Is the aim of every Endeavour season finale just to rip my heart out of my chest, throw it on the ground, and grind it to powder beneath someone’s heel???
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writing dog teeth and just looping waiting room is such a vibe <- sirens and screaming and explosions and gunshots an
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Mood.
“When it jumps, you run!”
“WHEN IT JUMPS, YOU RUN!”
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Super fine man!
Photo credit: @glendeavour from Twitter
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#EndeavourPBS Exeunt S9Ep3 Series Finale Preview via @stacyamiller85 @masterpiecepbs @PBS
Endeavour Season 9 premieres Sunday, June 18, 2023 on Masterpiece.
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kids these days don't understand the atmosphere of eric kripke seasons, he was an absolute master of his craft/vision and anyone who actively convinces anyone to skip 1-3 is not in one's right mind. eric completely understood the backwoods old school americana, the influence of 70s rock and og blues incorporated into the essence of the show. the original soundtrack of supernatural wasn't just about sounding good but woven into the narrative of the story (blue oyster cult/ACDC/led zepp/styx/robert johnson/the chamber brothers) music that held the entire spirit of time & culture of that time. (I can't tell you how much watching supernatural at 12 shaped my music taste today) the smoky roadhouses/bars, mullets, scrapyards and classic americana cars, oh he just got it.
kripke fabricated the toxic hyper-co-dependent brothers we know and love, he managed to write the most obnoxious, gung ho, red blooded masculine guy also be the obedient, subdued, desperate, needy brother/son/man who's worth is only attached in those he can gratify. the tender and gentle, sorrowful, conflicted and misfit little (big) brother who endeavoured every path to avoid his fate yet succumbed to it anyways. two brothers so layered in their attachment with one another that if you witnessed it before you you'd be down right scared
I hold onto this series so much because of how 1-5 made me feel, the nostalgia he captured.
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Endeavour Season 8, Episode 1 Recap: "Striker"
Endeavour Season 8, Episode 1 Recap: “Striker”
While the Season 8 episode of Endeavour hints at the more excellent mystery, Morse’s drinking issue is the underlying narrative. Wednesday, alone in an alley, faces up against a couple of nasty characters, and he desperately needs Morse and Strange’s help. That night Morse is so intoxicated that he needs to be awakened from his coma by Thursday, who is excitedly waiting for him. Additionally,…
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ONLY ANGEL – Quinn Hughes x fem!reader
next part. series masterlist.
summary: You are an Angel, at least Quinn seems to be convinced so.
note: I’m so hyped for this series istg 🙏
warnings: MDNI, use of y/n, fem!reader, name Layla used (change if your name), alcohol, suggestive content but nothing major.
word count: 2.9k+
Any and all feedback welcomed <3
Quinn Hughes was wound up tight. He'd been working himself to the point of depletion over the past few weeks, immersing himself completely in hockey to the point where Petey had to intervene. He got like that from time to time. He remembered being a kid and being so obsessed with the game that he'd dream of plays and wake up only to run them.
It was a constant cycle that drained him but he wouldn't have it any other way.
The Canucks had played well tonight, winning 3-1, but the game had been tough and resulted in various injuries for multiple players. Quinn was exhausted, but he allowed Petey to drag him out with a few other guys to let loose a little. They had a solid seven days without a single match to play, it was practically written in the stars.
It was a small enough bar, the one that they had chosen, with a live band and neon red lights plastering the walls. The group had been situated in a booth just off to the left of the bar counter, partially hidden by a pillar. Quinn sipped his first, frigid beer of the night as the guys around him laughed and joked, all of them, one or two bottles into their endeavours. His eyes scanned the room as he drank, drinking in the crowd of people shuffling in and around the bar, collecting their drinks and talking.
Quinn always liked this part of life– the observation part, that is. He liked to watch people as they went around doing their own little things, oblivious to other happenings in another area. It was fun to jump his gaze between the hen party singing loudly with an entire bottle of Sambuca in hand and the two, jacked-up bikers in all leather playing a vicious game of darts in the far corner.
He allows his eyes to jump again, and suddenly the world stills. Now, Quinn isn't one to believe that the world could ever fall silent, but sitting in this booth, in a downtown bar with the constant waft of alcohol, the world completely quietens.
Everything ceased to exist at that very moment…everything but you.
Seemingly, you were smiling at some noiseless joke your friend was making, your finger moving your straw around your half-finished glass as the lights around you, bathed you in red. It bounced off of your hair and skin, reflecting in your shining eyes. Quinn shifted in his seat, his eyes still locked on your oblivious self as his mouth parted ever so carefully.
You were an Angel, he decided. You had to be. No one had ever captured his attention quite like you had, and captured would perhaps be the wrong word. You had completely and utterly debilitated him to the point where his only thought was to approach you and get to know you. He watched as you threw your head back with another carefree laugh, lifting your drink to finish it before your eyes levelled and ran across the patrons of the bar.
And then they landed on Quinn.
Quinn clutched his drink so tightly, that he thought it might break under the pressure. Your inquisitive eyes shone despite the darkness, searching his own lingering pair whilst your lips curled into a small, shy smile before you averted your gaze back to your friend. Quinn let out a breath, one he had been holding in fear of disturbing whatever dream-like state he must've been in.
He felt an elbow to his side, instantly jerking his head towards a concerned Petey, who seemed to be studying him. Quinn cleared his throat and gulped down his drink under his friend's watchful eyes.
"Are you alright?" Petey carefully asked as Quinn placed the empty bottle on the table. "You zoned out for a minute or so…"
A minute or so? Only a minute or so?
Quinn felt like he'd spent years beneath the soft light of your gaze. He felt like he could spend a thousand more beneath it had Petey not startled him.
"Yeah, I'm good, man," Quinn eventually spoke, his eyes flitting toward you. "I think I'm going to go get another drink." He stood and turned to the table. "Another round?"
