him in a bad impression of his gruff voice. His scowl deepens.

“I don’t,” he repeats. “I don’t choose ‘em.” He sighs, and you open your mouth to protest that he’s still holding back but before you can speak he continues, “I just take what’s there.”

“You don’t have a type?”

“You seem to know everythin’, look at ‘em,” he nods towards the table where you have placed cut out photos from the missing posters next to the trinkets you found in his cabin. “Does it look like I have a type?” You remember the photos of men and women from all backgrounds on that table.

“So you just take whatever… whoever you can get?”

“Easier that way. Don’t have to go findin’ something specific.” He’s not making eye contact anymore, even though you have leaned in so far your faces are just inches apart. “Less suspicious that way too. Looks less like one person is pickin’ ‘em all off.” He shrugs, then quiets.

You lean back in your chair now, thinking over what he’s said. He’s been doing this for years. You could connect some of his souvenirs to known missing people but he had more items stuffed in his floorboards than you had pictures. So who knows how high his number really is.

“Is that all of ‘em?” nodding your head back towards the table again. His head is still down, seemingly very interested in a freckle on his left thigh. But you see a smile tug at one side of his mouth. He tries to hide it before you can see but it’s too late.

“Yeah,” he lies, unconvincingly. He doesn’t see you roll your eyes. God he’s shit at lying.

You raise the phone up and wave it in front of his face, showing the 9-1 still dialed in. “Is that your final answer, honey?” He lets out a big sigh, like you’ve spoiled his fun. That’s right, we can’t have any fun around here, can we?

“Not exactly,” he grumbles. “Camping season is short ‘round here. Winter comes on quick. I have somewhere else I go sometimes,” he vaguely adds. He doesn’t elaborate further.

“Do you have sex with ‘em before or after you kill ‘em?” you ask, not even taking time to absorb his previous answer. His head snaps up to yours, his eyes wide.

“What?”

“Do you have se-”

“I don’t fuckin’ do that,” he spits, face contorted in disgust.

“Yeahhhh. But that’s what they all say. And, spoiler alert,” your voice goes high and teasing, “they ALL do it.” His face is still tight, mouth curled into a frown.

“Well I fuckin’ don’t,” he looks back down at the freckle on his thigh, continuing to curse under his breath how disgusting you are for asking. “Killin’ doesn’t get me hard,” he snarls.

“Oh honey, I don’t know why you’re goin’ all shy on me now,” you coo, he’s still looking down, shaking his head now. “I’ve been in your little hidey-hole, ya know. It smells like fuckin’ loam ‘n body odor. I took a black light. That place is truly fuckin’ disgusting.” You adjust your glasses on your nose and continue, “I didn’t find a single cleaning product in the whole place. And now you’re gonna act like you’re not in there sprayin’ blood and cum all over the walls?” He doesn’t raise his head but his eyes meet yours under his eyebrows to scowl at you. You lean in till your noses almost touch. “A black light,” you repeat.

“That’s a huntin’ cabin sweetheart, and it wasn’t always mine. So I can’t tell you what yer little black light saw but it wasn’t me doin’ - that - with any ‘a them,” he nods to the table.

Now you consider what he’s said and decide if you believe him or not. He’s a terrible liar, right? Maybe. Or maybe he’s just been playing you this entire time. You don’t give a shit that he’s a murderer. Anyone would murder under the right circumstances. But sexual assault? That’s a line you’d never cross. In fact, most of the men you’ve killed have been guilty of it themselves. Pigs, all of them, who’d stick their dicks anywhere for a moment of pleasure. They deserved what they got. Is this guy one of them?

“Well like I said, that’s what they all say, n-”

He interrupts, muttering jesus fuckin’ christ again, and more curses follow in whispers. “Is there fuckin’ evidence that I did any ‘a that? Any… sexual assault?” he spits the last two words out with particular venom, speaking the term for the first time.

“You’re askin’ if there’s any evidence on the months-old decomposing body parts found half-eaten in the woods?” You poke the freckle on his thigh he’s been seemingly obsessed with. “Surprisingly, no, there was not any evidence of sexual assault found.”

“Well then, there ya go,” he grunts out, as if that settles it. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. You can’t tell if it’s from shame, discomfort, or disgust. He’s doing a good job pretending it’s disgust. Is he pretending?

You try to ask another question but he is done talking. He won’t look up from his lap now. You even hold up the cell phone again but he doesn’t flinch. He knows by now you’re not going to dial the police. He’s shut down. So you get up and pull your chair away, disappearing behind him for a moment.

When you come back in front of him you sit on his lap, facing him, straddling his legs with yours. He looks up at you with cautious eyes and opens his mouth to say something - but say what you’re not sure. When he feels the sharp poke just under his ribs he stops short. He looks down and sees the 5” knife you have pressed into the soft spot where his sternum ends.

“I guess it’s time then, honey,” you hum. The hand not holding the knife traces the side of his face. He looks almost sad for one singular moment before his eyes turn hard and all the muscles in his face pull tight.

“If ya expect me to beg, you’re wastin’ yer time.” His pupils are blown wide. “Just do it.”

“How about you stop bein’ so bossy on our first date?” You lean in and kiss him on the nose, then the right cheek, then the left cheek. “Well….. Our last date,” and you kiss him on the mouth.

You press your lips hard into his and wait. When he doesn’t relent you take your free hand and squeeze his cheeks, hard, forcing his mouth open. Risking him biting your tongue, you push it into his mouth. Your gamble pays off when he doesn’t bite but instead pushes his tongue back and forth along the length of yours.

You wrap your free arm around his shoulders, bracing yourself and grinding your body down into his naked lap. You press your chest into his as your hand moves to the back of his head and fists in his wild curls. You continue kissing him, tongues wrapping around each other, lips moving sloppily across each other’s mouths.

You move your wet kisses down his jaw, mouthing at the patches in his graying, scruffy beard. You grab a handful of his hair and squeeze your fist, tugging gently at the roots. He grits his teeth and groans, attempting to buck his hips up.

Of course he can’t move against the restraints, but you grind down again, and you can finally feel that he’s gotten hard through the baggy jeans you’re still wearing. You let a low chuckle slip out.

“I thought killin’ didn’t get you hard,” you smile against his mouth.

“Who am I killin’?” he mutters, still simmering with anger at the topic.

Oh yeah, you giggle, your breath ghosting across his neck. “I guess I’m the one who it’s gettin’ hard,” you whisper.

You can’t help it. The anticipation of the kill is thrumming through your veins. It’s always like this, the energy, the electricity. Killing makes you feel more alive. You usually aren’t making out with them though. Never, in fact. This time feels different. You’re not sure why.

You lick a stripe up his neck, rolling your hips over his hardened length, and now he bites, nipping gently at your jaw. You squirm and the knife pokes harder into his abdomen. He inhales a sharp breath through his nose at the contact. You silence any additional protest by kissing him hard on the mouth again.

You pull back, face flushed and panting. He is looking at you with wild eyes and puffy lips, his hair pulled at strange angles from your hands running through it. Do you want to fuck this guy? You just brought him here to kill him but now you think you want to fuck him. This is a morally gray area. He’s bound to a chair and you have a knife at his ribs. Can he consent?

“Why’d ya stop?” he huffs out, bringing your attention back to him. “Are we doin’ this or what?”

“It feels kinda fucked up,” you say meekly, the first time he’s seeing any hesitation from you. You look down, twirling the knife against the rope crossing his chest. “It’s not gonna change my mind ‘bout what happens here ya know.”

“I didn’t say it would,” he says quietly, and you look back into his eyes. His eyes are dark, like fresh brewed coffee. They’d be kinda nice if they weren’t about to be on a dead guy.

“You…. you want this?”

“Why not?” he immediately answers.

“Because I’m gonna kill you after,” and even though you’re sure he doesn’t need the reminder, you poke him lightly in the ribs with the knife again, leaving a little red dot from the tip. He doesn’t react this time. He just lets a small smile ghost across his face and his eyes soften as they land on yours.

“What a way to go.”

It’s all you need to hear. You get up and uncinch the belt that is the only thing holding his pants up around your waist. As soon as it’s loosened, the pants fall to the floor, the belt buckle tinkling as it hits the concrete. You’re not wearing any underwear but the view of your cunt is obstructed by the long flannel shirt draped over you.

You take the knife and stick it in the edge of the shirt about breast-high, just above where you have the first button done up. You slowly drag the knife down the placket, cutting each button off easily with the very sharp blade. The buttons clatter to the floor one by one and when you’ve reached the last one, the shirt opens up a bit.

It’s just enough to see the valley between your breasts, a line of your soft stomach, the patch of hair on your mound, and your pink folds peeking out between your legs. You watch him looking you up and down, devouring the sight of you. His brown eyes now black with hunger. Now you can finally take the time to admire his body.

Yes you had stripped him naked and then tied him to the chair. The whole process had taken nearly thirty minutes. Your hands had been all over him, this grown man you had to maneuver while he was unconscious. But that wasn’t about sex. That was just a body. And you’ve had your hands on plenty of bodies. It’s not sexual.

But now…. now you can really admire him. He has a long and muscular neck, a broad chest, and freckle-dotted shoulders with strong muscles that continue down his thick arms. He isn’t very hairy but he does have soft arm hair, a little chest hair, and a trail of hair that starts beneath his belly button and continues down to a large patch around his cock.

His cock. Now you can appreciate what you were feeling on his lap. Why does it look so good? Cocks shouldn’t look this good. It’s fully hard, leaking precum and leaning against his stomach, his balls pulled tight at the bottom. You’re surprised to notice his pubic hair isn’t growing wild, it looks as if it was trimmed but has grown out a bit. His cock is both a little larger and a little thicker than what you know to be average. It’s not the biggest you’ve ever seen but that’s alright. In this context you aren’t looking for something that’s going to destroy you. You need to be able to walk later, you’ll have a body to dispose of.

You look back at his face and his eyes are meeting yours. You wonder if he can see the same hunger in your eyes that you saw in his. He’s smiling again but this time it’s not the same cocky grin as before, this one is genuine and filled with excitement. Your heart is pounding. You feel intoxicated. Is this the thrill of the kill or the sex?

Double ropes make an X across his chest, fastening his torso tight to the back of the chair. His arms and wrists are also bound to the back of the chair, causing his arms to be extended stiff at his sides, hands dangling towards the ground. Another X of the double rope crosses his thighs, attaching him to the seat of the chair, and his ankles are tied to the chair’s front legs.

You consider for one brief moment if untying any part of him would increase your enjoyment but quickly decide that’s not a good idea. Even if you might want his hands on your body, if you find them on your throat, it could all get very messy very quickly.

You give your shoulders a slight shrug and his flannel begins to fall off your shoulders, brushing down your arms as it falls to the ground. Now you stand before him completely bare. You don’t miss the fuuuck he silently mouths. Jesus christ what is this guy doing to you? You swear you just felt your clit twitch.

It is now obvious more than ever the effect he’s having on you, as your unobstructed cunt is so wet that the cool air hitting your thighs makes you realize you are a fucking sopping mess down there. Not wanting to wait any longer, you straddle his thighs again. This time you don’t put your legs on either side but rather rest your legs on top of his. Your feet rest inside of his thighs right under his balls and your ankles and shins lay on top of his thighs. This position is you going give you the best leverage to raise and lower yourself, since you know he can’t help with driving his cock into you.

You can see his arms straining against the ropes. By now he should have learned that they’re too tight for him to move but you think this might just be out of habit. He wants to touch your body, you can tell by the way he moves his head forward - the only thing he can freely move forward - and laps his tongue anywhere he can reach.

You grab his face with one hand and crash your mouth onto his, a mess of teeth and lips and tongues. With your other hand, which is still holding the knife, you carefully use two fingers to tilt his cockhead directly under you and you slowly sink down on it.

You both let out wanton moans into each other’s mouths at the sensation. You continue to press down until he’s seated all the way inside you, and then you pause to let your body adjust. He feels bigger than he looked. Maybe it’s been a while since you’ve been with anyone but this feels borderline painful. You don’t move up and down but rock forward and backwards ever so slightly, giving yourself some more time. He groans a little bit, maybe impatient but you don’t care, and you just smile against his mouth.

You feel your own wetness dripping out of you, down around him, and you feel like you’re ready to go. Pulling your face back from his, you look in each other’s eyes, almost tenderly. You put both hands on top of his shoulders, careful to have a good grip on the knife but not have it too close to his skin. You don’t want to be the one to do anything prematurely in this situation.

You start slowly at first, ignoring the quiet groans coming from him. He’s not whining but he doesn’t sound or look pleased with the pace you’ve set if the pained look on his face is any indication. You continue moving but grab his face to ask you good? The pained look immediately disappears from his face as his eyes snap open. He grunts and mutters a quiet it’s been awhile before he closes his eyes again, trying to focus.

“Don’t you end this early on me,” you warn. It’s a little funny to you when you realize that his punishment for doing that would be death. It shouldn’t be funny but it is. Probably because you’re fucked in the head. He barely reacts and just mutters I won’t between clenched teeth.

Your pace starts to pick up and you alternate between quite literally bouncing up and down on his cock, and grinding forwards and backwards on it. Each time you switch movements he lets out a strangled groan, clenching his eyes tighter. You can feel your orgasm start to build as a little ball of energy deep in your torso.

You picture what it would be like if he could put his hands on you. You take your own hands off his shoulders and run them up and down your thighs, careful to not let the blade hit either of your bodies. You run them across your stomach and up your ribcage, grabbing your breasts, the cold blade of the knife pressed against one of them. You cry out at the sensation and notice he has opened his eyes now and is watching you intently.

You throw your head back, squeezing your breasts, and bring two fingers to pinch each nipple until they’re over-sensitive and stinging. You look back down and watch his face, inches from your breasts, mesmerized. Without warning you shove one of them right into his mouth and he greedily accepts it, tonguing and biting your nipple.

You continue to move on his lap, driving his cock in and out, up and down, filling you up, hitting all the right spots inside of you. Your bodies are sliding against each other, lubricated by the sheen of sweat covering them. The sounds of your skin slapping echoes off the walls. The slurping noises of his mouth are turning you on even more. You can feel your orgasm now just below the surface. You know you’re close.

“I’m gonna come honey,” you moan. Jesus fuckin’ christ you hear him grunt beneath you, mouth still full of your breast.

You push yourself closer to him, pressed up against his chest, his mouth popping off your nipple. You wrap both arms around his neck and pull him tight, rutting hard and deep on his lap. It’s just there, so close. Then he latches his mouth onto your neck just below your jaw, and he sucks.

A white-hot release immediately hits your body, spreading from the core out. It hits you so hard that you actually scream. Your movements stutter and slow as you work through your orgasm, feeling your pussy contracting on his cock.

Seconds later you hear him against your neck, a long and drawn-out moan, as you feel him releasing repeatedly inside of you. You continue gentle rocking motions against him until you feel his cock still. His mouth is still against your neck, breathing heavy breaths in between curses of jesus fuckin’ christ, and holy shit.

You push yourself up off him using the leverage from your shins on his thighs just enough for him to slip out of you, your combined release dripping out onto his lap. You lay your head down on one of his shoulders, gently kissing his neck. At the other shoulder, your arm rests with the knife dragging up and down along where his carotid artery lies.

You sit like that for a while, both of you catching your breaths, getting your bearings back. You are vaguely aware of the mess on his lap you’ll have to clean up later. It’ll have to wait. You think that orgasm made you dizzy. You’re pretty sure your legs will be jell-o for a bit. You haven’t felt like this in a long time. Fucked out and cockdrunk.

He is the first to speak.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says tentatively, “before ya…. ya know.”

“You have a question for me?” you scoff, “I’m flattered,” which is true, even considering what you’ve just done.

“Were ya serious about doin’ this before? The killin’ part?”

“Well yeah, what makes ya think I wasn’t serious?” you lift your head to look him in the eyes just in time to see him roll his.

“Probably the part where ya pretended to be Dexter-” he starts.

“Oh my god I can’t wait till you stop breathin’ so I don’t have to hear about that again. I was just trying to- ya know what? Nevermind,” and you push the blade forward into his neck a little. It’s hard enough to pierce the skin. It draws a couple drops of blood but you’re mostly just teasing him, since you have no desire to clean five liters of blood off the floor of this rented garage. But you can’t help the thrill that shoots into your stomach at the way he clenches in fear.

His body relaxes after a few seconds when he realizes you haven’t pushed the knife in any further. He had clenched his eyes shut, not letting you see the panic in them. Now they flutter open and meet yours, barely able to focus, your faces are so close together.