The guys of the team cheered loudly, barely drawing any attention to them with their cheers blending perfectly in with the bar's upbeat ambience. Quinn made his way through the brewing crowd until he finally reached the sticky countertop. His eyes drifted to you every few moments, he probably looked like a creep…oh god, he definitely looked like a creep.
Quinn squirmed slightly and forced himself to look down at the bar counter. He took a few deep breaths in and when the staff came over to ask for his drinks he bought the round for the table and also another round of whatever you and your friends had been drinking. As the drinks were placed in front of him, he began to carry them back to the table, making various trips, unable to manage them all in one go.
However, by the time he returned to the bar to grab the last few drinks, he faltered in his steps, spotting you waiting where he once had stood.
-
You tucked your hair behind your ear as you listened to your best friend, Layla describe her recent late-night escapades. She'd been on a business trip across the US for the past two weeks and the two of you were due a major debrief.
"Oh, y/n, it was mortifying!" Layla groaned as you chuckled, "I had to rush the guy to the ER!" She took a long swig of her drink before pouting. "I broke his penis, stop laughing!"
This caused you to laugh harder, your head tipping back as your body shook with glee.
"I can't believe you!" You gasped between laughs, one of your hands settling on Layla's as she grumbled whilst the other lifted your drink to your lips, finishing off the remaining liquid. "I knew you were a heartbreaker I just didn't think you'd ever go as far as dick-breaker."
"The worst part is I never even got to finish," Layla commented sadly, her head swivelling around the bar mindlessly. There was a slight pause before she turned back to you. "Oh my…wait, y/n, cute guy staring at you."
You found your hand placing your empty glass down as you continued to look straight at Layla.
"Seriously?" You asked curiously, for all you knew this cute guy was a joke, Layla's been trying to convince you to get laid all month.
"Yes!" Layla hissed, eyes wide as you searched for any signs of a lie. "Look to the right…my right, just at the edge, just to the side of the pillar."
You hummed and pretended to gaze around the bar before you found whom Layla had been talking about. She was right, he had been staring at you…in fact, he still was. Your breath caught in your throat as you surveyed him, taking in his deep eyes and rugged appearance.
Layla was lying. He wasn't just a 'cute guy', he was breathtaking in a way you couldn't even begin to explain. His hair was slightly tousled, his face still and careful as you relished the sight of him. There was something so surreal about him, perhaps, it was the way the lights cascaded over his slightly curled hair or the way he stood out amongst the various other men surrounding you. He was like a lighthouse in the dark, a shining beacon of something…of anything, the possibilities seemed endless. A small smile tugged at your lips before you bashfully turned back to Layla, who held the world's most meddling grin you've ever witnessed.
"You're getting laid tonight," Layla sung rather decisively as her grin remained plastered across her face.
And for just this once, you hadn't argued with her.
It's not like you were a virgin or practised abstinence, you just could never find time to get out and meet people, and that tended to be a huge part of actually, you know, sleeping with them.
You let your eyes drift over in his direction once again, this time catching a glimpse of him ordering drinks at the other side of the bar, not sparing you a single glance. You sighed, your face pulling down as you looked at your hands.
It had been too good to be true.
"Hey, hey, hey," Layla softly chided from where she watched the whole scene. "No being sad allowed, tonight is for fun, don't let that idiot bring you down."
"–And two more drinks for you two," the bartender drawled, sliding across two fresh drinks.
"We didn't order these," Layla scrunched her eyebrows together as the two of you exchanged questioning looks.
"Courtesy of the man in the corner," the bartender huffed before moving on to the next order. Your eyes were wide in shock as you looked towards the man who was now carrying a few bottles of beer back to his table.
"Okay, now you have to go over," Layla gawked, her hands latching around her new drink. "Hot and a gentleman? Go get him and get laid!"
You bit your lip, your eyes drawing towards the man once more before you nodded and picked up the drink.
"I think I'm going to go say thank you," you started, a sudden confidence filling you as you slid off of the bar stool you had been perched on. Layla whistled and clapped, her mischievous grin unwavering as you wove through the crowd. You managed to eventually make your way to where the man had once been standing. There were two beers left standing and silently you thanked any higher force of power that you hadn't missed your opportunity.
You heard someone clear their throat despite the loudness of the room causing you to glance back, only to spot the mystery man looking right back at you.
"Oh, sorry!" You apologised moving out of his way.
"Don't be,"
His voice.
Oh, his voice.
You felt heat rush to your cheeks as he stood beside you, leaning on the bar top, mimicking your stance.
"I just came to say thank you," you explained, your eyes locked on his as he listened to your every word. Now that you were closer you could admire the depth of his eyes much better, you couldn't complain. "…for the drink, I mean."
The man let a small smile quirk up as you gestured to the bar in explanation. "No need to thank me," he replied, his voice smooth like velvet, sending delicious shivers down your spine. His words sent a surge of warmth coursing through your veins as you ducked your head.
"Thank you anyway," you murmured, unable to tear your gaze away from his. The electricity in the air crackled with anticipation, the world around you fading into insignificance as you stood locked in the moment. "I'm y/n, by the way." You stuck out your hand between the two of you, your eyes never leaving his.
"Quinn," he supplied, shaking your hand gently, his thumb caressing your skin as he did so. You gulped as you glanced down at the gesture before returning to his watchful eyes- the eyes you found yourself adoring more and more.
"It's nice to meet you, Quinn," you replied, a hint of breathlessness creeping into your voice as you felt the heat of his hand against yours. The world around you seemed to melt away, leaving only the two of you in a bubble of anticipation.
Quinn's smile widened, his eyes twinkling with a playful glint as he leaned in closer, his face mere inches from yours. "The pleasure is all mine, y/n," he murmured, his voice sending shivers down your spine.
He said your name in a way you imagined someone worshipping another. It was a growl both pleading and deep, urging your senses to go haywire.
You chuckled nervously, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you at his words. "Anyways, I appreciate the drinks," you added, a grateful smile playing on your lips as you glanced around the bar. "It's been a rough week, and it's nice to let loose for a change."
Quinn nodded understandingly, his eyes softening as he listened to you speak. "I know what you mean," he replied, his voice gentle as he reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. "Sometimes, all you need is a night to take your mind off things, a distraction."
You hummed in agreement, feeling a sense of comfort wash over you at his understanding. There was something about Quinn that put you at ease, something genuine and comforting that drew you to him like a magnet.
"Is that what you want then?" You asked, courage swimming through you as you dared to tread along the gap between safety and rejection. "A night to take your mind off things?"
Quinn's gaze darkened slightly, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his breath mingling with yours in the space between you.
"Maybe," he murmured, his voice low and husky, sending a shiver down your spine. "But I have a feeling that spending the night with you would be anything but a distraction."
Your heart skipped a beat at his words, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks as you met his intense gaze. There was no denying the magnetic pull between you, the undeniable tension that crackled in the air like electricity.
"Are you suggesting…?" you trailed off, your voice barely above a whisper as you dared to voice the unspoken desire that hung between you.
Quinn's lips curled into a smirk, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he closed the distance between you, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back, drawing you in closer.
"I'm suggesting that we take this somewhere a little more private," he murmured, his voice sending a surge of desire coursing through you. "Somewhere we can really get to know each other."
You swallowed hard, feeling a rush of anticipation flood through you at his words. There was something undeniably thrilling about the prospect of being alone with Quinn, of exploring the depths of desire that simmered between you.
You glanced back at Layla with wide eyes pointing towards the door as she gave you the widest smile and biggest thumbs up.
Without another word, you turned back to the man and nodded, your heart thumping against your chest as you let Quinn lead you out of the bar and into the cool night.
Quinn hadn't even told the guys he was leaving, his sole focus was you and your lip between your teeth as he guided you towards his car that he had originally intended to leave in its spot overnight.
The two of you had remained connected by your hands even when you stumbled on the curbside, flinging you further into Quinn's arms. His hands steadied you, caging you to his body. His deep gaze held yours as you lifted your head, apologies dying in your throat at the lust rising in Quinn's eyes. His hand moved to rest on the small of your back and drew you closer until there was barely a breath of space between you.
You took a sharp breath in as your noses brushed each other, your eyes fluttering as your hands lingered on his biceps.
"I've been wanting to do this since the moment I saw you," he confessed softly, his words sending a jolt of anticipation coursing through you. "Can I?"
You could feel the heat of his breath against your lips, sending jolts of excitement through you. Without a word, you leaned in, closing the distance between you as your lips met in a kiss.
Your lips met his in a fierce collision, igniting a firestorm of desire that burned hot and wild. Each touch was electric, sending sparks dancing across your skin as the two of you melted into each other's embrace.
With a hunger that bordered on desperation, you felt Quinn run his tongue over the seal of your lips, seeking permission to explore. He held onto you so tight as if scared you would slip from his grasp. Your bodies pressed together, fitting perfectly like two pieces of a puzzle, with your hands roaming greedily, tracing every curve and contour, leaving fire trails in their wake.
Time seemed to stand still as you lost yourself in the intensity of the moment, consumed by the flames of your desire. Nothing else mattered but the heat of the connection, the overwhelming need to be close, to touch, to taste.
Quinn and you found yourselves lost in a daze, your breaths mingling in the charged air between you. With a soft smile, he retreated, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch gentle yet filled with a rough and unspoken promise.
Quinn's demeanour shifted upon moving his hand to run his thumb over your swollen lips, his eyes darkening as a low, primal growl rumbled in his chest.
"We're not finished yet," his head tilted downward to face you, his voice husky with need. You felt a smile spread across your face, trying to hide your budding glee at his words.
"I think you need to take me back to your place," you agreed, pressing another searing kiss to his lips before pulling back slightly, moving your head so that your lips grazed the shell of his ear. "To finish, of course."
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Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter One (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)
Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running?
Genres: a LOT of angst, some smut, best friends to… lovers?
Warnings: see collated series warnings here. Please note this series is NSFW / 18+ and minors or ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.
Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written. Posting schedule is here.
Author’s note: (If you read the original one-shot this slightly amended chapter will already be familiar to you, so I'm sorry for the initial lack of surprises. I promise though - there are many surprises from here!) Some of you may remember that this all started as an angsty smutty one shot, way back in 2020. Let’s just say, some of you really liked that story (thank you!) and a “part 2” was requested so that I could “fix” things for these two idiots (affectionate). Well, I guess part 2 took a while, because now it’s four years later, and I have written 87,000 words (ish). Oops. So, as you might infer through the accidental novel length spew, this series means rather a lot to me. It’s the longest piece of writing I have ever seen through to completion, and so, whilst it’s definitely not perfect, I am pretty proud of it! I hope with all of my little orange heart that you enjoy it, and if you do, any RBs, comments - or anything at all really - would mean the world. These two have lived in my head for four years and I will miss them, but I'm so excited to finally share them with you all! Honestly, I could say lots more, but for now I'll leave you with one more thought, which sums up this whole experience quite frankly: the characters made me do it.
Finally, I have to thank you all, lovely pocket friends, for being so supportive and encouraging the whole way. It means so much to me! Especially, I GOTTA thank the fabulous @astroboots, who has hyped this project from literally before the beginning and been so encouraging, and @foxilayde, who is an incredible cheerleader for all my hare-brained endeavours. ILY!
Word count: 9.7k for this part (it’s broken down into 3 sections, if you prefer to read in stints!).
Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to the taglist if you are 18+ (or removed!). Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)
You love your squad. You really do. However, if you are being honest, it can be tough being treated as “one of the boys”. You know it’s a good thing that they don’t treat you any differently - but sometimes, you have to admit you want to be seen as a woman first and a soldier second. Especially on evenings like this when testosterone and drinks are flowing freely. Evenings when you have an ache in between your thighs that, in your case, calls out for a man. Okay - calls out for Santiago “Pope” Garcia, to be specific.
“I hope you can handle something stiff going down your throat,” you announce crudely to the group, arriving to whoops of appreciation as you slide the tray of hard liquor and beers on to the lofty bar table.
The squad is celebrating a successful bust, and the relief and revelry in the air after the months-long operation is palpable.
“Cheers to that!” Frankie winks with a dumbass grin, rubbing his palms together with glee. “You’re a saviour – Pope’s taking far too long.”
Will helpfully conveys the shots and beers around the table, glasses and bottles clinking and jovial smiles rippling through the group as a direct result. Ready for a cold one, you bring the rim of your beer to your lips for an immediate swig, condensation pooling on your fingers and making you realise how close the air is in this buzzing but dingy place.
“Bottoms-up, boys,” Tom directs as he passes you a shot, earning a good-natured side-eye from you. “And bottoms-eth up-eth, Mi’ Lady,” he adds, along with a regal hand wave to match his faux Olde English tone.
“To busts!” you ‘cheers’, clinking your glasses in the centre of the table. The innuendo earns a throaty, gruff chuckle from Frankie who bumps shoulders with you, inviting you to share in the camaraderie. You give-in with a broad smile, unable -as ever- to resist Frankie’s tittering.
“Oh, hang on,” Frankie says, flitting quickly to a now unoccupied bar stool at an adjacent table (seats are in short supply tonight) and dragging it over to you.
“This for me, Catfish? How gallant.”
He grins. He knows you hate gallant. “It’s actually for Pope and his creaky knees… but you may as well make use of it while he’s pre-occupied,” Frankie chortles. You sit gratefully, your decision to wear heels after months in your beloved combat boots feeling like a definite mistake.
Speaking of mistakes...
“You fucking seeing this?” Tom asks, nodding his head over towards your squad mate, apparently simultaneously in awe of and amused by his current interaction at the bar; the very reason the drinks had been failing to materialise.
Twisting on your perch, you follow his gaze towards Santiago, eyes boring into the back of his head and his wash of grizzled curls. Involuntarily, your eyes trail over his form, the midnight blue button-down taut over his muscled shoulders as he casually props himself against the bar, jeans snug over that impossibly shapely rump. He has the barmaid rapt, eating out of his hand, all batting eyelashes and tongue slack in her mouth. Abandoned, a tray of shots sits unnoticed in front of Santiago as he lingers in conversation with her. All you can do is watch as, next, she leans over the bar brazenly, letting her thick, dark mane cascade across her ample, showcased cleavage. You can’t see Santiago’s expression as he -respectfully, you’re sure- admires her, but you can imagine it.
Occasionally, you are on the receiving end of those expressions too.
Unfortunately, Santiago has a raw talent for making… connections. Besides off-shore bank managers and corrupt lawyers, that also inevitably extends to hook-ups. He is never short of distractions. Or, apparently, you never can hold his attention for long. When you do, though? When he does notice you, he makes you feel like you are the only woman in the world, his focus so intent and unrelenting you feel like he is viewing you through a sniper scope. Like the attention might end you.
You bristle thinking about his selective interest, the dull ache between your legs intensifying.
“Never mind that deserter. Let’s celebrate without him,” you encourage to a ripple of agreement. You toss your shot back in-time with the boys and screw-up your face, shuddering in response as the spirit burns down your throat. You stick your tongue out with a “bleuch” as the aftertaste lingers.
However, your distraction doesn’t work for long, as your comrades seem determined to continue gossiping about the object of your desire.
“How does he do it?” Tom asks in disbelief, with more than a side of jealousy. He’d always given off the vibe of envying Santiago, you’d thought. “We’re all good-looking guys, man. But that little shit’s rolling in it.”
“I don’t know what it is. He’s not even tall,” Will snickers, knowing that Santiago hates being teased about his height.
Frankie interjects. “MaybeFrankie interjects. “Maybe it’s the big dick energy.”
No comment.
You’ve certainly never had any complaints about his stature. He is large enough to feel sturdy and surrounding, and small enough that you can take control of him when the mood strikes you. Oh, and you’ve certainly never had any qualms about his big dick energy… or his big dick for that matter.
Frankie chuckles again at the good-natured teasing and bumps you with his elbow. You are grateful for his easy, infectious laughter, acting like an umbrella against the moody, Santiago-shaped storm cloud which threatens above your head.
“For real though,” Tom interjects, leaning forward over the table as if he’s sharing classified intel. “Has he been getting frisky with the informant again?” His eyes travel around the table, meeting each squad member’s gaze in turn. “I feel like he’s definitely got something going on there too. Tell me I’m seeing things.”
“Luci?” Will asks, then whistles in surprise at Tom’s accusation, his brows converging. You’re not sure if he’s surprised by Santiago’s potentially compromising choices, or impressed by his unparalleled ability to pull. “That sly dog.” Perhaps it’s a little of both.
You tense. Santiago getting involved with an informant. A beautiful informant. Sounds entirely plausible, although Santiago has neglected to tell you if it is true. Besides building connections, another skillset of Santiago’s is his uncanny aptitude for mixing business with pleasure. Realistically, he can do whatever the hell he wants with whomever he wants - it is no business of yours - but, in truth, you are tired. Tired of being the one he only picks up when he has no-one else. Tired of going unnoticed the rest of the time.