“My question was somethin’ else,” he mutters, barely audible over the sound of your pounding heartbeat whooshing in your ears. You say nothing, just continue to stare at him wide-eyed, unblinking. “My question was… why. Why do ya do it?”

You are taken aback. Literally and figuratively. You physically pull back from him, resting on your heels back where his knees are. Your hands remain on his shoulders, one still clutching the knife against his neck. Someone is looking for the answer, you think to yourself. It’s almost sweet that he thinks you have it.

“I do it for the same reason you do it.” You scan his face, searching for that smug smile, waiting for deception to play across it, for something. For anything. It doesn’t come. He genuinely doesn’t know. “I do it because it fucking feels good, honey.”

He just keeps your gaze, nodding his head slowly as he takes in your answer. He doesn’t ask anything else or add to your answer. He’s just considering it. You get up off his lap and fold up the knife in your hand, dropping it on the floor on top of the discarded flannel. You walk behind him again and grab the pre-filled syringe you set up. This is the way you like to do things. Clean. Efficient. No stains or smells to deal with later.

You walk up behind him, standing so you are pressed to the back of the chair, his head resting against your bare stomach. You put your hands down on top of his shoulders, the syringe in your dominant hand tapping against his skin. He looks down at it and then tilts his head back to look up at you.

“Why me?” he asks. Not whiny, like most people are. Just a curiosity. Why him? Why did you pick him? Out of everyone in the world, why is it him? It’s almost romantic.

“I thought it’d be fun. I mean, it’s always fun. But I thought it’d be more fun than usual, huntin’ someone like me. Well, almost like me. I’m better at it,” and you tap the syringe against his clavicle a few times, “obviously.”

“Well you weren’t exactly playin’ fair, were ya sweetheart?” he says in an accusing tone.

“How do ya mean?” you ask, your eyes going wide, insulted by the implication. “You knew people would be lookin’ around and askin’ questions, maybe even the police.”

“Yeahhh,” he concedes, “but the police‘re idiots.” He keeps his eyes on you, watching you nod your head in agreement. “I didn’t think I was up against someone like you.” He pauses and then flashes you a cocky grin. “Someone smart.”

“Oh stop, now you’re just tryin’ to flatter me,” and you swat the syringe on his shoulder.

“I’m not,” he says, still smiling.

“Kinda seems like you are, ya ol’ flirt.” and you wink down at him.

“No, what I’m tryin’ ta say is…” and he finally looks away, staring straight ahead before he delivers the next sentence. “I bet you couldn’t do it again.”

“Do what again?” You continue to look down at him but he’s still looking straight forward, not meeting your eyes.

“Catch me.”

Now you’re annoyed. “Honey it really wasn’t that fuckin’ hard the first time. I highly doubt th-”

“But,” he interrupts, “I bet you couldn’t do it again.” His cocky smile is back, head thrown back staring up at you again. “You couldn’t do it now that I know you’re lookin’ fer me.

You push off his shoulders and walk around the front of him. Bending over, you pull his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans laid on the floor. You’re gonna wipe that smug grin off his face once and for all. “Well Joel Miller,” and you read off his home address in Texas, “I really do think I could find you again.”

“Then do it.” His smile is gone. His face is expressionless. He’s just staring at you. “Find me again,” he taunts.

You drop the wallet back to the ground and sit down on his lap, almost considering what he’s saying. You run your hand on the side of his stupid smug little face, syringe still in the other hand. You lean your face to his and gently pepper his face with kisses.

“Honey, I don’t want you sufferin’,” you coo between smooches. “Yer gonna miss me too much if I let you go.”

“How long you think I’d have to suffer?” he counters, “Hmm? How long you think it’d take you?”

“It took me less than a week this time honey. So probably not long,” you continue the kisses down his neck.

“Then come find me,” he growls, stilling your motions. “End my sufferin’.”

You pull back from him. Fuck. The thought of it made you undeniably excited. You were practically vibrating with anticipation and you weren’t even thinking about killing him anymore. This was about a chase. An honest-to-god chase with someone that might be something close to a challenge.

He had a point. You didn’t want to admit that to him, but he didn’t know you were looking for him. He had no idea there was someone like him in the area, whereas you had begun to suspect last summer, and had spent the last year putting pieces together and planning your trip this way.

It did take you less than a week of moving around to different areas of the state land with your van, finding different places to camp, until you ran into him and his filthy little cabin. But you had spent much longer than that reviewing his victims, studying his patterns, and getting yourself into his mindset as best you could.

He has confirmed your suspicions that he moved on after the summer to hunt somewhere else. But where else? Where he lives in Texas? Another off-the-grid cabin? It could be anywhere. It doesn’t matter. You’ll figure it out.

The phone you’ve been threatening him to dial 9-1-1 with is actually his phone. You'd used his fingerprint to gain access while he was out cold and then changed the passcode to something that only you know. You can gather a lot of information on him from his cellphone. That will help and he doesn’t even yet realize you have it.

You already have an upper hand on his little proposition. You’re already outsmarting him.

You press your lips to his one last time and stick the syringe’s small needle into his neck, pressing the plunger halfway down. With open eyes kissing him you see his eyes go wide and then shut. His entire body goes limp under yours, including his lips. His plush lips. You feel his heart still beating strong under your hand so you take the time to indulge, holding his head up and stealing a few more kisses before you have to start cleaning up.

*****

Joel wakes a while later, how long he’s not sure, but the room he’s in looks very different. The van is gone, as is the folding table covered in trophies and photos of his victims, as are you. In fact, very few things remain in the room.

His clothes are folded in a stack on the floor in front of him. Next to them are his wallet and truck keys. Finally, there is a folded note stuck to his leg. It’s pinned to him with your five inch pocket knife having been driven into his thigh.

The restraints around his wrists have been cut so that he can reach forward to take the knife out of his leg. When he does, the note drifts to the floor a few feet away. He ignores the searing pain and blood now streaming from the wound on his leg and manages to work himself free of the rest of the ropes.

He moves to stand up out of the chair and immediately his legs give out, collapsing him unceremoniously onto the floor. He is free of the chair for the first time in - judging by the physical state of him - what has probably been half a day. With shaky hands he reaches out and picks up the paper where it had fallen, unfolding it.

In pretty, looping handwriting it reads: ‘Catch ya later! xoxo’

*****

READ THE NEXT PART HERE (THE CHASE - PART 1)

#joel miller x reader #SerialKiller!Joel x F!Reader #joel miller smut #Serial Killer Joel Miller #joel miller #patti7dc #pedro pascal characters #noxturnalpascal

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vivalas-vega · 1 year

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Flygirl / Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Reader

this idea came to me suddenly and I could not sleep until I wrote it. I really intended for this to be short and sweet but it took on a life of it’s own lol hope you enjoy!

flygirl / jake ‘hangman’ seresin x reader

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word count: 8k

warnings: fluffy jake, swearing, probably a lot of fighter jet/flying inaccuracies, oral (f recieving), unprotected p-in-v (pls be safe)

summary: Whiskey is the Dagger Squad’s favorite bartender, and Hangman’s best friend... when he decides to take her flying long repressed feelings bubble to the surface.

Classic rock filtered through the jukebox nestled away in the corner, mixing harmoniously with the chatter of patrons scattered throughout the Hard Deck, all looking to unwind after a long day on the nearby Naval base. You stood behind the bar, fixing drinks and bobbing your head along to whatever tune was playing, pretending to be riveted by the story the old-timer was telling you. Your eyes skimmed the room, landing on your favorite group of pilots gathered around their usual spot at the pool table and you didn’t even notice the smile that tugged at the corners of your lips. They’d all filtered in a few months ago, having witnessed some old friends reuniting, new friends forming bonds, and a particular pair who seemed to be at odds but you knew better. You saw right through the two of them and knew once the pissing contest had run its course they’d be just as close as the rest of them.

You were an unofficial member of the Dagger Squad, having been their favorite bartender and earning a call sign of your own based upon your drink of choice, and they were the only group for whom you’d willingly go to your place of work on a night off. Your sights set on the tall blonde, hanging off to the side watching Rooster and Phoenix battle it out, and it wasn’t long before he noticed and was in motion, your senses overwhelmed by that southern drawl and the scent of his cologne. “Just the bartender I was hopin’ to see.”

“Hangman,” you greeted, trying not to smile as you prepared a gin and tonic for the mousy brunette now ogling the pilot who was only focused on your hands as you quickly mixed the drink. You set it before the girl who slowly went back to her friends, chuckling as she nearly tripped over her own feet in an attempt to keep her eyes on him for as long as possible, “she’s cute, you should go after her.”

“Who?” He mused, eyes boring into your own as he flashed his famous smirk and you just shook your head, pouring his drink into a tumbler and handing it to him before he even had a chance to order. “Not the whiskey I was hoping for,” he angled, referencing the callsign he’d bestowed upon you.

“You simply couldn’t handle it, Hangman,” you teased, wiping the bar down and raising an eyebrow at him. “You said you wanted to see me?”

“Mmhm, Maverick has granted me a favor,” he stated, watching as you slipped your apron off and tossed it under the bar, pouring your own drink before hopping over and following Hangman to your group of friends.

“And what might that favor be?” You knew better than to fall into any of his traps, but the setup of this one had your curiosity piqued.

“Well, we were all talking and we thought it was a damn shame our newest member has her own callsign, but has never been up in a fighter jet.” Your brows furrowed as you processed the implication of what he’d said, eyes shooting to Phoenix, then Rooster, looking for any hint of him yanking your chain.

“You’ve heard all our stories but have never experienced it, it was actually my idea,” Phoenix supplied and you gave her an exasperated look. Sure, they made what they did sound cool as hell and you loved how passionate they were about their line of work but you preferred your feet firmly planted on the earth below you, not whizzing around the skies.

“And, seeing as I saved Mav and Rooster’s life, I had a favor to cash in. Secured a two-seater and a spot on the runway at nine am tomorrow morning… so maybe make that your only drink tonight.” Hangman eyed the amber liquid in your glass.

“I’m not getting in a jet with you, Bagman,” you replied simply, earning a snort from Rooster.

He couldn’t hide his shock, “you don’t want to fly with the best pilot in the Navy?”

“Oh, so Maverick is taking me up? You should really work on your delivery, you had me confused for a moment.” Rooster let out a full laugh now, enjoying as you so easily worked him up.

“No, you’ll be flying with me. I thought you would be excited,” his tone was playful but you sighed as you heard the undertone of hurt.

“Flying is just not my thing,” you tried to save yourself but the looks of your friends made you realize you weren’t getting out of this. You should have been excited, even touched that they so badly wanted to share this part of their lives with you, to clue you in on the most important thing to them but in reality all you felt was a pit of anxiety. Especially because it was Jake Seresin you’d be flying with. You trusted him implicitly, on the ground, but in the sky? Well, you’d heard the stories of the cocky pilot, keen on taking risks and pulling out dangerous maneuvers even when the situation didn’t necessarily call for it. It was enough to make you shudder from your safe spot behind the bar, and you were perfectly fine with not completely being in the loop whenever they talked about their time in the air.

“Whiskey, you’re going to love it, I promise.” Phoenix reassured, looping her arm through yours, the other wrapping around your waist. You leaned against her and sighed, mind running with all the what if’s. What if this was the one time there was a malfunction with his engine, what if this was the one time he didn’t stick the landing, what if this was the one time he can’t fly his way out of a bird strike, what if- “I can literally hear the grinding of gears in your brain, Mav wouldn’t have said yes if he knew you wouldn’t be safe.” Phoenix broke you out of your spiral with a new tactic to calm your nerves, placing a kiss to your cheek and going back to her pool game.

“Wait no, come back I think she’s still anxious,” Hangman called after her, having enjoyed the moment of affection between you two but all he got was two middle fingers. You checked the time on your watch, realizing the night was winding down and you glanced at Penny who waved you off, conveying that you were fine to leave for the evening. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.” Hangman said to you softly, encouraging you to finish your drink and before you knew it he was taking your glass to the bar and grabbing your bag from Penny.

“If she comes off that jet with even a hair out of place, Hangman…” You could hear her warn and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Don’t worry Pen, you won’t even have the chance to kill me… there’s more than enough people on base that will do it for you.” He wasn’t wrong, you’d become a bit of a fixture to all of the Naval officers in the area, much like Penny had. You were there almost every night, fixing them drinks and offering a listening ear, whether they needed to decompress after a stressful day or boast over a victory and you wouldn’t have changed it for anything. You loved being at the Hard Deck, Penny paid you far more than she should and she encouraged you to follow your passions, indulging any one of your whims with nothing but love and support.

“You’ll be fine, you know. He cares about you more than anything, he’s not going to be reckless with you.” Rooster all but whispered into your ear as you hugged goodbye and it actually eased some of the tension that had your body rigid. He felt the change and smiled as he pulled away, a little smug to know he was the one that calmed the racing thoughts. “And if you change your mind, I’m sure I could sweet talk Mav into letting me take you.” He joked and you just shook your head with a small laugh, smiling up at Jake as his hand rested on the small of your back.

“So you two can run out of fuel above the Pacific?” He jabbed and you just waved your hand between the two of them.

“Not this argument again,” you sighed as you remembered the first night you’d met them all, and their little stand-off by the pool table. Jake’s hand was feather light on your back as he guided you out of the bar and into the cool night air, sliding his jacket over your shoulders just as he always did.

“You know, we do this every night, you’d think you’d remember a jacket.”

“Hoes don’t get cold.” You mumbled, wrapping it around your frame and he barked out a laugh. The silence was comfortable as you started the short walk along the beach to your bungalow, an old family home passed down not too far from the bar. You two had been doing this ever since you met, Jake knew you could take care of yourself but that didn’t stop him from wanting to see for himself that you’d made it home safe, and after one night of forgetting to text him once you did he made it his personal mission to be your escort. You’d protested, saying something about being strong and independent, but in reality you loved it. Out here you saw a completely different side of him. He wasn’t Hangman, he was just Jake.

“Why did you ask Mav if you could take me flying?” You finally asked, breaking the silence. It was so soft he almost didn’t catch it over the sound of the waves lapping against the shore a few yards away.

“Phoenix had a point, you’re a part of the squad and have to listen to all our stories, only seems fair to let you experience it for yourself.” He supplied the same answer from earlier in the night through tight lips and you narrowed your eyes as you looked up at him knowing he wasn’t giving you the full truth. Sure, it was a reason, but it wasn’t the reason.

“Wanna try that again?” You asked, climbing up the stairs of your back porch and settling into the creaky porch swing just as you always did, patting the spot beside you.

He was silent for a moment, swaying the two of you as he sat down, carefully considering his next words but sighing as he knew there wasn’t really anything he could get past you. “I’d honestly been thinking about it before Phoenix brought it up… she just gave me the perfect excuse to finally do something about it. Sometimes I feel like you’re the only person that actually knows me, but you’re missing this huge part and I don’t know… I kind of just wanted to share that with you.” Your breath caught at his vulnerability. You did know him better than anyone, your short walks on the beach that turned into long conversations on that very porch swing into the wee hours of the morning created a bond you didn’t have with any of the other aviators. Somewhere deep down you’d known the two of you were dancing around something much bigger than friendship but you’d both never admit it to yourselves or anyone else for fear of wrecking what you already had. They’d all been on North Island for much longer than you anticipated, and it seemed it would stay that way for a little while longer, but the thought of them all being whisked away from you, especially him, sent a sharp pang through your heart every time it crossed your mind and you’d never jeopardize your moments on the porch swing for something that may not pan out.

“You don’t actually have to if you don’t want to… I probably shouldn’t have sprung it on you in front of everyone, I just-” he started, seeing you deep in thought and suddenly getting self conscious, a feeling so foreign to him he couldn’t stand it.

“No, Jake I’m really touched you even want to take me flying… I know how much it means to you. I’m just a little scared, I mean I’ve heard all of your stories, and Rooster’s and Phoenix's and I just don’t understand how you guys do that every day.”

“Darlin’, all that scary stuff happens on missions. We’re just going on a little joy ride, no enemies lurking around or SAM’s to watch out for. Just you, me and the open sky.” He promised.

“It’s not even that, I…” you trailed off, knowing it was unfair to keep yourself guarded and not share what you were really scared of when he’d been so open with you, but something was stopping you from taking the plunge.

“Tell me,” he encouraged softly, his hand taking up residence on your thigh and rubbing reassuringly.

“I’m scared that I’m going to understand,” you admitted and he looked at you a little confused but waited for you to gather your thoughts enough to continue. “It really terrifies me, you know? What you all do… you rowdy pilots came into my bar and my life hasn’t been the same since, you guys are my family and I hate knowing that any one of these days you could get called away and never make your way back home to me. I’m scared that once I get up there with you I’m going to understand why you all love it so much and then I’m not even going to be able to be mad at you when something goes wrong.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he said, tenderly brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. He was sure his heart had broken wide open hearing your confession, hearing that this had been a fear of yours for longer than he knew. “We’re all going to be just fine, I don’t know if you know this or not but… Dagger Squad is pretty badass.” He said with a small smirk, trying to lift the mood.

“Maverick and Rooster almost died.” Your voice was small and he wasn’t sure how to combat this one. You were right, they did almost die and it was your voice that pushed him to fly after them, your voice that overruled every fiber of his being that was trained to take orders, your voice that got him a slap on the wrist for doing just the opposite. Sure, despite his icy exterior he’d grown a soft spot for Rooster, but more than that he just wasn’t sure he could ever look you in the eye again if he had to come home and tell you they hadn’t made it, that he didn’t do anything to help.

“But they didn’t. We’re an official squadron now, and we’re always going to have each other’s backs. No one on this team is dying until we’re all old and gray, and if for whatever reason something does happen, well… maybe then at least you’ll have the comfort of understanding. Understanding why we do it, and why we’re all okay with the risks.”

You nodded, “I am excited to fly with you, Jake. I kind of just wish you all had chosen different passions,” you said half-heartedly.

“Well sweetheart, then none of us would have ever walked into your bar.” He pulled you into his side, placing a reassuring kiss on your temple and you sat like that for a while, just enjoying the silence and feeling a little better that you’d told him your fears, about the one thing that often kept you up at night. He eventually tugged you up after you let out a loud yawn, pulling out his keys and unlocking your door with the spare you’d given him a while ago… engraved lovingly with ‘Dagger Spare’, a teasing prod to his position within that mission all those months ago. “Let's get you to sleep, you’ve got an exciting day ahead of you.”

He waited on the edge of your bed while you got ready, his own mind swirling as he reflected on what you’d told him. Sure, he knew you’d probably be disappointed if anything happened to them on a mission but he was hung up on your emphasis on him making his way home to you. Of course he flirted with you relentlessly, how could he not? He had decided a while ago you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and not just physically, though his mind, and eyes, did wander. You weaseled your way into his heart about a minute after he met you, in awe of how you handled the busiest night in the bar on your own, still finding the time to banter with him and challenge him like you’d known him your whole life. But despite it all, he would never cross that boundary, never intentionally push you too far with his remarks for fear of messing up a friendship with the only person he’d ever fully trusted.

“You can stay, if you want.” You mumbled, emerging from the bathroom in an oversized Navy shirt abandoned long ago by Jake after a group beach day at your house, and your hair tied up in a bun. Truth be told, it was one of his favorite comfy shirts, but he just didn’t have the heart to ask you for it back when you wore it so much better.

“That’s alright, darlin’,” he said, standing and pulling back the covers for you to slip into bed. You smiled softly as you settled in, watching as he propped himself up with a hand on your headboard to look down at you, “have something I need to grab before I blow your mind tomorrow.”

“Is that so?” Sleep was tugging at the corners of your mind and Jake committed the scene before him to memory, you looking up at him through tired eyes, his shirt riding up your exposed thighs. He tugged the blankets over you before the sight pushed him to do something reckless.

“Mmhm,” he replied nonchalantly before grabbing your phone, setting an alarm and plugging it in for you. “Meet me on base at 8, have some safety stuff to go over with you before I can take you up.”

You nodded, pulling the blankets under your chin and snuggling further into bed. “Thank you, Jake.”

“What for, sweetheart?”

“For being you.” Your eyes were closed now and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before you were asleep. He couldn’t help but smile, ducking down to brush your hair out of your face and place a chaste kiss to your forehead.

“Sweet dreams, honey.”

-----

The morning air sent a chill up your spine as you rolled down your window and passed your ID to the Naval officer at the guardhouse just outside the base, verifying you were in fact given clearance for the day. He waved you through and you felt the nerves begin to settle deep within your stomach as you found an empty parking spot. You stepped out of the car, adjusting your tank top as you looked down and wondered for the tenth time this morning if yoga pants and a thin tank were an appropriate choice for the day's activities. You felt you looked more ready for a run than flying around in a multi-million dollar fighter jet but you just weren’t sure what was appropriate.

You tapped the temporary key card you’d been given at the doors entrance, easily navigating your way through base to the hanger. This wasn’t the first time you’d been here, having been added to several of the pilots' visitors lists at various times to sit in on training per their request, or to watch them teach a new round of Top Gun students a flight maneuver on the radar. Your heart warmed as you remembered just how badly they wanted you to be a part of all of this with them, as much as you could, sharing the pieces they were able to.

“There she is!” Bob said excitedly, making his way to you as you walked out into the open air of the hangar to wrap you in a bear hug.

“Hey Bobby,” you greeted, ruffling his hair and walking with him as he rambled on about how excited he was for you to fly. “Oh wow, whole team is here for this.” You said, approaching the group a little nervously.

“Of course we are, we’ll be watching on the radar the whole time and listening in,” Mav reassured you. Your eyes darted around, looking for your favorite pilot but you didn’t see him anywhere.

“He’s just grabbing something,” Phoenix said, noting your confusion. “Meanwhile, I’ve been tasked with suiting you up.” She tugged you off to the side as everyone else lapsed back into conversation. She grabbed the flight suit that had been draped over a nearby table, watching you slip off your shoes and helping you step into it.

“Aw, I’m Natasha Trace for the day,” you said as she zipped you in, noticing her name patch and smiling.

“Actually, no you’re not.” She smirked, ripping the patch off and tucking it into her pocket. Hangman finally made an appearance and as you rejoined the group you noticed he had a helmet tucked under his arm and he invaded your space to smooth a new patch onto the now empty space of velcro on your chest.

“You made me a name patch?” You asked, fingers ghosting over your name in dark green embroidery, Whiskey just underneath it. You couldn’t help but feel a little emotional that he’d gone through all of this for you, and it turned into a lot emotional when he revealed the helmet, complete with your callsign just like everyone else's. “You did not.”

“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. I meant it, you’re a part of this team.” He smiled down at you, reassuringly squeezing your shoulders. Phoenix snapped a quick photo of you holding up your helmet, saying it was just about the cutest thing she’d ever seen before all of the pilots filtered back inside to watch the radar. He guided you past his own jet, smiling as you looked up at his name in big letters on the side, to the jet he’d be borrowing for the day. “How you feelin’?”

“A little more nervous, feels a lot more real now than it did last night.” You admitted, and he noticed the slight tremble in your hands before taking them in his own.

“It’s going to be just fine, once we get up there you’ll forget why you were even nervous.” He reassured, strapping you into all the necessary gear and securing your parachute pack to your back. He helped you climb up the steps, holding your hand as you stepped into the jet and sat in the backseat. He began pointing out everything in front of you, all the little buttons and where you could see them on the radar, explaining that this was Bob’s domain in the jet.

“Do I have to do anything?” You asked, feeling overwhelmed taking in everything before you.

He shook his head, “not at all, none of this has anything to do with the actual flying, it’s for weapons control on a mission and making sure we keep in contact with the base.” You nodded, feeling a little relieved you weren’t going to be given any kind of task. “Now, this is the important part, sweetheart, you see these loops right here?” He asked, pointing between your feet, “these are for if we need to punch out.”

“If we need to punch out?” You asked, your eyes widening.

“We won’t need to, but I need you to know where they are. If I tell you to eject, you need to do it the second I tell you to, and you need to pull up on these loops with everything you have, alright?” He asked, eyes looking intensely into yours, looking for confirmation you understood and you nodded. “And this right here,” he gestured to a string attached to something he’d strapped you into earlier, “is connected to your parachute. As soon as you’re clear of the jet pull this and it will deploy and make sure you land safely. You don’t worry about the rest, I’ll take care of it when we’re on the ground.”

“But, all of this is hypothetical right?” You asked, suddenly envisioning having to blast yourself out of the jet and parachute down to safety.

“All hypothetical, darlin’, this is just a fun little ride, but you’ve gotta know the basics.” He reassured, placing a warm hand over your own.

“Putting a lot of trust in you here, Jake,” you exhaled nervously.

“And I don’t take that lightly.” He squeezed your hand, “I’ll be taking you to the old training area we used for the last mission, minus all of the crazy maneuvers and stress. Just easy flying, and a few little tricks.” You nodded, feeling reassured that you weren’t going very far. He began strapping you in and you grunted as he pulled roughly, making sure everything was tight before tapping the helmet in your lap, signaling you to put it on. “This is your mask,” he said, clipping it into your helmet, “it’s got your mic in it so you and I can communicate when it’s a little loud in here, as well as so all our looky-loos can hear us.” Before you knew it you were ready to go, and Jake was hopping into the front seat, getting himself situated.

“Ready, darlin’?”

“As I’ll ever be.” You peered around the seat, watching as he pressed various buttons, completely unsure of what he was doing but soon you felt the engine roar to life underneath you and the nervous pit in your stomach Jake had settled just moments ago returned.

“Hangman to range control, takeoff prechecks complete, how do you read?”

“Loud and clear, you are clear to taxi.” Surely enough you began to move, slowly pulling out of the hangar and navigating to the runway.

“You remember what I said, Hangman?” Mav’s voice rang in your ears.

“Couldn’t forget it, sir.” He confirmed and had you not been more nervous you would have questioned it, but all you were focused on was not throwing up. Jake began going back and forth with the tower, confirming all sorts of things that sounded like a foreign language to you, until it didn’t.

“Hangman, you are cleared for take off.”

“Here we go, sweetheart.” You could hear the smirk in his voice, and you wished more than anything you could actually see him instead of the outline of his shoulders in front of you, seeing his bright green eyes might give you just a shred of comfort. He pressed a few more buttons, and suddenly you were gaining speed down the runway faster than you would have ever anticipated.

“Holy shit,” you muttered, muscles tensing as you lifted off the ground, soaring into the sky and watching as everything below you grew rather small. You quickly rose in altitude, and you blinked rapidly, internally repeating over and over again that Jake would never put you in danger even though the sheer incline of the jet had you questioning everything.

“How you doing back there?” He asked, as if he could sense your tension.

“Oh you know, totally fine and normal.” You laughed nervously.

“We’ll level out in a second, just gotta reach the hard deck.”

“Not my preferred hard deck…” you muttered and you heard him laugh in front of you. True to his word, the plane leveled out and you relaxed a little, feeling brave enough to look at the world below you. You tilted slightly to the right, turning as you circled around the base and increased speed as you assumed you were now on the designated flight path.

“We’ll reach the training area in about 5 minutes where the weather is cloudless and warm, in the meantime please keep your tray table locked and upright and enjoy the ride.” Jake joked and it further eased you, the tension leaving your muscles just as quickly as it had settled.

“That actually wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” You mused, watching as the ocean slowly faded into the distance and taking in the tan and rocky terrain below.

“See, told you, sweetheart. Take off and landing is the roughest part and even then it’s not so scary.” It fell silent as you continued to look around you, and even more so than earlier you wished you could see his face, you were almost certain he’d have a look of calm content and you wanted so badly to see that part of him. The part that was at home up here, but you’d decided this was more than enough. “Alright sweetheart, you see that ridge ahead? We’re going up and over, weight of gravity will be going against us a little but nothing too crazy, you’ll just feel a little pressure.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” You teased.

“That’s Lieutenant, Whiskey.” You heard Mav correct in your ears and you laughed, forgetting they could all hear you for a moment. Just as he’d promised, you quickly overtook the ridge and gasped a little as you felt the weight pulling you back in your seat and winding you before you surged forward in your seat.

“You okay?” He asked, and honestly? You were more than okay. You felt a rush of adrenaline as you regained your breath and you couldn’t help but smile as exactly what you feared had happened. You understood. “Whiskey?” He prompted when you were silent.

“Yeah, yeah I’m good, Jake. More than good.” He knew that tone in your voice like the back of his hand and a grin erupted across his features, a giddy feeling rising in his chest knowing you were now enjoying this.

“And there we have it, she’s officially a flygirl.” You heard Rooster in your ears and you laughed, loving that even though you were flying with Jake, you still had everyone by your side.

“Take your mask off for a second,” you heard Jake say and you did as you were told, pulling it off and letting it dangle to the side.

“No fair, I wanna hear!” Phoenix said and you giggled, interest piqued at what he didn’t want them to hear.

“You get it now, don’t you?”

“This is fucking incredible, Jake. I’m not even in control and I feel like I can do anything. I get why you love this so much.”

“I wanted you to experience this, but more than that I wanted you to experience this with me. This is everything, sweetheart. Everything I need, and everything I want right here in this plane with me.” He said and your heart skipped a beat at his confession, “I just wanted you to know that, you can put your mask back on.” You did slowly, mind reeling with what he’d told you. Everything he wants?

“Hey, Whiskey?” You heard Bob as he pulled you from your thoughts and your head cocked, affirming with a ‘yeah’ that you’d heard him. “Wanna do something cool?”

You laughed, “sure, why not?”

“Alright, on your radar, third button from the right will switch you to a terrain map, can you do that?”

“Are you sure you want me pressing buttons back here, Bob?” You asked hesitantly, but pressed it anyway.

“You can’t hurt anything back there, once you do that do you see the joystick to your left with a red button underneath?”

“Mmhm,” you confirmed, fingers ghosting over the hard plastic.

“That right there is controlling your laser, move that around until you find a target below you, once you have it hit the red button and it’ll lock it in.” You did as you were told, hearing a tone sound in the cabin as you locked onto a tree just ahead. “There you go, you just secured a target for your other teammates to swoop in and hit.” The tone stopped as Jake passed the target and you smiled to yourself.

“Careful Bob, I might just steal your position as Phoenix's backseater.” You joked.

“I’ll start figuring out how to make that happen.” Phoenix teased, and while she was no longer pressing the mic button you were sure Bob was protesting back on base.

“Alright my little WSO, do you trust me?” Jake asked and any nerves you’d once felt were gone, and just as he promised you weren’t sure why you were nervous in the first place.

“Yes.” You were sure and confident, and Jake’s chest swelled knowing there wasn’t an ounce of dishonesty in your reply. Before you knew it you were on your side, zipping through the air as Jake pulled out all the stops for you, veering from side to side as you couldn’t stop the giggles falling from your lips, and he decided right then and there he would never stop trying to get you to laugh like that.

He whipped up and over, making you gasp as you clearly saw the ground through the canopy, “Jake, we’re upside down.” You said, an obvious observation and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yes, yes we are sweetheart,” he chuckled, flipping you back over and continuing to show you his favorite flying tricks, you laughing like a little kid the whole time. You fully and wholly understood with your whole being why Jake chose this path, why they all did. Zipping through the air and maneuvering in ways that shouldn’t have even been possible flooded your veins with the most euphoric feeling, leaving you dizzy with excitement.

“God, this is amazing. You are amazing, Jake.” You said breathless as he righted the plane after a barrel roll.

“You think you’ve had enough?” He asked, sidestepping the way you’d breathed out the compliment.

“Never, but we can head back.” You answered, knowing you couldn’t stay out here forever. He turned the plane, going back the way you’d come over the now familiar terrain, adrenaline still flowing through you leaving a stupid grin on your face.

“Ah shit, what the fuck birds are those?” You heard Jake ask with a sigh, flicking buttons before you jerked suddenly, “Hangman to control, breaching the hard deck to avoid a bird strike.”

“Confirmed.” Your altitude dropped rapidly, Jake clearly ignoring warning bells that sounded as you dipped lower than you thought you would, him expertly maneuvering the rocky hills not as far below you as they once were. The tension slowly rolled back in, now knowing these were not fun tricks he was pulling out but ones to keep you both safe. He narrowly avoided clipping into the side of a ridge, and you tried to keep your reactions to yourself as he whizzed through the canyon.

“Get out of the canyon, Hangman.” Rooster sounded in your ears, making your heart rate accelerate knowing that you weren’t the only one concerned.

“Working on it, bird boy.” He shot back, and sure enough you were back above the ridges like nothing had ever happened. “Whiskey, you okay back there?”

“Mmhm, never better.” You replied a little shakily.