“Actually,” Frankie leans forward to drop this juicy titbit of gossip into the conversation. “Luci broke it off. Requested a new contact.” He taps the side of his nose as if to indicate that he has his sources too, trying to drum up some air of mystery. “Coincidence? I think not,” he adds, tipping his head towards the continued scene at the bar.
You stiffen then in cold realisation. That’s why. That’s why he was noticing you earlier tonight. It wasn’t that he finally saw you. It wasn’t you in this dress. It wasn’t you. Yet again, he’d simply run out of distractions.
“Huh,” Tom says, looking a little too pleased with Santiago’s misfortune, swilling the dregs of his beer around absent-mindedly. “Well. He doesn’t seem devastated. It took him all of two minutes to get back on the horse.”
“Come on. You know Santi famously doesn’t get attached,” you snipe, partially serving the sentiment up as a reminder to yourself.
Santiago does have a... reputation. Honestly, you have no problem with that. There is no shame in having casual sex, after all. So long as it is safe and consensual, what does it matter? You’ve even acted as Santi’s “wing-woman” on a number of occasions. It had never been a problem; that is… it hadn’t been a problem until he started having casual sex with you.
Santiago is loyal almost to a fault in many other areas of his life. He is abundantly loyal to you, and there is no doubt in your mind that Santiago sees you as a friend first. As a soldier second. You know he respects you deeply for your sharp-mind, your humour, your straight-talking, and your lethality in equal measure. And, you also know that Santiago desires you. Or, at least, he does when it suits him. When he is paying attention. These various roles never seem to converge, though. As a friend? You and Santiago go way back. As a soldier? You’ve been on his squad longer than anyone has, since decades before you all went freelance. As a lover, though? Well, that is new. And he can’t seem to reconcile this new role with the rest of the ways he knows you.
Yes. Sure. Sometimes, Santiago desires the soft parts of you. Sees you as something other than a friend or a soldier. But you wish he would notice all of you, all at once. He sees you in fragments, like shrapnel. You wish he would piece things together. You wish he would notice you consistently. Not only when you’ve been out in the field too long, spending days bunched into hot and confined spaces, too close for comfort. Not only when hails of bullets send him reeling, searching for any kind of foothold on feeling alive. Still, over and over, you let him. You let him dip you back, with urgency - on to a mattress or a roll-mat or simply down on to the jungle floor - to thrust himself into you.
Santiago “Pope” Garcia is the man you crave. He gives it to you good. He makes you feel like a woman. Of course, there is no one particular way to be or to feel like a woman. There are infinite ways. For you though, very specifically, it is simple. It feels like Santiago desiring the soft parts of you which lay secreted under your tactical gear and your tough façade. It feels like him kissing you, soft lips and abrasive stubble. Strong hands and that muscled body writhing in a mess of breath and flesh. In those moments, you are a soldier least of all. Free of any mission, you become unadulterated; reckless abandon. You cease to be clipped and tactical, precise and lethal, and instead you become a soft, fluid thing beneath him.
Every time you arrive back in the city though, distractions abound. Santiago apparently ceases to desire you. Notice you. You had wrongly believed that tonight felt different. Something about the cool but heady night air. The way he was looking at you in this dress during your walk to the bar to meet the rest of the group. The way his hand lingered on your back as he guided you over to the table. But it mustn’t have been so. It must have been wishful thinking, that’s all.
You’ve done an increasing amount of wishful thinking, lately, it seems.
Too much.
You sigh deeply. You don’t even realise you have zoned out from the group’s banter until Santiago arrives back with the tray of drinks -and no doubt one more phone number in his contacts- by which point, you are riled up enough to grab the shot of tequila right off the tray and down it without thinking, salt and lime be damned.
“Woah, cariño. Feeling spirited tonight? Not wanna wait for the rest of us?” His smile is broad and easy and annoying as hell and suddenly you are adrift.
“Nah, I’m done waiting, Santi,” you bite. He doesn’t catch the double-meaning in your words, because of course he doesn’t. Why would he?
Your skin flushes with instant heat as a result of his presence- definitely a recently acquired response. And so, you hastily dismiss your leather jacket, revealing a strappy, red, form-fitting dress beneath. Your appearance even earns a low whistle and murmur of approval from your buddies.
“Someone’s gonna get lucky in that cute little number,” Frankie says pointedly, even as he’s staring curiously at Santiago staring at you. Maybe he’s on to you two.
You smile, happy -as ever- to take a little flattery. Plus, you do find it hilarious to watch these guys squirm when they remember that you do, in fact, have a body concealed underneath all your tactical gear.
“Well I won’t get lucky if you chumps keep staring down every man who looks at me,” you complain, already having clocked the defensive perimeter which has formed around you, simply from the way they have positioned themselves.
The squad are protective of you, unnecessarily, and you simultaneously chide and love them for it.
“Big men protec’, chiquita,” Frankie teases, puffing out his biceps and chest like a gorilla. He says it knowing fine well you could take out any one of them if you wanted.
You hear the warm rumble of Santiago’s laugh next to you too, chiming in time with yours, his body closer than you’d realised as he dishes the remaining shots out. “Please!” he scoffs, casually slinging his arm around the back of your bar stool, the shot primed in his other hand. “You know damn well she doesn’t need protection!”
“She’s gonna need protection when she gets laid,” Will quips, causing Tom to almost snort beer out of his nose in amusement and Frankie to high-five him from across the table. You would scold him but you’re laughing too, even as you roll your eyes good-naturedly at their ‘bro’ humour.
You drop your head towards Santiago as the others continue snickering like a pack of hyenas, the alcohol clearly having gone to their heads already. That’s what they get for drinking on empty stomachs. You and Santiago’d had the foresight to hit up a first rate food truck on the route across town, like sensible people.
“Dance with me, Pope?” you ask, giving him a subtle yet seductive bat of your eyes.