“Congratulations, you just survived your first bird strike.” The flight back to base seemed shorter than it took to get there, and before you knew it you were touching down on the tarmac, engine coming to a low rumble as you taxied back into the hangar. You felt like you were buzzing as the canopy lifted and Jake quickly detached himself of all his gear to be at your side and help you out. “Are the reviews in?” He asked a little hesitantly, knowing you might be shaken after your unexpected trip through the canyon.

“Jake I- I mean, that was…” you trailed off, not having the words to describe what you were feeling, watching as his brow furrowed above you, carefully loosening all of your straps. You didn’t know if it was the adrenaline, or being high above the earth giving you a new perspective but suddenly everything looked different. Felt different. His previous words rattled around your mind and it felt like something had clicked into place. He pulled the helmet off your head, his hand coming to smooth down your hair and he just couldn’t decipher the look on your face, gazing up at him with wild eyes. He gave you a little tug as he undid the last of your safety harness and when he went to pull away you gripped the collar of his flight suit, keeping him right where you wanted him. “Jake…” you trailed off, eyes searching those pools of green you could never get enough of. Your hand moved from his flight suit, fingers grazing along his neck as you settled on his jaw, holding him in your hands and you felt him clench beneath your fingers. He had no idea what you were doing but hell if he was going to do anything to stop you, eyes almost challenging you to make your next move and you pushed yourself forward, lips brushing against his.

It was all he needed to push you back into your seat, kissing you with the hunger of a man starved. You moaned softly against him as his hand rested at the back of your head, gripping gently at the base and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue brushing against yours. Somewhere in the back of your head you heard voices approaching but you didn’t have it in you to care, desperate to taste more of him.

“Hey flygirl, how are you- oh my.” Rooster stopped in his tracks as he saw what was going on just above them and awkwardly cleared his throat as Jake pulled away, lips swollen and a shit-eating grin taking over his features. “I take it you enjoyed yourself.” Your cheeks flushed, taking Jake’s hand as he helped you out of the jet, legs feeling like jelly as you all but stumbled down the steps.

You cleared your throat, “yes, I very much enjoyed myself.” Looking up at Jake the grin hadn’t worn off and you couldn’t help but laugh, feeling the adrenaline begin to wear off as you adjusted to being back on solid ground.

“Knew you’d love it.” Phoenix said, giving you a not-so-subtle thumbs up. The rest of the group now felt a little uncomfortable, not surprised but also not fully expecting what they’d walked in on and muttered some congratulations on your first flight and mentioning they’d meet you at the bar later before leaving you and Jake alone in the hangar. The tension in the air was palpable and you avoided his eyes, neither of you knowing quite what to say.

“Sweetheart, no wrong answer here,” he started after a few moments, “was that an ‘I’m hopped up on adrenaline’ kiss or something else?” You pondered your options. You could cop out and say it was the adrenaline, move on and pretend it had never happened, effectively preserving your friendship and ensuring you’d never lose him, or… or you could admit what it was. Admit that you were fooling yourself into thinking you were just friends with Jake Seresin, admit that in the dead of night and the solitude of your bedroom your mind did wander, did wonder what it would be like if you just crossed that boundary and let your feelings for him rush in.

“It wasn’t the adrenaline.” You finally said, looking up to meet his eyes and you saw the relief roll over him like a wave.

“Thank god.” He pulled you close and kissed you again, leaving you just as dizzy as you’d been thousands of feet in the air.

“Hey, Jake?” You asked, pulling away with a mischievous glint in your eye.

“Mmhm?”

“Take me home.”

-----

It was a clash of tongues and teeth as you stumbled your way through your house, Jake’s hands rough and exploring as he tried to commit the feeling of you beneath him to memory. Leaving a trail of clothes in your wake, he pushed you backwards into the bed a little harder than he intended and you giggled as your back hit the mattress, his kisses along your jaw much more tender than the previous action. His thigh slotted between yours as he leaned his weight into you, the pressure against your core coaxing a whine from your lips. He removed himself from your jaw, leg pushing up to give you more friction as he looked down at you as if you’d hung all the stars in the sky and the intensity of his gaze had you struggling to regain your breath.

“So beautiful,” he muttered, mostly to himself as his fingers ghosted along your cheekbone before pressing a delicate kiss to your cheek, then your lips as he continued his worship all the way down your exposed body, gently biting into the flesh and soothing the marks with his tongue as he went. He stopped just between your thighs, carefully kneeling at the edge of the bed and pulling you down to meet his face, taking his time kissing and sucking the soft skin just around where you wanted him the most. You writhed beneath him, desperate for something, anything, as he continued his dizzying assault on your senses. His eyes flicked up to your own, asking silently for permission as his fingers slipped under the lacy band of your underwear and you nodded, suddenly feeling nervous at being so exposed to him, already so desperate before he’d fully touched you.

The discarded scrap of fabric was tossed somewhere behind him as he hooked his arms around your thighs, holding you in place as his breath fanned over your dripping core causing you to shiver, “so beautiful,” he muttered again, pressing a kiss to your heat before licking a stripe up your folds and focusing his tongue to your clit. You gasped as he licked and swirled the sensitive bud, sucking it into his mouth as became desperate to taste more of you.

“Jake,” you moaned, the sound sending shocks straight to his cock and he didn’t think his name had ever sounded so good. He pulled away, much to your dismay that was voiced with a whine, before you felt him spit on your core, warm and dripping as he slowly teased your entrance, tongue reconnecting with your clit. He took his time, exploring you and exploring what made the sweetest sounds fall from your lips and your hips bucked as you silently pleaded him to stop teasing you.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” He made it clear that he had no intention to cease his teasing anytime soon, a single finger shallowly toying with your entrance as you coated him with your slick. You sighed when he fully plunged his finger in, searching for that spot that made obscenities tumble out of your mouth, stretching you as he added another digit, curling them just so. He focused his attention on you, watching as you lost yourself in the pleasure he was giving you, cock straining against his boxers and he quickly rid himself of them with his free hand to lazily stroke his length, desperate for some kind of friction as you made the most beautiful sounds above him. Your legs began to shake around his head as your release quickly began to approach, him abandoning his aching cock in pursuit of pushing them open when you’d tried to clamp them shut.

“Fuck, Jake, I-” you began babbling as your orgasm hit you like a freight train.

“That’s it, baby girl,” he mumbled against you, working you through your orgasm and lapping up everything you had to give him. He gingerly removed his fingers, tongue still working you as you twitched at the overstimulation coming down from your high. He kissed back up your body, settling on top of you and you kissed him desperately, tasting yourself on his lips and moaning as you felt him brush against you. You reached between your bodies, stroking his length as you lined him up to your entrance and despite everything his body was telling him, he paused. “You sure, sweetheart? We can wait.” You smiled up at him, knowing even as you were both lost in the passion of the moment, his top priority would always be making sure you were okay.

“Please,” you begged, “please, Jake.” He slowly began to sink into you, groaning into your ear as he bottomed out, giving you a moment to adjust. You wrapped your legs around him, moaning as the sting of the stretch began to ease only to be replaced with the pure pleasure of feeling full.

“So fucking tight, sweetheart,” he mumbled against you as he pulled almost fully out before sinking back in, desperate to feel the way you so easily accepted him again. He lifted his head slightly, hips bucking into yours and giving you a tender kiss before he quickened his pace, eyes meeting yours and you nodded at the silent question. His thrusts grew rougher as he threw one of your legs above his shoulder, the deeper angle making you throw your head back with a groan.

“Feel so fucking good,” you managed to get out between thrusts, only spurring him on more as he continued his relentless pace.

“So beautiful, taking me so well sweetheart,” he grunted, bringing a hand between you to circle your clit. You swore you were seeing stars as the pleasure overwhelmed you, the noises filling your bedroom nothing short of obscene and you began to feel the pressure build within you. You knew your second release was coming on quicker than the last and you intentionally clenched around him, trying to bring him there with you. “Fuck, do that again baby,” he groaned, dropping his head into your neck as you did and your nails scratched into his back, leaving red streaks in their wake. Your walls fluttered around him, body writhing as you came, his name falling from your lips like a prayer as you felt him twitch inside you and fill you with his cum. He placed tender kisses to your neck, working up to your jaw before peppering your face with kisses and coaxing breathless giggles from you as he slowly pulled out of you. He rolled onto his back, pulling you along with him and you settled into his side, head on his chest as you listened to his heartbeat slowly return to normal.

“Would have taken you flying a long time ago if I’d known this would happen,” leave it to Jake to take this opportunity to crack a joke and you just swatted at his chest.

“I guess I’m no better than the girls I tease at the bar… falling into bed with a cocky pilot.”

“Your cocky pilot.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead and you loved how that sounded.

“I love you,” you weren’t sure why you said it, the weight of the moment simply getting on top of you, but you heard his heart jump beneath you and wondered if maybe you’d spoken too soon.

“I love you too, darlin’.”

-----

Later that evening the Hard Deck roared with life, your friends excitedly buzzing about and rehashing your first flight.

“You handled that bird strike like a champ, I threw up the second I touched down after my first.” Phoenix said proudly, knowing you were more alike than Jake than you may have realized, knowing you would feel just as safe up there as you did right here.

“Not gonna lie, I did think I was gonna blow when we almost hit the ridge.”

“We didn’t almost hit anything, sweetheart,” Jake said cockily as he pressed a kiss to your temple, his arm wrapped snug around your waist. The group continued to chatter as you sipped your drink, pulling away from the conversation and leaning into the man at your side, humming in content.

“Hey, Jake?” You asked, looking over your group of friends before lifting your head to meet his eyes.

“Yeah darlin’?”

“This is everything. Everything I need, everything I want.”

#jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #jake seresin x y/n #jake seresin x you #hangman x you #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #jake seresin smut #hangman smut #hangman x y/n #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction

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mcondance · 2 months

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southern fantasy

— this is indulgently a self-ship. | reader is explicitly and beautifully Black southern (specifically from louisiana). this is literally the definition of “i wrote this for myself, but you can read it too.” | no smut 😱 | hotch got me writing fluff yall do you know how out of character this is for me? | inspired by @murdrdocs’s persisting southern enthusiasm with her characters | story is non-linear mostly, just snapshots if you wanna call it that

1.2k words of fluff and southern fantasy, ft hotch. a love letter to my state, and to hotch.

in the car, hotch’s finger taps in time against the steering wheel, sliding gracefully into the rhythm of the song rumbling out of the stereo. the sun is setting, casting a glow over his face, outlining his prominent nose and cheeks, lighting up the smile on his face.

southern skies are beautiful when you’ve got hotch to see them with.

the south is your home, your territory, your space. hotch, on the other hand, is new. he was fresh, but he’s fit in so well. the difference in birthplaces was stark, at the start, hotch’s eyes gaining a youthful glow every time you showed him a green bayou or took him to a gas station in the middle of nowhere with chicken and meat pies so hot he laughed through the burn.

he still sees everything like it’s new, eyes surveying the small towns you take him through, telling him you have family from here or there, about how your dad knows someone from here and your mom’s childhood friend lives here now. but he’s experienced, has a thing for the nights when it’s quiet out, when even in your bed he can hear the crickets chirping just outside the window.

he likes the drives, the rolling roads and graveled streets and towns that pop up here and there. the breaks in trees that reveal a church, the yellow, faded Dollar General signs and the pastures with cows and horses grazing away.

the towns are his favorite, though. small and cozy, one store for everyone, a mom & pop shop, a church.

lousiana summers are hot, bright and burning and, with the proper precautions, he can enjoy you in the sunshine. under the shade of pecan trees, a distance away from the playground, you sit across him on a checkered blanket, and it looks the image of a picnic date, your dress loose and flowing.

the nights are his favorite, too. you’d both picked a house on the edge of town, half an hour away from the nearest big store, where it’s more practical to hit a market or a gas station than drive to Walmart.

so at night, when it gets dark, it gets dark. he’s never seen the stars so clear until he met you. you and your southern wit entranced him and are still entrancing him now. he likes the subtle differences, the different ways you go about things.

and if he’s being honest, your drawl makes his head spin. he hangs on your words, on the elongated syllables and sour twang and how your accent grows deeper when you’re angry about something, or when you’re so excited your words twist and curl around themselves.

he can’t help but poke fun at you for it sometimes, when you’re speaking normally and a word comes out a little more flavored than the others.

he repeats it to you in his own voice, laughing as you scold him, saying he knew you were country when he met you.

“i did,” he concedes, and it’s like a gut-punch every time he speaks with such fondness about anything related to the relationship you two have shared.

you showed him a different kind of southern, one that isn’t horses and cowboy boots, but parties with familiar songs and a city where everyone knows everyone, nights with fireflies, and foxes you just barely catch glimpses of, rap groups proclaiming their pride in their southern heritage and experiences you only know if you’ve been here.

he’s learned some party songs, and you’ve taught him the dances. he’s so comfortable with them now that he can do them with his arms draped over your shoulders, leaning into the groove as the family you welcomed him into enjoys themselves around him.

he’s a dream at the backyard parties. he lets the kids bounce him on the trampoline, and hang off his shoulders, and pretends like he doesn't see your little cousins sneaking up on him with water guns that look more like water bazookas.

“you know, if that thing isn’t registered, i could confiscate it,” he jokes, dripping with water and too entertained to even fein professionalism.

your cousins shriek with delight, running off to no doubt refill their guns and attack him again.

he’s got rhythm, for a white guy, still awkward but endearing and he’s got enough to make the line dances fun. he claims his favorite is a toss up between “cupid shuffle” and “candy,” but it’s obvious what he leans toward more. he hears the bassline of “candy” and he’s rising out of his chair with a beer in his hand and turning to pull you up too, dancing you backwards into the mass of your family.

your love for him grows with every party you attend, with every dramatic slap he delivers to the ground.

he watches you run and play with your siblings, grown but morphing into the children in the pictures hanging on the walls of the house, your dress soft and purple and flowing and he falls further in love when he hears you scream “stop, i’m not playin’ with you,” all country and playful and beautiful.

inside, squeezed up beside you on a chair, the darkness of night falling over the party and moving everyone inside, his heart is light. he goes back for more plates than he’s proud of, pretending like he doesn’t hear a cousin or aunt giggling at you as he walks away with the promise of bringing you more lemonade.

he’s grown accustomed to the hour long goodbyes, where he’s still talking to your dad or brother about something or the other with his keys dangling in his hand and you talking to your aunt as she plates and wraps up another bowl of her banana pudding.

and the drives. god, the drives. he traded his big truck in for a lowrider at your request, an old car from the 70s that’ll fall apart before it needs to hit the shop. he’s navigated this road more times than he can count, knows what gas station is where and when to look out for the nasty bends and twists that are so prevalent back here.

there’s a CD labeled with yours and hotch’s name in the player, fashioned with hearts all around and a plus between the two names. the sunset flows in through the window, eclipsing hotch’s face and molding him so perfectly with the sky you swear he belongs there.

high and happy, the gas station stop is silly, you fill the small space up with your laughs and chopped up words and hotch laughs with you, finding humor in the smallest things with you.

there’s soft conversation and snacking and feeding him food, him trying and holding his own on a particularly difficult song. he slows the car down, at times, cruises way under the limit cause he just wants to look at you, wants to indulge in the sight of you while he listens to you speak in that tone he can’t get enough of.

he really can’t get over your accent. he gets wrapped up in the push and pull of it, the lows and the highs and the way you sometimes sound like a southern belle, sweet-talking him into staying in bed another hour or hitting the store nearest your house for a drink.

his ears perk up when he hears the subtle (and sometimes, not so subtle) inflection, the way you say “baby,” how his name sounds different from your mouth. he’s wrapped up in a southern girl, in the life he’s grateful to have been given.

southern nights with hotch, through the window of a car or in a closed-in porch on a house in the middle of nowhere, are a dream. a fantasy.

#hotch x reader #hotch fluff #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch fluff #aaron hotchner x black reader #aaron hotchner x black!reader #aaron hotchner fluff #hotch x y/n #hotch x you #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #— 🎠

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 months

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Comet Donati [Chapter 9: Why Don’t We Go There]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (+18), beef cattle, drugs, alcohol, smoking, Walmart, vegan baking, David Archuleta, mental health struggles, pregnancy, pigs, bodily injury, death, miscarriage, Jace acting vaguely human, angst, Southern Baptists, Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Selected Chapter Quote: “You have no idea how much I’ve kept from you.”