“For the love of God, Pope. Leave some women for the rest of us,” Tom pleads -partially in jest, you’re sure- as Santiago curtly nods, not knowing quite what you’re up to but taking your hand anyway.
“Ok. I hear you. Let’s ditch these losers,” Santiago joshes, smiling as he gets a predictable rise out of his squad.
It isn’t so unusual for you two to dance together when you visit bars, so it doesn’t earn too much suspicion from the group (plus, you’re military - you two have been pretty damn good at hiding your hook-ups, covering your tracks). Dancing with you might undo the careful ground-work Santiago had laid with the barmaid just a moment ago, however. Even so, Santiago opts to follow you into the sweaty throng of people on the floor all the same, your fingers loosely twined with his as you lead him. You find a relatively private spot, away from the prying eyes of the squad, and come to a standstill.
You turn into Santiago at the last available moment, meaning he ends up disconcertingly close. Almost chest-to-chest with you.
“Put your hands on me,” you command, a little more throaty than intended. You sling your arms around his shoulders, fingertips brushing at the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck. Santiago hesitates, but following a search of your eyes he plants his hands firmly onto the small of your back. You instantly feel the broadness and the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your dress. Those lethal hands. The hands that have pulled triggers and grenade clips. Choked the life out of assailants. Those lethal hands that have traced gently down your back as you laid bare beside him, killing you softly.
You let his hands rove over your body, wherever he wants to put them. Apparently, he wants to put them everywhere he can, like it’s a compulsion to touch you. He trails his hands up and down your back, ghosts them over the globes of your ass, snakes them down to the lip of your dress where his fingertips brush against your bare thighs, tacky with heat. And, after wandering, his hands come to rest low-slung on your hips, exactly where he likes to grab you when he thrusts into you. He gives you a subtle squeeze there, and the feel of him floods back to you. You are reminded of the way, when you’re with him, your own lethal hands are finally occupied by something other than battle. Of the times when you relinquish any preoccupation with victory, in favour of reaching perfect surrender. The times when your heart throbbing in your throat feels like safety instead of danger.
His hands on you feel... natural. You move together symbiotically. Your bodies are always, easily in sync. On the battlefield, on the dance floor, in the bedroom. Always moving as a team. After so long side-by-side, it would be hard to exist in a manner to the contrary. It would be hard to exist without him at all.
Will be hard.
You let Santiago press against you as you sway together on the darkened dancefloor, gyrating and slinking your hips in time with the music. You feel him half-harden against you and his grip on your hips tightens, a feeble but gruff sound involuntarily escaping his lips and causing a coil to tighten in the pit of you.
You think Santiago looks into your eyes meaningfully then. With something deep and unspeakable. Though that must simply be the wishful thinking you’ve become so practised at, and so, you immediately dismiss the thought, even as you nestle your mouth closer to his ear in order to speak. As your breath fans over the corded column of his neck you could swear he engorges further. And, the ache between your legs becomes almost unbearable at the spike of his cologne in your nostrils, his familiar scent curling within you.
Santiago doesn’t smell like spice or musk or woodsmoke. Not to you. To you he smells like memories and possibilities - a heady paradox. Like your past and future. His scent inspires a quickening within you. Something under your skin is spurred into motion, tending toward collision. Yet at the same time, his scent curls in you and feels like… a stilling too. Like someone entirely arrived at a place so familiar that they forget ever having arrived at all and can’t imagine leaving.
You dismiss it. You try. You fracture the moment. You must, before you collide.
“I hear you’ve had some informant woes? I hope to God we got the intel.” You feel him tense instantly against you.
“Uh-huh. I got it.” Santiago‘s not really listening. Instead, he’s dropping his eyes to your body pressed up against his own, the heels of his hands now kneading into your hips. “You look good.” His voice is a husk in the shell of your ear as he leans into you, ensuring he can be heard over the music.
“Good for Luci, breaking it off though.” You dismiss his compliment, barely able to obscure the animosity in your tone despite all attempts to sound casual.
He snaps back from you an inch or so, enough to look you directly in the eyes. You think that maybe, he looks almost disappointed. “Jealous?” he probes, ticking-up one eyebrow.
He knows you far too well. Yet, despite his on-the-mark observation, the question makes you feel called-out and so, your next tack becomes unnecessarily cruel. Vengeful almost. “He’s getting there.”
“What?” Santiago asks in evident confusion, his hands slipping back-up to the neutral area of your back as the mood slips away too.
“The tall drink of water at 9 ‘o’ clock. Guy who’s been eyeing me all night. Doesn’t he look like he wants his hands on me instead of yours?” You know that you sound cruel, and petty, and the words feel bitter, like salt and lime in your mouth. You’ve said them all the same though. It’s already done.
Santiago’s jaw clenches, eyes flicking subtly over as he rotates you to get a better look at your target.
“He does,” he states, with a thin attempt at neutrality, his neck roped with tension as his eyes skim over the other man.
“Great. Then thanks for the dance, Wingman. You’re relieved.”
Santiago puffs out air, his jaw clenching and eyes darkening.
You tick an eyebrow up at him. “What’s wrong? You jealous, Santiago?”
Then, you saunter towards the bar, where the other man is stood. He very blatantly gives you the once over, evidently liking what he sees. You lean in with a flirty smile, letting the image of an aggrieved Santiago dissolve into the throng of people as you allow yourself to be entirely distracted.
You are done waiting.
You want to be noticed, and this handsome man in front of you is certainly providing you with his undivided attention.
***
Later, Santiago watches you prepare to leave with the other man, disgruntled and forlorn. He’s watched you all night via snatched glances through the crowd. Watched the man laugh at your jokes, watched him work up the courage to brush your arm. He watched you eventually move in for the kiss, your eyes turning hungry as you pulled away, teeth biting down on that delicious, pillowy lip of yours.