Word count: 8.6k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @mariahossain @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya @helaenaluvr @hiraethrhapsody

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The last day of summer, the first day in Kansas City: emerald seas of soybeans, cornstalks taller than you are, massive tractors rolling laggardly on the shoulder of the road, red-tailed hawks perched on utility poles, cloudless cerulean skies, sunlight that beats down like soft rain. There is a long, rambling dirt driveway that leads from Route 210 to your parents’ farm. When you climb out of the Escalade, you cannot hear traffic or voices or some playlist of bygone pop hits or ice cubes jangling in misty glasses or the roar of jet engines. You can hear only the sounds of the Midwestern earth: wind in the leaves, cicadas humming, the distant mooing of black angus cattle. For a moment, Comet Donati just stands there breathing in the unhurried, golden air like the atmosphere of a new planet, their lungs acclimating, their eyes wide and peering around. Where have we landed? Any signs of intelligent life?

There are footsteps and then the squealing creak of the screen door as your dad throws it open. Along with your parents pour out five Australian cattle dogs. They bark uproariously, herding the new arrivals like errant calves. Aemond laughs and crouches down in the dust of the driveway to pet them. Rhaena screams and clings to Luke.

“Belmont! Bel, you git down!” your dad scolds, pulling her away from Rhaena by the collar: pink, so everyone knows she’s a girl. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart, she don’t bite none.”

“Unless you’re a cow, of course,” your mom adds, tittering merrily. She starts handing out glasses of sweet tea, already dripping with condensation. Outside it’s 80 degrees even.

Your dad whistles as he studies Aemond’s scar, his sightless left eye like a pool of blue fog. “That must’ve hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“Jeff!” your mom objects mildly; she abhors swearing.

Aemond considers your dad: a man who doesn’t flinch away from him, who doesn’t bury truths under the cover of night. “It did.”

“My uncle came back from ‘Nam with something like that. Was never right again.” He taps his own skull. “You must be tough as nails to be carrying on like you are, son. What happened to you was a damn shame.”

“Jefferson, please!” your mom says.

“The man’s been to New Jersey, Carol! I think he’s heard worse words than bitch and damn!”

“Her name’s Belmont?” Rhaena says, frowning nervously at her canine tormentor: rust-orange, brown-eyed, tail wagging eagerly at the prospect of making new friends.

“You betcha.” Then your dad informs Aemond: “That’s Lone Jack you got there.” He points to the remaining dogs. “And the others are Carthage, Kirksville, and Island Number Ten. We call her Tenny.”

“They’re all named after Civil War battles,” you tell Comet.

“Civil War battles in Missouri,” your dad says. He turns to his guests. “Were you aware that over 100,000 Missourians served in the Union Army? Ulysses S. Grant’s first military assignment was in Missouri. He met his wife Julia here.”

“Daddy, they’re English. They don’t know what the Union Army is.”

“Were they for or against staying colonies?” Aegon asks, and Criston covers his face and groans.

Your dad spots the motorcycle Aemond rode here from the airport, weaving between the Escalades until Criston stuck his head out a window to yell at him. “Lord almighty, is that a Gold Star?! Made by the Birmingham Small Arms Company?”

“Yes sir,” Aemond says, smiling down at a delighted Lone Jack and scratching his long pointy ears.

“An ingenious piece of machinery! ‘55?”

“1960.”

“Remarkable.” Your dad admires it. He’s wearing red flannel, Wrangler jeans, the UChicago hat that you bought for him your freshman year of college.

“We’ve been told you don’t eat meat,” your mom says to Aemond, with a gentle, sympathetic tone like she’s conscious of some bad luck that’s recently befallen him: a grim diagnosis, a storm that carried away his house. “So I’ve got some chicken soaking in buttermilk to fry up for supper.”

Aemond chuckles uncertainly.

“No, she’s serious,” you tell him. And then: “Mama, we went over this on the phone. He’s vegan. That means no animal products at all. No meat, no poultry, no fish, no dairy, no eggs, nothing that came from an animal.”

“Well I’ll be, what the heck does he eat?!” your dad says. “Carrots? Acorns? Sticks and leaves? He can graze out in the pasture if he likes.”

“We’ll find you something,” you promise Aemond.

Your dad surveys Aegon (white cargo shorts, neon pink tank top, sparkly matching Crocs) and then Jace (black skinny jeans and a violet sequined blazer with nothing underneath except a mosaic of tattoos). “I suppose you two will be wanting to share a room. Well, it ain’t my place to pass judgement, I reckon. But I don’t want to overhear nothing that couldn’t be done in church.”

Jace is confused. “Huh…?”

“No, Daddy, they’re not gay.”

“What, me?!” Aegon exclaims. “Gay?! For Jace?!”

Jace says: “Sir, if I ever start looking at Aegon that way, I give you enthusiastic permission to take me out back and shoot me dead like a horse with a bum leg.”

Your dad guffaws, a deep gruff rumble like an earthquake. “I don’t think I could oblige you, buddy.”

Your mom gestures to the front door. “Y’all go on in and make yourselves at home. We got a few extra bedrooms and a nice big den if anyone’s willing to sleep on a couch. But be warned: you’ll probably end up having a dog or two snuggled up with you.”

“We are guests here!” Criston shouts at the band as they begin dragging their luggage inside, suitcase wheels bumping up the creaking wooden steps of the wraparound porch. “You will not humiliate me! You will not break things! You will not cause any problems whatsoever or you can stay at the Hilton with the security guys and I’ll have them handcuff you to a bed!”

“He will,” Aegon warns the others. “I’ve seen him do it before. To…um…somebody.” He disappears into the five-bedroom farmhouse: mint green paint, white accents, two rambling stories plus an attic and a cellar.

Criston waves to the security detail as the Escalades turn around in the driveway—stirring up dust like a parched cough of earth—and then head back towards Route 210, towards the light pollution and acclaimed barbeque joints of Kansas City. Now Aemond is standing by the barbed wire fence of the pasture and looking longingly at the black angus cattle grazing on tall swaths of windswept, green-gold switchgrass. Lone Jack, Carthage, and Kirksville are all bounding around him hoping to elicit praise and scratches. Tenny has taken a liking to Baela and follows her and Jace into the house. Belmont, still held captive by your dad, whines and struggles.

“Aemond, you can’t pet the cows,” you say. “They’re beef cattle. They spend most of their lives out in fields, they don’t get handled very often, they’re not used to people. They can be aggressive.”

He is disappointed. “Oh, okay.”

“You can pet the pigs though,” your dad says.

“Pigs?” Cregan perks up. “There are pigs?”

“Sure are. Well, they’re pigs now…come Thanksgiving, they’ll be hams! Hahaha. They’re right ‘round the back of the house. You’ll show ‘em, chickadee?”

You reply: “Yeah, Daddy. I’ll show them.”

As the rest of the band claims sleeping spots and unpacks their suitcases inside, you lead Cregan and Aemond—and Lone Jack, Carthage, and Kirksville, all blue speckled with random splatters of white markings like stray dabs of paint—to the pigs. They have a large, muddy enclosure surrounded by a wooden fence that stops at your waist; pigs, fortunately, cannot really jump. They immediately come trotting over to their visitors, tails swishing and snouts twitching, spewing a chorus of guttural oinks. Aemond leans down to pet them, beaming, then takes a Ziploc bag of raw cauliflower out of his jeans pocket and starts dropping pieces into the pigs’ gluttonous, slobbering, gaping mouths.

“Wow,” Cregan says. He’s grinning broadly, something that’s rare for him. He slips out his phone and starts taking pictures. “Iris is going to love this.”

On the second floor of the farmhouse, a window slides open. “Aemond!” Aegon calls. “I need help! It’s an emergency!”

“What’s your problem?” Aemond snaps.

“Tell Jace I need the bigger bedroom!”

“Please go away.”

“Aemond! Do not betray your favorite brother!”

“Hey!” comes Daeron’s muffled objection from inside.

“Aemond! Threaten to break Jace’s face again!”

Aemond exhales in a loud sigh and then makes for the house.

Still taking pig photos, Cregan glances over at your belly: ten weeks. Not enough to be properly showing, but enough that you can feel a difference, an extra inch here and there, a heaviness that settles in you like stones plinked in a jar. Your parents don’t know. Nobody knows but Aegon. “So,” Cregan says. “Have you told Aemond yet?”

Your attention jolts to him, a lightning strike, a surge of adrenaline. “What?”

“I remember what it looks like when someone’s trying to hide the fact that they’re pregnant.” He smirks. “And I remember that night at Club Camelot.”

People are going to start figuring it out eventually. Aemond is going to figure it out. “Do you think he’ll take it well?” you ask hopefully.

“No,” Cregan says.

In your chest, a sinking like dead weight: “Oh.”

“But he’ll probably come around to the idea eventually.”

After he’s said something unforgiveable. After he buries another knife in me, spilling blood and scraping marrow. You stare down into the pigpen, observing them root around for remnants of cauliflower and blink their awfully intelligent eyes, too clever for the fate they’ve been assigned.

Cregan lights a cigarette and puffs on it, taking advantage of a rare moment out of Criston’s line of sight. “When I first found out about Iris, I did not behave in a way that I would consider to be honorable. But fortunately, nature gives everyone time to adjust to these things. I had my head right by the time she was born. If I had to guess, I’d say it will be similar for Aemond. Then again…” He takes a deep, meditative drag. “I’d like to think I was never as fucked up as he is now.”

You study Cregan. “So you’ve been watching me. I’ve been watching you too. You haven’t been partying as hard. A few vodka shots, a secret cigarette on occasion. But no more disappearing with Aegon to do lines in the bathroom or arranging drop-offs with drug dealers.”

He shrugs. “Someone has to be the adult. Someone has to help Criston look out for the others. It used to be Aemond, but not anymore. He’s different now. One day he’ll figure out where he’s supposed to be and he’ll stop touring with Comet altogether. So I’m going to do it. There are people who need me.”

“Comet is your family,” you say. “Just as much as your mother and siblings and Iris. They love you. They belong to you, and you belong to them. And that will never change.”

He smiles; his greyish eyes are teasing but kind. “Good luck, Stargirl. You need it.”

“Thanks, Cregan.” And together, you leave the pigs and join the rest of the band inside.

Your parents’ farmhouse, the same one you grew up in—a different world, a different you—is painted in shades of gold: late-afternoon sunlight, chicken thighs and drumsticks browning in canola oil, mashed potatoes wet with cream and butter, corn cut from the cob, an enormous pan of baked macaroni and cheese, homemade rolls, a butterscotch pie cooling on the windowsill. You find a vegan alternative for Aemond in the pantry: a box of Barilla spaghetti, a jar of Ragu marinara sauce. Criston insists on cooking it so everyone else can enjoy their supper. Cregan asks your parents about tips for raising pigs; Rhaena asks about the history of the farm; Aegon eats butterscotch pie until he has to roll out of his chair and lie sprawled on the hardwood floor for a while, Australian cattle dogs licking at his pink palms and cheeks. And when Aemond finally receives his spaghetti and marinara sauce, you think: That’s the same thing he was eating in Rome. And you remember the razored sting of the comet tattoo, the nightscape motorcycle ride, the incomplete truth about Aegon, the realization of what you felt for his scarred, perfect, brilliant, haunted younger brother.

“I didn’t know the weather would be so nice here,” Baela says as she scoops herself a third helping of macaroni and cheese. Tenny lies by her feet under the table, her muzzle resting on her paws.

Your dad nods, but his words hold a warning. “It can turn quick.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“He could be a stay-at-home dad,” Aegon suggests. It’s the next day and you’re up in a hundred-year-old white oak tree, killing time until the Escalades arrive to shuttle Comet to soundcheck and their first of two shows at Arrowhead Stadium in downtown Kansas City. You’re sitting on a colossal, sturdy branch only four or five feet off the ground, your feet dangling; Aegon is a few limbs above you, alternating between swinging like a monkey and lying on his stomach so he can peer down at you with those large, oceanic eyes.

“No. If he chooses to, sure. But not because he has no other options. A baby is not something to paper over a quarter-life crisis with.”

Aegon thinks, then is struck with inspiration. “He could work for your dad on the farm!”

“The beef cattle farm?” you say. “You want the traumatized vegan to spend the rest of his life as a cog in the blood-drenched machine of American industrial agriculture? Besides, I’m sure he hates Missouri.”

“I don’t know, I mean I thought I hated Missouri too. But lowkey it kind of slaps.” Aegon closes his eyes and smiles as the warm, sunlit breeze breathes through him, tousling his hair. It’s long again, it’s almost down to his shoulders. He smells like sunscreen and Axe body spray and the homemade waffles your mother made for brunch, soggy with dollops of butter and a river of amber-colored maple syrup. Something’s missing. It takes you a moment to realize it’s the scent of beer. Your parents don’t approve of drinking, the house is bone dry. Aegon hasn’t complained about that yet, a miracle, Moses turning the Nile to blood. Maybe Missouri is good for him after all. “How’s Starbaby?”

“Good, I think. I’m not nauseous anymore. Now I’m just super hungry and horny.”

“Oh my God, you can’t say stuff like that around me, now I’m having immoral thoughts.” He squeezes his eyes shut, frowns mournfully. Goodbye forever, pornstar pussy. “When are you going to tell Aemond?”

“Soon,” you say noncommittally, like a coward. Not a coward: someone who’s been hurt before. Not just hurt: slaughtered, buried, exhumed, robbed for the jewels on the bones of her fingers. You’re finally whole again. You’re in no hurry to imperil your resurrection. “Cregan knows.”

“Rhaena knows too.”

“What?!”

“She asked me in Dallas, but she waited until I was sloppy drunk first. Smart girl. I tried to deny it, but honestly she already had it figured out.” Aegon looks at you meaningfully. “If you wait much longer you’re going to lose control of this thing. It’ll get to Aemond before you can. And I think it will be worse if he finds out from somebody else.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I’ll tell him, Aegon, I promise. Before Comet flies out of Kansas City.” They’ll be leaving you here, though no one except Aegon and Criston know that yet. Their private jet will take them to New Orleans, and then Miami, and then all the way to South America: Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, Bogota, Buenos Ares, Lima, Santiago.

Now someone is trekking across the field behind your parents’ house and towards the centenarian white oak tree. It’s Jace. He’s wearing a rather understated outfit today: a lavender polo, denim shorts, boat shoes. His dark curls whip and tangle in the wind.

“Ugh,” Aegon says once Jace close enough to hear. “Why don’t you go try to pet a rage-filled, 2,000-pound mound of unprocessed cheeseburgers?”

“I’m here for my complimentary therapy session.”

Aegon stares at you. You stare back. The only sounds are made by the earth and the sky and the animals, air in the leaves, the low mooing of cattle. You both wait for Jace to rescind his request. He does not. At last, you relent. “Okay. Fine. Aegon?”

“You want me to leave you alone with this inked-up ogre?”

“Confidentiality is important. I’ve always given it to you, Jace deserves the same.”

“Does he really?” Aegon flings back; but he obediently climbs down from the tree and walks to the farmhouse. Your parents have no booze, no internet, a landline telephone, and a single tv with basic cable. Everyone else is in there playing Uno, doing animal-themed puzzles, and baking apple cider cookies in honor of the first day of autumn. You’d think Comet would be losing their minds after adapting to months of nonstop, breakneck excitement, but they seem to be enjoying themselves. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. You don’t miss the jet, you don’t miss the bars or the five-star hotels, you don’t even miss your apartment in the city that is still being sublet by some grad student with a Flemish Giant rabbit. You wonder if you ever wanted to leave the farm at all, or if you only wanted to leave the way you felt about yourself the last time you called this place home.

Jace grins and hauls himself up onto the tree branch to sit beside you. “Want to see my new tattoo?”

“Comet has definitely already been to Kansas City.”

Still, he’s acquired one, left wrist, black ink: a single star the size of a quarter. “For you, Stargirl. So I don’t forget about you. So I don’t lose you in the sea of gorgeous women I have marooned myself in.”

“It looks like a pentagram,” you say. “That’s appropriate, since you’re basically Satan.”

He’s not offended. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to talk about?”

“I already know.”

“Do you really?”

“You’re happy, but you feel bad about it. You wanted to be the leader of Comet, but you wish it could have happened a different way.”

Jace opens his hands and offers you a crooked, wry smile. “I might jibe at Aemond, but I don’t hate him. Why else would I let him knock out four of my teeth without expecting any penance in return?”

“No, you certainly don’t hate Aemond.”

“And what happened to him…it sucks. I mean, obviously, it was life-ruining for him. Not ruining, I shouldn’t say that. I’m sure he’ll get a new life someday. But it wrecked him in ways I’ll never be able to understand.”

“You’ll have to let him go when the time comes.”

“Yeah,” Jace says, unusually somber, gazing out across the field of white wild indigo, prairie dropseed, blue star, yarrow.

“And if Baela gets into ballet school, you’ll have to let her go too.”

Now Jace turns to you, startled. “I can’t. I’d miss her.”

“Yes, but you aren’t right for her. Sometimes we have to give people the freedom to realize they want something more than us. It’s the greatest act of love we can do for them.”

He laughs, a disdainful little snort. “That’s what everyone says. If you love someone, let them go. But then nobody ever really does it. They cling and they manipulate and they beg. Nobody helps the people they love leave them. Nobody escapes the indignity of becoming a regret.”

Please don’t let that be true. Please don’t let Aemond regret meeting me, touching me, maybe even loving me. “Why do you think that is, Jace?”

And he says, like it’s obvious, like you should already know it: “Because letting go is too fucking painful.” He hops off the branch and drops into the tall grass below. Then he extends a hand to help you down. “Come on. I bet those apple cider cookies are ready.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You see glimmering dresses, incandescent string lights, neon signs, the winding reptilian sheen of the Missouri River in the distance, faint dots of stars muted by the city’s synthetic luminance. You taste your faux Bramble: ice, cranberry juice, a sliver of lemon on the rim, sweet and tart and cold. The speakers are thumping out Prayin’ For Daylight by Rascal Flatts. Aegon is in neon yellow. You almost wore the same, but the flowing yellow gown you bought in Reykjavik suffered an unfortunate Australian-cattle-dog-related incident before Comet left your parents’ farmhouse for the concert. You opted for the short sparkly black dress embroidered with silver stars instead…and hurried out the door before your parents could catch a glimpse of your comet tattoo.

“No way!” Baela cries as she checks her phone. “Look, look!” Liam Payne has just posted a selfie on Instagram. Cuddled up next to him on a beach in Ibiza is Shelby, tan and with her long blond waves flying everywhere. The comments are a smorgasbord: Cutest couple EVER! Aww, did you and Aemond break up again :( Enjoy your vacay, girlie! Guess love really can’t conquer all. You are stunning, Shelby! I’m still hoping you guys get back together. You deserve better! What is Aemond even doing these days?? Is this why Comet took A Girl Named After A Car off their tour setlist :(((

“Damn, poor Liam,” Daeron says. “Should we warn him?”

Aegon replies: “Bruh, this is so tragic. That dude has enough demons already.”

“Good luck, Liam,” Luke says, toasting his Mai Tai against Aemond’s fully-alcoholic Bramble. “Thoughts and prayers.”

“Maybe he’s dumb enough to sign up to be her boy band baby daddy,” Aemond quips. You and Aegon exchange an uneasy glance. Then Aegon gets an incoming FaceTime call. It’s Taylor Swift. He beams—he lights up, he glows—and rushes away to find a quiet spot where he can talk to her. Criston chases after him, extra vigilant since Aegon’s overdose in Las Vegas.

You gulp down the rest of your not-cocktail cocktail. The bartender calls over: “Another cranberry juice, ma’am?”

“Cranberry juice?!” Daeron says. “That sounds…healthy?”

“Why aren’t you drinking?” Baela asks you. It would be a rude question if you didn’t know each other so well. Though not quite as well as she thinks. Cregan and Rhaena peer awkwardly down into their glasses, eyebrows raised.

“Because. Um.” You hesitate. Aemond looks over at you curiously. “I’m an alcoholic.”

Baela blinks. “You’re what?”

“Um. I was developing an alcohol problem so to be safe I stopped drinking altogether.”

“How mature of you!” Rhaena chirps, then drags Baela towards the dancefloor. Luke and Jace go with them. Daeron and Cregan depart to charm some potential paramours: a flock of Kansas City University students for Daeron, a bachelorette party of flattered, giggly soccer moms for Cregan. You procure another cranberry juice from the bar and then return to Aemond. You are alone together, a strange combination of adjectives: solitary, secretive, appreciated, known. You migrate towards the edge of the roof and sip your matching drinks, wearing your matching black clothes, wind in your hair and the sounds of late night traffic on the streets below.

“So this is the place,” Aemond says, playful, wistful. “Where you and Aegon…met.”

“It feels so different now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look out over the city, breathing in humid night air and a verdant, ancient wildness. “You know how when you’re a kid, you’ll go somewhere and it feels endless and magical, and then you go back five or ten or fifteen years later and you’re disappointed? Like, that’s it? Is this even the same place?”

He swigs his Bramble. Ice clinks; the glass is frosty in his hand. “I know what you mean. But it hasn’t been that long. A little over a year.”

“I guess I’ve changed.” More grounded. Less restless. Less aimless. More pregnant.

“I hope Comet hasn’t traumatized you.”

You laugh, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only two people at this rooftop bar, in this city, on this planet: one river blue eye, one pool of sightless otherworldly mist. He hasn’t worn sunglasses since Shelby’s deportation from the band’s retinue. “Not yet.”

He is mischievous. “There’s still time.”

Not much of it. Aemond’s iPhone rings, Mr. Brightside. He checks it. “Is that Shelby offering you ten thousand blowjobs if you take her back?”

Aemond smiles. “No. It’s Helaena.” He answers and puts it on speakerphone. “Hi, LaeLae. Can I call you tomorrow? I’m at a very loud, very crowded rooftop bar.”

“With her?” Helaena asks, delighted.

“Yes, actually.”

“Okay. Call tomorrow. I wanted to tell you about the praying mantis I found in the garden. Check the weather. Goodbye!” She hangs up before Aemond can.

“Weather…?” he muses, then shakes his head and slips his phone into the pocket of his dark jeans. He returns his attention to you. “Ten thousand blowjobs, huh? I think I’d rather have another ten minutes in a bar bathroom.”

You are so game. It’s humiliating how game you are. Dear Starbaby, today I had slutty bar bathroom sex with your slutty dad, the same place I hooked up with your super slutty uncle. “Really?”

“No,” Aemond says sheepishly. But the corners of his lips are curled up in fond nostalgia. “That’s not my usual style.”

“What is your style?”

He drains his Bramble and turns to you. “Do you want to get out of here?”

You want few things more. “Yeah.”

You leave your empty glasses on a tray by the edge of the roof. Aemond lets Criston know that you’re taking one of the Escalades back to the farm. Aegon pauses his conversation with Taylor Swift just long enough to wink at you. No need for condoms, he mouths with a grin. And then he shouts, as the opening notes of Starboy blare from the speakers: “Stargirl, it’s our song!”

The Escalade makes one pitstop: the Walmart just off Route 210, the same one you always shopped at growing up. Aemond piles the requisite ingredients for vegan chocolate chip cookies in the screechy-wheeled cart, flour, baking soda, salt, white sugar, brown sugar, dark chocolate chips, rice milk (Aemond swears it tastes like Rice Krispies), vanilla extract, coconut oil. You wander down the aisles together talking, joking, finding excuses to touch each other, hands on wrists and collarbones and waists.

As you scan the items at one of the self-checkout kiosks, two guys buying frozen pizzas and White Claws peek over at you and start snickering. You grab snippets of their conversation like fireflies from the air: critiques of your body, critiques of your soul. You ignore them. This happens sometimes when you’re home. Someone from high school will recognize you, someone will remember.

Aemond is staring at them. Not staring; glaring, seething, mentally splitting flesh and dislodging teeth.

“Aemond, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“It’s not a big deal. I’m not upset. Just ignore them.” He walks away from you. “Aemond, don’t!”

He grabs the closest man’s shoulder and spins him around. “You got a problem?”

Both men gawk up at him, mouths hanging stupidly open and eyes inane like fish. The one he’s clenching sputters: “I’m sorry, are you…are you…are you Aemond Targaryen?!”

“I’m the guy who’s about to go to prison for second degree murder if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

He puts both hands in the air. “Hey man, I am actively shutting the fuck up. You have a nice evening.”

Aemond releases the man with a shove that sends him staggering back into a rack of tabloids. He returns to you, puts the bags in the cart, starts pushing it out to the parking lot.

The man turns to his friend. He is starstruck, elated. It might be the best day of his life. “Bruh, I just got assaulted by Aemond Targaryen…!”

The Escalade glides through the dark to your parents’ farm and drops you and Aemond off in the dirt driveway before zooming back towards the city. Aemond insists on carrying the shopping bags…but he doesn’t go inside. He stands near where his Gold Star is parked and gazes up at the night sky: moon, stars, the hazy white shadow of the Milky Way, all unmarred by the arrogant, buzzing radiance of electricity.

“Aemond?”

“You can see everything out here,” he says. “Maybe Kansas isn’t so bad.”

“Missouri.”

“Missouri,” Aemond agrees. “But you’re still the best thing about it.”

You smile. “I don’t know the names of any of those constellations.”

He points to show you. “Ursa Major. Ursa Minor. Perseus. Draco. Hercules.”

“Heroes,” you say.

“And animals.” He ascends the steps of the front porch. They creak beneath him, weight that will soon be gone, to New Orleans and Miami and South America and God knows where else.

Your parents are watching the 11:00 news in the den. The weatherman is issuing tentative warnings for tomorrow. Summer is gone, storms are coming in. They politely ask what you and Aemond are up to and then try not to look repulsed when you mention vegan cookies. You’re actually pretty excited; you love cookie dough, and because it will have no raw eggs in it, you can eat as much as you like without endangering Starbaby.

On the kitchen counter is the same CD player that your mom has owned since 2008. You press play on whatever she has currently spinning around in there. MercyMe? TobyMac? Danny Gokey? What you hear instead is Crush by David Archuleta.

“That’s a throwback,” Aemond notes.

“My parents love David Archuleta. He’s Christian, he’s cute, he’s gracious, he doesn’t swear. I remember them incessantly calling in to vote for him when he was on American Idol. They put in a prayer request at church to help him win the competition. I guess God used his executive veto power.”

“Do they know he’s…?” Aemond draws an invisible rainbow in the air with his fingers.

“No, they don’t use Google.”

“We won’t tell them. He needs the record sales.”

You and Aemond mix the cookie dough and then portion it out on a baking sheet. He slides the sheet into the oven, sets the timer, and then notices the reserve of dough you’ve left in the bowl. You dip your pinky finger in and then lick it slowly, savoringly: sweetness, chocolate, fats obtained without the sacrifice of a soul.

“Looks good,” Aemond says, a little hoarsely.

You swipe your index finger around the curve of the bowl and then offer it to Aemond. He holds your hand still and licks your finger clean, his tongue dragging over your skin, goosebumps rising on your arms, heat stirring up everywhere. You’re transfixed by him; you can’t stop watching. Then he closes the gap between you and cups your face in his palms and kisses you, not in some glittering city or on a stage or for an Instagram post but in the kitchen of a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, the home of nobodies. His lips are sweet, swift, seeking more. He only pulls away when the noise of heavy footsteps approaches the kitchen.

“Smells great in here, chickadee! Even if they are vegan cookies.” Your dad says the word vegan like someone else might say the name of a tourist destination halfway across the globe. He can’t quite get the pronunciation right. His eyes snag on the bare skin between your shoulder blades. “Lord almighty, what is that on your back?!”

Your comet tattoo, that’s what. “Uh, Daddy—”

“It was my idea,” Aemond says quickly, seamlessly. “They’re my lyrics. Lyrics I wrote before the accident, I mean. And I was feeling just…purposeless, and useless, and really doubting myself. She wanted to show me that my work still mattered. So when the band was in Rome, Jace got a tattoo and I suggested she get one too. It’s entirely my fault.”

“Huh,” your dad replies uncertainly. “Is that right? Well, I suppose there’s not much to be done about it now.” He chuckles and moves your hair so it’s covering your tattoo. “Let’s not mention it to your mother. She’s already got high blood pressure. Say, can I try one of them cookies when they’re ready?”

Criston and the rest of the band arrive back at the farmhouse just as the cookies are coming out of the oven. Miraculously, no one is drunk enough that your parents are aware of it. Everyone samples the vegan chocolate chip cookies and agrees that they are nearly as delicious as the cruelty-enhanced version. You and Aemond watch each other from across the kitchen that’s now crowded with people, hearing them but also not, wanting more and knowing you can’t have it, here in this place with little privacy and very few remaining secrets.

Comet scrambles to get ready for bed, racing to claim bathrooms and banging on doors to peer pressure people into finishing their showers faster. Back in your bedroom, clean and alone and wearing an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants, you rearrange your pillows over and over again and try not to think about the band leaving in two days. Strangely, you don’t really want to go with them; you don’t want to board the jet, you don’t want to sightsee, you don’t want to be surrounded by people ingesting poison in all its forms. But the thought of being away from the band—from Aegon, from Aemond—is impossible, unbelievable, horrifying. You’re humming something as you crawl into bed. You don’t even realize what song it is until you’re under the covers and sinking into sleep: The Man Who Can’t Be Moved.

You’re only asleep for ten or fifteen minutes. When you wake your eyes are watery and you can’t remember your dream—you almost never can—but you know that Aemond was there. Now he’s here in your room as well. He’s gently stroking your cheeks, your forehead, sitting on the edge of your bed.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he’s murmuring, only a silhouette in the darkness. But you would recognize him anywhere. “You had a nightmare. You were crying, I heard you.”

“Were you lurking outside my door or what?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he asks: “What were you dreaming about?”

“You.”

And when you reach for him, he meets you without hesitation, his hands in your hair and his lips on yours, blankets thrown aside, his weight between your thighs, your fingertips ghosting against his face, reading his past and future like braille. He bites your lower lip, nips at the curve of your jaw, kisses a path down your throat like the contrail of an airplane. You yank off his t-shirt. He lifts away yours. He’s touching you everywhere, fingers beneath your pajama pants, smothering his moans against your neck so no one else will hear.

He whispers breathlessly: “I don’t want to rush this time.”

“I’m yours for as long as you want me.” Forever, I hope. And then: “Can I turn on the light? I want to see you.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. And then he reaches out to click the lamp on. The nightstand is cluttered with your souvenirs: refrigerator magnets, snow globes, figurines, cosmetics, snacks, crochet celestial objects, the frisbee from New Jersey, your plushie sika deer nestled together with the hammerhead shark from the aquarium at the Mandalay Bay. In the weak golden lamplight, you study Aemond like a painting, a marble statue, a comet you’ll only see once in a lifetime.

You say, softly like a prayer if you believed in such things: “You are so fucking beautiful.”

He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t stop. He wants to see you too. Your clothes are gone, every scrap of fabric and concealment; if he is cognizant of any minuscule changes in your body, he is not suspicious of them. Now he is bare for you as well, now he is pushing your thighs apart so he can marvel at you, taste you, drench his mouth and chin in your wetness, bring you to the edge of a cliff with no bottom, no rocks to rupture against. Now he is inside you, tremendously big but also careful, listening to you, watching every line of your face, slowly, so exquisitely slowly, his tongue darting between your lips and his palm against your cheek. And you remember how Aegon felt—always so simple and yet transient, soothing and welcome but never necessary—and Aemond could not be further from that. Nothing about what you have with him is simple. It is profound and intense and singular, and the thought of it not lasting forever is agony.

Afterwards, he retrieves his vintage metal lighter—small, square, Targaryen etched into one side—and a shimmery gold pack of his Benson & Hedges cigarettes out of the pocket of his pajama pants that are crumpled on the floor. He lies on his back and takes deep, drowsy drags, smoke like opaque morning mist in the air, one arm draped across you as you rest your head on his chest, lungs and heart and bones and blood.

Secondhand smoke isn’t good for the baby. You get up out of bed and sneak across the treacherously creaky hardwood floor. “Let me open a window.”

“So your parents won’t know?”

“Yeah.” You push the window open and then turn to him. “You should stop smoking. It’s really bad for you.”

Aemond smiles faintly. “Why would I care about that?”

“It’s bad for the people who love you too.”

He looks at you for what feels like a very long time. “Come back,” he says at last.

You do: to Aemond, to his warmth and lust and tenderness, to the space he occupies that will soon be empty like the vast expanses between comets, between stars.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I would like to say something.” You rise from your seat at your parents’ long dining room table, perfect for hosting judgmental-church-people gatherings and family reunions. Lunch for Comet Donati is steak and baked potatoes, lovingly prepared by your mom just before she and your dad left in their Ford F-150. It’s Sunday, and your parents will be at church socializing with their friends until late afternoon. Aemond is suffering through another meal of boxed spaghetti and Ragu marinara sauce. He doesn’t seem to have much of an appetite; not for food, anyway. You take turns glancing at each other and then looking away, smiling, flushing. Now he is intrigued by your announcement. His brow knits into thoughtful little grooves. The Australian cattle dogs scuttle around under the table for scraps. The television is on in the den. A tornado watch has been issued for the greater Kansas City area; no big deal, they get alerts like this once or twice a week here sometimes. It rarely amounts to carnage. Outside the sky is a tumultuous grey but not especially sinister at the moment: no greenish hue, no cloud rotation.