The bar having quietened down a little by now, Santiago sits in a booth opposite Tom and Frankie, Will having found his own company for the remainder of the night as well. Santiago’s head is propped on his elbow, a half-empty beer nestled in his other hand. His buddies’ eyes needle him as you toss a casual salute over to the table, your hook-up leading you out by the hand and your eyes shining gleefully.
“What?” Santiago hisses defensively, as Frankie continues to stare knowingly at him from the opposite side of the table.
Frankie’s head simply shakes in amusement. “Nothing. Only… when in the hell are you gonna figure out it’s her you really want, huh?”
“She’s just a friend,” Santiago bristles, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, hunching in on himself.
“And a fuck-buddy,” Tom ventures.
Santiago looks down, taking a masking swig of his beer. “You know about that?”
“Didn’t until just now. But thanks a bunch for confirming,” Tom replies in a self-satisfied tone, earning a chuckle and a bump on the shoulder from Frankie.
“Well… fuck.” Santiago sighs, his face becoming pinched.
“I already knew,” Frankie states. “Christ. You’re loud enough, man. Hard to keep the secret that you’re nailing one of the squad when we’re camped out in, like, 3ft of jungle.”
Santiago absent-mindedly picks at the label on his bottle with his thumb. “Don’t talk about it like that, man. It’s not… Fuck.”
Frankie just looks across at him in sympathy, Santiago’s reaction revealing more than he probably cared to about the true extent of his predicament.
You’d risen through the ranks together. You’d been through a lot. Everyone on the squad knew Santiago was your ride or die and you his. You had each other’s backs. Had tended each other’s bullet wounds for Christ’s sake. Your friendship and the trust between you both -on the battlefield and off it- was deep and unshakeable.
“And you don’t want more than that?” Tom probes.
Despite being indoors, Santiago picks up his baseball cap from the seat and pulls it down over his eyes then, in an attempt to shield himself from this line of questioning.
“What ‘else’ is there? There’s not much time for romance in between a hail of bullets.”
“Maybe.” Tom tips his head, contemplatively. “But you’re not getting any younger, Pope. How many years do your Goddamn knees have left in them?” He lets that one simmer for a moment, before nodding pointedly towards the door through which you had retreated. “You could do a lot worse, you know.”
“She could do a lot better,” Frankie interjects, earning a snigger from Tom and causing Santiago to huff, expression turning surly. Frankie holds his hands up defensively then. “Look, you do you, man. I’m just saying... I’m sure you’re having a great time getting your dick wet all over the continent… but if you don’t step up soon? You might regret it.”
Santiago whips his eyes towards his buddy, gaze interrogative and piercing. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing in particular,” Frankie shrugs, searching Santiago’s eyes with equal vigour. Santiago drops his gaze first, feeling exposed.
Frankie kicks his buddy gently under the table. “Come on, hermano. Use your words. Share your feelings.”
Frankie’s words may sound mildly taunting, as ever, but Santiago recognises the invitation to open up is genuine. He purses his lips, brows knitting together as he resists it, picking through his choice of words carefully before he allows them out of his mouth. He massages his palm over his roughened jaw and it rasps like sandpaper. “I don’t even know if she wants more.”
“Are you kidding me, man?” Tom responds in amusement. “The guy who can get information out of a freakin’ stone, make any informant sing, ‘doesn’t know’ if she wants more? That’s what’s stopping you? A fucking intel issue?”
Frankie titters again, narrowing his eyes at Santiago and trying to figure him out. “He’s scared,” the man accuses, before his tone softens involuntarily. “That it?”
Santiago takes an idle swig of his beer, polishing off the dregs before shrugging his jacket on, jaw twitching in irritation.
“Oh shit, he’s moping! He’s moping now. Can’t handle the truth,” Tom mocks.
“Come on, Santiago,” Frankie reasons. “We just want things to work out for you. You two are a good match- any chump can see that. Heh. Except maybe you.”
Santiago doesn’t respond. Instead, he simply continues his silent preparations to leave, stuffing his wallet and keys into his jean pockets.
“Plus- there are a bunch of reasons we’d like you off the market,” Tom teases. “More women for the rest of us. Golden opportunity to tease you for being so whipped.” Tom flashes a shit-eating grin up at his friend.
Nodding gently, lips twisted in a pout and refusing to rise to it, Santiago tips his head towards his squad members. “Gentlemen,” he offers by way of farewell, before starting towards the door.
“Want me to walk you home safe, chiquito?” Frankie calls.
“I’m not going home.” Santiago turns and gives the two men an affectionate middle finger before beelining toward the exit.
“You’re not going over to her right now, are you? Pope? Santiago? That’s not what we... She’s gonna be pissed, man. Think this through!” Tom shouts after him, but it’s futile. Santiago has already swept out into the night, leaving Tom and Frankie to exchange helpless glances.
There is a beat.
Then: “I bet the bastard gets laid as well,” Frankie snorts.
“Right?” Tom hums softly in agreement. “If anyone can turn up to a girl’s apartment while she’s banging another guy and still end up getting down? It’s that little shit, no word of a lie.”
There is a moment of silence as the pair sip their drinks and contemplate what Santiago has, precisely, which causes women to become so enamoured with him.
“Maybe it’s his ass?” Tom offers, finally.
Frankie clicks his fingers. “Ah. You’re probably right. That ass won’t quit.”
Meanwhile, Santiago steps out into the fresh air, the slight bite of it taking the edge off his alcohol buzz.
His thoughts are overwhelmed with you. Have been overwhelmed with you. In truth, Santiago is finding it harder and harder to keep this up. Especially whenever it is just the two of you, he finds it harder and harder to resist you.
It is typically easier in the city, where there are plenty of distractions. He is grateful for it - other people he can tangle with to take his mind off of you. In the city, it is easier to push that side of you out of his mind and to fall back into the clear-cut ways. The way it used to be before the lines had become blurred. Easier to compartmentalise his feelings for you. A friend first. A soldier second. A lover, only intermittently.