“You agree that Aegon hooking up with Taylor Swift would be disastrous for everyone involved,” Jace jokes.

“No, I know what it is,” Aegon says. He pokes at his baked potato with his fork, melancholy.

“I want to thank you for giving me this amazing opportunity,” you tell Comet. You have perhaps not dressed for an occasion of this significance: flip flops, a tie-dye One Direction hoodie, an old pair of shorts you found in your bedroom dresser. You like the way Aemond watches you when you wear them. “And I’ve experienced so many things, and learned so much from all of you, and I sincerely hope that we’re going to be in each other’s lives forever. But for right now…for this tour…Kansas City is my last stop with Comet.”

“What?!” Baela cries.

“No!” Rhaena gasps, her dark doe-like eyes glistening.

People are asking you why, people are asking you to reconsider. Aemond only stares, a sharp hostile look, menacing like storm clouds.

“I really, really appreciate everyone’s concern. But it’s been over three months, and this was never intended to be a permanent arrangement. Right, Aegon?”

“Right,” he reluctantly agrees.

“And it’s time for me to figure out what the rest of my life is going to look like, because I can’t just follow Comet around the world forever.”

Cregan nods to Criston. “Did you know about this?”

“I did, yeah,” Criston confesses. “We finished up the paperwork last week.”

“But we’re going to miss you,” Baela says. She sounds shockingly close to tears. Jace tries to soothe her and she shrugs his hand away.

“I know,” you concede. “And I’m going to miss you too. But we’ll still talk all the time, and I’m always willing to help you guys with anything, and maybe in the future I can visit—”

Aemond stands, his chair squealing against the hardwood floor, and flees from the dining room.

“That went well,” Jace says.

Aegon points towards the doorway Aemond left through and asks you: “Do you want me to…?”

“No, I’ll do it,” you say, and go after Aemond. He’s outside by the pigpen, his hair and t-shirt whipping wildly in the strengthening gusts of late-September air. Sparse raindrops fall from the sky. The pigs are agitated, pacing, oinking, scampering in and out of the shed they have for shelter. Aemond is smoking, embers glowing on the end of his cigarette; you purposefully stand upwind from him.

His voice is stunned and dazed and beneath that dangerously angry. “You’re leaving the tour.”

“Yes.”

“When we get on that jet tomorrow, you’re not going with us.”

“No, I’m not.”

“And you told Aegon and Criston but you didn’t tell me.”

“I had to tell Criston. And Aegon…” What can I say? What is the truth? “Aegon is easier to talk to about things like this.”

“So you feel like you can’t talk to me?” Aemond demands.

“Well, yeah, because sometimes you’re kind and patient and the single most incredible man I’ve ever met, and then something rattles your demons awake and you’re this…this…this vengeful, mistrustful, irrationally insecure person, and I can’t do anything right because you’ve already decided what my intentions are.”

“I want you to stay with Comet,” he says suddenly.

“I can’t, Aemond.”

“In Tokyo you asked me what I want, so now I’m telling you. I want you to stay.”

“Why, so you can sometimes love me and sometimes hate me, and refuse to build a new life for yourself, and relive what happened at the Budokan over and over and over again because that’s the background noise of everything you do now? Why?”

He gestures vaguely. “So we can figure things out.”

“I’m figured out, Aemond! You’re the one who isn’t and I can’t help you anymore, you have to do it for yourself, you have to want it!”

“You’ve never wanted to stay with me. You’re a liar, you’re a user. I’m glad Comet could fill that gap in your resume.” He takes a forceful drag and exhales smoke that the wind snatches away. “All you do is keep things from me.”

Venomous, violent disappointment blooms dark and scarlet in your veins. “You have no idea how much I’ve kept from you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

You watch him, mourn him, commit him to memory for when you can’t see him anymore, every thread of him, miraculous and doomed. Saint Jude, you think, a man your parents as good Southern Baptists do not pray to. You tell Aemond: “You’re a lost cause.”

“And you’re a nobody.”

You turn away from him like ripping a page in two. You don’t want anyone to see the tears welling up in your eyes, escaping down your cheeks, marking you as someone who was weak enough to believe you could save him. You know that’s not the way it works, you know people have to be willing to accept the truths you help them uncover like prehistoric bones. Still, you believed in him. Why? Why?

Because I wanted to. Because I love him.

Your flip flops pound against the soil of the driveway, raindrops leaving spots like freckles, dust flying everywhere. You swipe at the tears that blur your vision. When you are far enough away that nobody can see you from the farmhouse, you rest your trembling hands on your belly. The life in progress there is half-built of Aemond, you carry pieces of him around with you like coins jangling in you pocket. You can’t forget him. You can’t forgive him. It shouldn’t be possible to be so close to somebody and yet so far away.

There’s no one out on Route 210. Your flip flops cross from a dirt road to black pavement. You lose track of how long you’ve been walking. Five minutes, ten minutes, it doesn’t matter. What are minutes when your mind is years away?

How will I keep Aegon in my life without tabloids finding out about the baby? What will I tell my child when they ask who their father is?

A vicious wind, so strong it snaps branches from trees and almost knocks you over. And then you hear it, that sound that every inhabitant of the Lower Midwest knows: a deep rumbling like a train. You peer up into a sky that is dark and murderous and glowing a strange sickly green. And above your head, spiraling with increasing speed: a funnel cloud, an emergent tornado.

~~~~~~~~~~

Criston is herding everyone towards the cellar, bellowing, waving frantically: Aegon, Luke, Rhaena, Jace, Baela, Cregan, Daeron, five yelping Australian cattle dogs. Through the window, they can see the tornado approaching the farmhouse, a column of shadowy atmospheric fury, unpredictable and unstoppable, here and then gone, the meteorological version of a comet.

Aemond slams the door as he sprints inside from the field behind the house. He breaths heavily, his chest heaving as his clear right eye studies the band’s panicked faces. “Where is she?”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘where is she’?!” Aegon pitches back. “She was with you! She’s with you, right?!”

Aemond looks at Aegon, looks through the glass at the tornado, grabs the keys to his 1960 Gold Star off the dining room table.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re running, but you can’t see; there’s dust and debris everywhere, there are pieces of trees and fences careening through the air, when you breath you choke on airborne earth. The wind keeps pushing you off the road and then you have to fight your way back. You have to find your parents’ driveway. You have to get to the house. The sun is gone, and the roaring like a freight train is louder, louder, louder. And now there is another sound too, a different sort of growling, mechanical and familiar. Punching through the haze like a bullet, Aemond and his Gold Star screech to a stop beside you.

“Get on!” he screams over the storm, then helps drag you onto the seat behind him. You link your arms around his waist and then you’re flying together, just like Rome, just like before Reykjavik or Paris or Singapore or Tokyo or East Rutherford or Las Vegas or any of the other cities happened, back when you believed you could cure him like a witch with a spell, back when you wanted him in a way that was unburdened by truths you wish you didn’t know.

The Gold Star rockets by trees, utility poles, fence posts seconds before they are ripped from the ground by 200 miles per hour winds. Aemond steers roughly onto the dirt road of your parents’ driveway. You cling to him, breathing him in: smoke, cologne, memories, nightmares, dreams. In the rearview mirror is a maelstrom of dark, churning grey peppered with wreckage.

Something collides with the motorcycle, a pence post, a tree limb, you don’t know, it doesn’t matter. The Gold Star is knocked off the driveway like a bloodied tooth from a jaw. You sail off of it as it begins to roll; you hit the ground hard on your back, loose a pitiful wounded howl, try to start crawling towards the farmhouse.

“No, stay down, stay down!” Aemond is saying over the roar of the tornado. He covers you, he shields you, he pins you to the ground, he puts his hands over your eyes. The last thing you see is the Gold Star lying on its side a few yards away, its wheels still rotating. It’s over 400 pounds, too heavy for Aemond to lift even if you helped him, even if that couldn’t hurt the baby.

The baby?? Your own hands go to your belly. You try to ascertain if the heat throbbing in your back has traveled anywhere else, reached with blood-red, needle-sharp talons to your child, to your future.

The wind is letting up; is that your imagination? No, the tornado is receding, the debris fall to the earth, the deafening runaway train made of rogue air evaporates. Cautiously, Aemond rises from you. When you look at him, the right side of his face is riddled with shallow, bleeding gashes; but his eye is mercifully unharmed.

“Aemond,” you say, pained, reaching for him, trying to clean the blood from his face with your sleeves, a hoodie with some boy band on it, men you don’t know and don’t care to meet, fantasies that pale in comparison to the reality that stains you like rust.

“I’m fine, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think so…”

They come stampeding down the driveway: Criston, the rest of Comet, the barking Australian cattle dogs.

“Oh my God, they’re alive!” Jace exclaims, and soon everyone is there, surrounding you and Aemond like a circle, a ring, an orbit, something that goes around and around and might fade but never ends.

You aren’t worried about the baby. There’s no cramping, no pain except the throbbing in the curve of your back, blood loosed and then trapped, indigo bruises tattooed under your skin like ink. You press your palms to the earth and brace yourself so you can stand. No one is helping you get up; why is no one helping you? Why are they only staring, gasping, covering their mouths with shaking hands?

“You’re bleeding,” Aemond says, a panicked voice through fog. Slowly, like trying to run in a dream, you look down. There are thin rivulets of scarlet snaking their way down your thighs, calves, shins, ankles, painless ruinous tributaries, constellations unraveling until the patterns cease to exist, no myths, no monsters, no men, just senseless pinpricks of distant light you’ll never know the names of.

“No,” you whisper, like you can stop it from happening if you refuse to believe it, like it’s a mistake you can talk yourself out of. You gaze up at Aegon. Knowledge flies between you, something shared like an heirloom or an oath.

“Call an ambulance,” Aegon says to Cregan. “Tell them that she’s…” His eyes dart to Aemond and then back to you. “Tell them to hurry.”

Aemond is holding you, he is touching your face, he is asking: “Are you cut, do you need stitches—?”

“I’m alright, it’s nothing, it’s—”

“What are you talking about?! It’s not nothing, you’re bleeding, why are you bleeding?”

“Aemond, it’s nothing—”

“Tell me what to do, tell me how to help you!”

“It’s just…” And a sob breaks from your throat, and your words are brittle and splintering, and you can’t lie to him anymore. You’re out of time in so many ways. “It’s just the baby.”

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

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fatehbaz · 11 months

Text

On April 21, Ali Hussein Julood, a 21-year-old living in the Iraqi town of Rumaila, on the outskirts of one of the world’s largest oil fields, died from leukaemia. He was told by doctors that pollution from gas flared in the nearby field, which is operated by British Petroleum (BP), had likely caused his cancer. “Gas flaring” is a low-cost procedure used by oil companies to burn off the natural gas expelled during drilling. [...] [I]t also contributes to global warming [...]. Some of the pollutants released during this process, such as benzene, are known to cause cancers and respiratory diseases. Ali, who had been battling cancer for six years when he died, was only the latest victim of the environmental degradation caused by international oil companies like BP in Iraq.

In towns and villages near the country’s vast oil fields, thousands of other men, women and children are still living under smoke-filled skies and suffering avoidable health problems because company executives insist on putting profit before lives. [...]

[A] confidential report from the Iraqi health ministry recently obtained by the BBC blamed pollution from gas flaring, among other factors, for a 20 percent rise in cancer in Basra, southern Iraq between 2015 and 2018. A second leaked document, again seen by the BBC, from the local government in Basra showed that cancer cases in the region are three times higher than figures published in the official nationwide cancer registry.

Like many other problems and crises that are devastating the lives of ordinary Iraqis today, the chain of events that led to the poisoning of southern Iraq’s skies by international oil companies also started during colonial times.

---

In the early 20th century, as its navy transitioned from coal to petrol, Britain found itself in increasing need of oil to run its empire and fuel its numerous war efforts. [...] In 1912, Britain formed the Turkish Petroleum Company (TPC) with the purpose of acquiring concessions from the Ottoman Empire to explore for oil in Mesopotamia. Following World War I, it brought modern-day Iraq under its own mandate [...]. By 1930, the TPC was renamed the Iraqi Petroleum Company (IPC) and was put under the control of a consortium made up of BP, Total, Shell and several other American companies. Together, they pushed for a series of “concession agreements” with the newly formed Iraqi government which would give them exclusive control of Iraq’s oil resources on pre-defined terms for long periods. By 1938, the IPC and its various subsidiaries had already secured the right to extract and export virtually all the oil in Iraq for 75 years. These concessions were granted to the IPC and its subsidiaries while Iraq was ruled by British-installed monarchs and under de facto British control. Thus the state had almost no negotiating power against the British-led consortium [...] In 1955, the Iraqi government started to voice its desire to use the gas being flared in Rumaila and Zubair for electricity generation. In 1960, while negotiating a concession with the IPC, then-Iraqi Prime Minister Abd al-Karim Qasim formally asked the company to let Iraq exploit the gas that it was not using. The same demand came up again and again [...], but IPC and its subsidiaries repeatedly turned the Iraqi government down. [...]

Following the 2003 invasion, the Iraqi oil industry was once again privatised as a result of pressure from the US and the International Monetary Fund (IMF). As was the case in the early 20th century, any negotiations on oil extraction rights took place when Iraq was still under foreign occupation [...]. When the process of auctioning off oil fields in southern Iraq began in 2008, the Iraqi government offered foreign oil companies long contracts of up to 25 years, reminiscent of the early concessions agreements with the IPC. These included stabilisation clauses, which insulated foreign companies from legal changes that might emerge over the course of their contracts. This meant that the companies were, and continue to be, unaffected by any environmental regulations passed by the Iraqi government to reduce pollution [...].

---

Looking back at the development of the oil industry in southern Iraq makes apparent that the kind of pollution that killed Ali has been in the making for some 70 years. His death – like the deaths of many others who succumbed to pollution-related cancers in his country – was not an unavoidable tragedy, but the natural consequence of a long history of colonial violence and extractive capitalism.

Predatory colonial practices that began over a century ago caused southern Iraq’s vast oil reserves to be left under the sole control of foreign companies today – companies that over and over again put profit before the lives of the Iraqi inhabitants of the lands they exploit.

Ali’s death is yet more proof that colonial violence is far from over and that it has many different faces.

---

Text by: Taif Alkhudary. “Southern Iraq’s toxic skies are a colonial legacy.” Al Jazeera (English). 12 June 2023. [Some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

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apod · 2 months

Photo

2024 March 16

ELT and the Milky Way Image Credit & License: European Southern Observatory - Courtesy: Jens Scheidtmann

Explanation: The southern winter Milky Way sprawls across this night skyscape. Looking due south, the webcam view was recorded near local midnight on March 11 in dry, dark skies over the central Chilean Atacama desert. Seen below the graceful arc of diffuse starlight are satellite galaxies of the mighty Milky Way, also known as the Large and Small Magellanic clouds. In the foreground is the site of the European Southern Observatory's 40-metre-class Extremely Large Telescope (ELT). Under construction at the 3000 metre summit of Cerro Armazones, the ELT is on track to become planet Earth's biggest Eye on the Sky.

∞ Source: apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap240316.html

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millerscoffee · 10 months

Text

the perfect storm

1.4k drabble / joel miller x f!reader

masterlist

rating: 18+ MDNI

warnings: no outbreak. smutty smut smut. established relationship, masturbation (f, toy), hints of brat tamer!joel, praise kink, no use of y/n

summary: after a boring, rainy morning of joel working from home, you stay nestled in your shared bedroom to have some fun on your own. you're pretty sure you're quiet about it.

A/N: here's a little drabble. i've decided to write more of the "dancing is a dangerous game" fic, and it will indeed be a series. until then, enjoy!

On days like this, dreary as it is, Joel works from home. His days are usually surrounded in piles of blueprints, phone calls, meeting demands. He hates telling people they can't come in, but it's just too dangerous and redundant to send his guys to work in muddy and rainy conditions. They'd just have to go back home, anyway.

Today happens to be your day off, and it's spent in bed for most of the morning. You exhale a sigh of relief when sounds of rain against the windowpane that wakes you.

Joel is home.

Warmth envelops you, but when you roll over you are met with an empty bed. A grumble leaving you when you take note that you're alone – but you're able to hear Joel through the other side of the wall.

Some phone call with a client.

A yawn waves through your lungs, limbs stretching in either direction as you settle into the white duvet set you convinced Joel you both needed. Bat of the eyes, pout of the lips. Compromise.

From the other room, you only hear Joel's replies. On any other occasion Joel is a man of few words, but when he works he's still pragmatic, yet speech is fluid as it drawls out of his southern mouth. Because of this, you assume he's wearing the earbuds you got him as a gift, a grin forms your features at the thought.

You remember giving them to him. He made more of a fuss at how much they cost, how he'd 'just lose 'em anyway, might as well take 'em for yourself.'

On days like this, even in your mindseye, you see his hands – all too big for them – maneuver the buds into his ears.

Fondness pangs your heart.

However, these thoughts were flooded by a way more mischievous thought: if you can't hear his customers speaking, he can't hear you.

This has your hands wandering over your body, over the black silk pajama set Joel got you after you spent weeks looking at it in passing because nothing goes unnoticed with Joel Miller.

Especially when you touch yourself without him in the room.

It's not that Joel minds. He, if anyone, knows the importance of autonomy and not letting people tell you what to do.

Or at least that's what he lets you believe.

It's more... he likes to know. Wants to be around, or be told before you're going to play with yourself. And if he's not around, he wants details and explicit demonstration of what you did. Of how you get yourself off.

Exactly the way your breath hitches when your fingers graze over your clit. What makes your back arch the most.

His eyes hooded, head hung low like a hungry wolf who's been scrapped one too many times. Taking you in, taking account.

You enjoy letting him have this control over you, and it's more or less a jackpot.

So to do this without him knowing, while he has to work, is in itself naughty. Naturally, you must do it.

Besides, it's your body and you can do whatever you choose to with it. You picture the devilish smile of agreement spreading across his face at the roar of your sovereignty.

You're giddy when you lean over to the bedside table, taking out your vibrator from the drawer like a friend that visits. You like to use it on yourself, but Joel likes to use it on you, too and just seeing it sends a shiver over your skin.

It starts off slow. On your back, your legs splay lazily under the sheets – the sound of rain is sensual in nature and it's literally and metaphorically the perfect storm to put you in the mood.

Your arms stretch overhead, letting out a soft yawn as you take in the way your skin feels against the plush fabric of your bedding.

Mornings as slow as this one (at least for you) deserve appreciation. Joel's voice still delivering messages back and forth to clients in the background.

Then, your hands wander. Your nipples over your camisole, across your stomach before finding your tits under the silk. You gasp at way it goes straight to your core with the image of the night before in your brain. Joel's mouth somewhere around the area you're now tugging at, rolling the sensitive nubs between your fingers as they peak and stiffen, and you have to bite down against your lip at thought of him.

Of how a trace of him is constantly left on your skin.

It causes you to rut pathetically against the fabric of your sleep shorts, wishing Joel could take the morning off to spend it with you like this. To have a lazy, rainy morning full of slow, carnal sex and pancakes after. You grow wetter at the thought of him between your legs, pumping his thick fingers inside of you. Spreading them apart, leaving your mouth hanging open and it's so good you can't even make a sound.

"Fuck," your moans are breathy, and you're not sure when, but your fingers slipped between your legs, under the hem of your shorts.

Exploring your folds, you're astonished at just how downright lewd the sounds coming from your cunt are. The undeniable gliding of wet skin tempts you to add one finger and then two inside of you.

You work through the whimper at the fact they're not as thick as his. And even though he's not there with you, you can practically see pride and smugness tug at his features, and that makes you pump harder.

Your eyes roll shut, imagining him hovering over you and the fact that his voice is within earshot not only makes it easier, but makes you more aroused. You purposefully brush the spongy bit inside you and your thighs flutter.

It doesn't take much more, it couldn't possibly. Not when you know your body and how quickly it can take you to reach that place, so your free hand searches for the vibrator. The kind that creates a little suction on your clit. The kind Joel uses on you while he's buried to the hilt in you when it already feels like you've taken your limit.

A third finger stretches and explores you when you place the low vibrations on your clit, instantly gasping when you feel the suction and the way your nipples graze against the texture of clothes.

You could cum like this. Your fingers deep, toy mercilessly suctioning the artificial pleasure right to your core, but you're greedy and you want more. Your tongue passes your lips, screwing your eyes shut even tighter as you turn the intensity up on the toy.

It sucks harder, sounds louder – even under the duvet.

That's it, like you can hear Joel in your ear. All gravel in the pit of his throat, nodding against your temple while he watches you.

That's my girl. You gasp then. Mouth in a perfect 'o' shape you ride out the initial wave of self-gratification. So powerful it causes your ears to ring.

A moan of something that sounds like a mixture of fuck, Joel, please falls off your lips.

You bite your lip into the second wave, your orgasm feeling more and more intense as your fingers almost ache from how tightly you’re clenching around them. Clit instantly too sensitive now for the vibrator, you press it down to the lowest setting before cutting it off. You leave it abandoned somewhere on the bed.

One at a time, your fingers leave your pussy. The lack of connection makes you pout to yourself until you're left rubbing your folds lazily. Basking in the afterglow of what you've given yourself. You hum a low sound of approval, legs brushing against the sheets again. Another yawn.

It's only then you blink your eyes open, squealing in surprise at Joel at the door. You jolt – alert and sat up. Eyes wide, adrenaline kicks in. Who needs coffee?!

Joel's arms are crossed, desire dripping off his brow. Your instinct is to apologise, to promise you were going to tell him. Anything, think of anything.

If your heart wasn't racing from your orgasm, it is now.

But he doesn't let you start your sentence. In fact, you can just barely see a smirk form over his face before he brushes the pad of his thumb against his lower lip and you whimper at that.

You whimper at anything he does now because he’s got you. You know he won't let you get away with it.

Caught in the act and vulnerable.

He stays exactly where he is: broad shoulders leaning against the doorframe. Arms flexing through his shirt.

"Do it again."

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #tlou #by bee #joel miller x reader #the perfect storm

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boccher · 10 months

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widefield of the milky way core, 1hr total exposure time from a Bortle 2 dark site at 24mm focal length

The photo contains a bunch of my other photos within it. I think its neat to see the context of all the nebulae

A little ramble under the cut

The most common question astronomers get is "what does it look like to the naked eye?" Photos are usually much more detailed and colourful, since cameras can take long exposures while our eyes can't.

I was able to observe it from the Bortle 2 site with about 10 mins of dark adaptation (astronomers usually recommend at least 30 mins but I was busy at the time). I edited the photo to try to account for the level of details, colour, and stars that I was able to see with my eyes, here:

It was mostly colourless, but I think I was able to see a faint hint of golden brown colour right in the brightest part of the milky way core. The central bulge of the milky way extended just short of Antares (bright yellow star at the top), and I was just barely able to see the dark dust lanes extending to Antares. The Lagoon nebula was obviously visible as a small diffuse cloud, and the Omega nebula was also visible as a fuzzy looking "star" if you knew where to look.

Keep in mind though this is in the southern hemisphere, where the milky way core passes directly overhead. In the northern hemisphere, this region of the milky way is lower on the horizon, and is thus dimmed by the atmosphere. On the other hand, I didn't adapt my eyes to the darkness for very long, and I was in a Bortle 2 site (the darkest skies are rated Bortle 1), so even better views are definitely possible.

I think the biggest thing that photos can't capture is the sheer size of the milky way in the sky. It stretches across the entire sky from horizon to horizon, and at its thickest point it's wider than two outstretched hands at arms length. The sky is also dotted with stars covering your entire field of vision. As much as it's a cliché thing to say, you really do get a sense of yourself on earth floating through space. It's an insanely immersive experience

#astrophotography #space #astronomy #astrophotography oc #boccher photo tag

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nikkiwebsterfan · 8 months

Photo

#Nikki Webster #Sydney 2000 Olympics #opening ceremony #Under Southern Skies #2000

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zaddymyboi · 1 year

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Bob Velseb x GN! Reader

(Not your regular Uber driver)

(Based off of a dream I had. Bob is your Halloween Uber but doesn’t take you to your destination; as a matter of fact, you takes you somewhere for…… privacy)

Warnings: nsfw (minors dni), car sex, lots of kissing, gentle Bob (for the most part), ask of consent, desperate Bob, mention of drugs and alcohol (Halloween party stuff), slight contact high, reader is of age, dick riding, jerking off, Bob is a switch

It was late this Halloween night and to be honest, the party you went to was probably one of the lamest Halloween get-togethers you have ever been too. All they did was do drugs and drink alcohol. You made the mistake of getting a slight contact high and one of the people there stealing your food you brought because you didn’t know if they drugged the food or not. People are crazy so you couldn’t give the party high expectations, but anyways- you ditched that lame-o party and called an Uber to go home (idiots make anyone tired).

Your Uber finally came to your rescue and you hopped in the back seat behind him of his black SUV, a stereotypical car you’d see around this place. He was dressed in a red sweater with black pants and shoes. You couldn’t see his face because he wore what looked like a red ski mask that was in the shape of the devil, cool design. He was also on the chunkier side which made you smirk a little; you always had a thing for a chubby dad bod, it gives perfect flavor.

“Where are y’a headin?” AND OH MY LORDS HIS ACCENT. It was a nice, deep, southern accent. He looked in the mirror for my response.

“Oh- uhh- (your address)”, you replied sweetly

“Thank y’a”, was all he said before he started driving

You looked around in the car to find anything interesting to talk about, silence makes you paranoid and you tend to overthink, but you began to fidget instead which your driver took notice of.

“Do you know? Once the oxygen supply is cut off, a human brain can survive up to three to six minutes” your driver stated

You were amazed by his knowledge; “oh wow. No I didn’t know that. That’s really cool. Do you study the human anatomy?”

“You can say that. I just find the human body interestin’, that’s all”

“That’s a smart thing to just find a hobby about”

“Y’a think so?”

“Yeup”

The Uber driver chuckled at your response. Right as he was about to make a turn down your street, he continued going straight instead. You noticed this and your suspicions started to grow. Maybe he knew a short cut or maybe he saw traffic? He’s going to your house….. right? You started to slightly panic because all he did was just continue going straight until he hit a dirt road that led to

The woods. Yeah, this is definitely not where you live. Well, it was nice knowing this world, at least you hope you die between that man’s thighs or at least peacefully.

Once the Uber was far enough down in the woods, he stopped. You instantly panicked and tried to open your door but that fucker put a child lock in the back. He then pushed a button where the back rest of his seat fell back and kept your legs still. He unbuckled and turned his direction towards. Your panic grew worse and tears began to stream down your face. Your Uber scooted closer to you, resting his hands on either side of your face and wiped your tears away.

“I ain’t gonna hurt y’a. Not my favorite customer” he coed which made you confused.

“Take the mask off” You demanded which he obliged, removing his mask which made your face heat up to find out who was under that mask.

“Bob?!” You said in disbelief. You thought he was dead or in jail. Believe it or not, you were his favorite customer at his deli back when it was still running, he always made you (your favorite sandwich) since he knew you loved to skip your meals because of how much you worked.

“That’s me, darlin’” oh and that nickname he gave you always made you swoon. His short black hair and pale skin never really changed, he just looks more tired and that stubble is a new look too. So much for a panic, now you’re having a different type of panic.

You were hoping this wasn’t just some trip you were on and this was actually him. He felt so real…

“When a human blushes, they feel it in the lining of the stomach too as it also turns red” he stated another fact, but something about this one was sinister….Fuck it, we ballin’

“You still like eating people, right?” I asked with a smirk on my face

“That’s a weird question, but yeah?” Bob said confused but his face started to grow red at what statement you could potentially say next

“Make me your next meal” you demanded, pulling him by the collar of his sweater so he gets closer to you

“Gladly”, he growled lowly before he gently pressed his lips against yours. Perfect.

You wrapped your hands around his neck and tangled in his hair to deepen the kiss in which he let a soft moan escape. Oh this is going to get interesting real quick. You bit down gently on his bottom lip, your way of asking for permission in which he quickly accepted. Your tongue slipped inside his mouth as you claimed every ounce of him. He tasted like coffee and cigarettes. When did he start smoking?

Bob unbuckled your seat and let go from the kiss; “Yain’t gonna run away, are y’a?” He asked innocently, still disheveled from the kiss. His eyes are half lidded and his breathing was staggered.

“I’m not gonna run anymore, knowing that it isn’t some creep of a driver. I know you and to be honest” you look at him up and down “you never looked better in this position.” This made him look at you in disbelief, baffled and in awe.

“Are y’a comfortable with going further?” He asked in a nice tone.

“Oh I don’t mind not one bit” you replied with a devilish grin. This was all you had to say before he scooted away from you to move the seat back up and get out of the car to get in the back with you to continue your heated make-out session.

Without breaking the kiss, the two of you rearranged yourselves to where you were sitting on his lap, feeling that he was already excited.

“Well hey there, big guy” you commented which made him chuckle. Off to a good start, he is perfect. Joking around and laughing is always a good start of something.

The kissing continued and you two started to get a little…. Handsy. Bob’s hands were quickly placed around your hips, gripping them for dear life as your hands trailed under his sweater, feeling all the scars and stitches from the last Halloween where he was supposedly dead. You grope his stomach which made a moan escapes his lips. Your hands then grab a hold of his sweater and you let go of the kiss to remove his shirt. You stare at his body and practically look at him in awe.

“You’re so beautiful” You say sweetly as you trail kisses over every permanent bruise and scar he has. Bob’s breath hitches when your kisses go lower down his stomach which led you to on the floor board of the back of the car.

He looks down at you with a look you couldn’t describe. Fear and Lust? Or was it desperation? Whatever it was, it looked good on him.

“Can I?” You ask, your hand hovered over his bulge in which he nodded. “I need a verbal answer, sweetie” verbal consent is always key.

“Yes. Yes please just touch me”, so it was desperation. His voice was staggered and a bit high pitched for a man who looks like he would pick me up with one hand.

You placed your hand on his boner as you began to palm it, the other hand was stroking his thigh. Groans, grunts and heavy panting was all that was heard throughout the car. Praise left your lips as he grew desperate for more. You unzipped his pants and let his…. Holy shit that ain’t no slab of meat, that’s a fucking beef bundle!…. Ahem, excuse you.

“Holy shit” you whispered in disbelief as you grabbed a hold of him and began to move you hand up and down his length. A high pitched moan was what you were rewarded with.

“God damn” Bob moaned as you jerked him off, his hips bucking themselves into your hand, he couldn’t control himself.

“Look at you, so desperate for me” you cooed

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this moment” Bob gasped as your grip tightened around him.

“Good, because I’m going to show you how much I’ve been wanting this too” your mouth barley even take the tip of him but you sure did try your best because that noise that came from him was what you want to hear more of. What you couldn’t take, you used your hand to take care of. His hands gripping the edge of the seat till knuckles turned white encouraged you more to go further.

You stopped which made him whine but that was stopped quickly as you began to remove your clothes. He stared in awe at your figure, loving every curve and limb you had. You crawled back on top of him and positioned him towards your entrance.

“You don’t want to prepare?” He asked concerned, holding your hips

“I’ve been prepared” you say smugly as you sink yourself into him, both of you moaning at the new feeling.

“M-….maybe not for you, big boy” you lightly laugh in which he laughs as well, kisses your forehead.

After waiting for a while to get used to the sensation, you begin to grind yourself against him, leaving yourself breathless and him drooling. Moans between the two of you steamed up the car as he thrusted himself into you. Bob gently placed you down against the cushioning of the seat, his stomach pressed against yours and his head in the crook of your neck, he continued his thrusts which grew animalistic.

“Oh! F-fuck!” You practically yelled as you gripped onto his back and hair, definitely leaving a mark. His moans were something to definitely remember after this night.

“That’s it! Keep going. Just like that, baby” tears threatened to prickle down your face due to the amount of pleasure.

“Darlin, I-“ Bob groans “I don’t think I’m gonna last any longer” he whimpered

You soothed him with encouragement which let him to nipping at your shoulder as he released himself inside of you, a cry escaping through his teeth. This led you to reach your peak as well.

You both calmed down for the most part which the only thing was left was sweet aftercare kisses.

“Wanna finish this at your house?” Bob asked with a smile

“If you actually take me home this time and you stay the night” you replied, smiling back

“I’ll stay forever”

“Let’s keep it that way”

(This is my first time publishing smut and I do apologize if grammar isn’t correct or words were repetitive)

#bob velseb x reader #bob velseb #spooky month #spooky month x reader

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