Santiago was determined not to let everything bleed into one, because once those barriers, those delineations fell, he was convinced he would never be able to rebuild them.
Most of all, he was convinced he wouldn’t want to.
The thing is... the “distractions”? They never really worked for long. You are the only woman for him, in truth. And for all it might be crazy, he is headed towards your apartment right now to find out if you feel the same way. To find out if you want more. To find out if you see him as more than a friend and a soldier and a lover, or if you see him completely, and all at once.
To find out if he is everything to you, like you are to him.
***
There is a loud rap on your door and it tears you, regretfully, from the tangle of limbs you are in. When the knock becomes more insistent, you apologise to the man blissed out beneath you and extricate yourself from his embrace, hastily cloaking yourself in a sheet and traipsing through your temporary apartment – home for the time being. Adrenalin piqued, you peer through the spyhole, relief flooding you when you see who it is.
“Santi? What the fuck?” you ask, opening the door to him and pressing the sheet to you with your remaining hand.
“Hi,” he says casually, the brim of his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes.
“I’m in the middle of something,” you bite, emphatically. “What in the hell do you want?” you hiss at him, keeping your volume low.
“You,” he says plainly.
Santiago looks you over; your flushed face, plumped lips and blatant post-orgasm glow. His jaw visibly clenches.
“What?!” you exclaim in confusion.
“I want you.”
You tear his blasted hat off to examine his eyes for sincerity, pushing it into his chest all bunched-up. He hastily stuffs it in his jacket pocket. Eyes narrowed, you appraise him a moment longer, clicking your tongue in disbelief at the nerve this man has before abruptly closing the door on him.
“Bye, Santi.”
“Wait!” he pleads, jamming his foot in the door and muscling through.
“What in the hell are you doing?!” you hiss again, backing-up and almost tripping over your sheet, which Santiago now has his mucky boots all over.
By this time, your hook-up for the night has heard the commotion and blustered through the dark apartment -in the nude- to ward off your supposed intruder. Your companion is bigger, sure, but he certainly shouldn’t mess with Santiago. He wouldn’t fare well at all.
You raise your hand to diffuse the situation. “It’s ok, he’s a friend. Sometimes,” you add with a tilt of your head.
Your companion’s face flashes with recognition as Santiago emerges from out of the shadows. “Oh. It’s you, from the bar. Here I was thinking we’d gotten rid of you already.”
Santiago simply glowers with bubbling aggravation at the man, who has the cheek to just stand there with his fucking schlong out, entirely undeterred. Santiago puffs his chest out, making himself larger.
“Please.” Santiago addresses you, tearing his eyes away from the man. “Can we talk?”
You sigh, unable to believe that you’re being stupid enough to agree to his demands. You turn back to the man you were enjoying being on top of until a moment ago. “Can you give us five minutes? I’m so sorry. I’ll be back.”
“Well - she might not be back,” Santiago suggests, and you glare at him, irritated.
The man looks between you and Santiago in disbelief before addressing you only. “Sure,” he says with a languid, sultry smile, ignoring Santiago entirely. “I’m willing to wait if we get to continue the fun we were having.”
“Oh he’s a cheeky fuck,” Santiago grates, his whole body tense, and you quickly grab his elbow to bundle him into the kitchen before he can do any further damage.
“You’re the cheeky fuck, Santiago.” Apparently that’s your type. You vaguely wonder why you keep subjecting yourself to this, but you certainly don’t wish to pull on that thread too hard. Not right now.
As you release his elbow, Santiago comes to face you in the narrow slip of a kitchen.
“Well? What in the hell are you doing here?” you rage whisper at him, folding your arms across yourself and tapping your foot impatiently on the tiled floor.
Santiago simply squares up to you, his expression formidable, unphased. His dark eyes trail over you again, snagging on the places where the sheet drapes over the contours of you. You are suddenly uncomfortably aware of how naked you are beneath it. “Told you. I want you.”
Normally, those words were enough. But not any longer. You scoff. “I know all about how you want me, Pope. Half-heartedly. You want me when it suits you. When you can’t have me. When there’s no-one else around for you to want.”
It is his turn to scoff now. “Casual is what you wanted. You gonna throw that back in my face now?”
You sigh, tiredly, refusing to get embroiled in this. This is all meaningless. He can twist things and make excuses all he likes, but Santiago is a man of action. If he wanted you? Really wanted you? He wouldn’t let a Goddamn technicality stand in the way.
You don’t have the energy for excuses. For this conversation. You’ve waited too long for Santiago to even realise there is anything worth talking about. So, instead of fighting back, you let it go.
“I’m done, Santi. I’m out.”
Your words feel like a relief to you, after bottling this up since you came to the decision. The relief extends through your body as you sag backward to lean up against the cold fridge door, that too relieving on your hot, sheening skin.
“Don’t be so dramatic.” Santi dismisses your assertion instantly. He tended towards tunnel vision about some things. Just because he didn’t want out, he tended to assume that was true for everyone else. He was a connector, an enabler, and these factors combined meant the squad had stayed together a long time; far longer than it ever should have, like this time. He’d pulled his “retired” buddies back in, yet again.
“I’m for real, Santi,” you say in a small voice. “It’s already done.”
A veil of shock then betrayal passes over his face as the truth of your words sinks in. He takes a step back from you, as if he’s been sucker punched in the gut. His brows knit together and he looks down at the floor. “When?”
“Three weeks.” You figure you may as well rip the band-aid off in one go.
He turns his mouth down at the corners and slowly nods his head, doing an admirable job of containing whatever it is he is feeling, for the moment, while he gathers his intelligence. Mission above emotion, as ever. Santiago looks at the world through a scope sometimes, and he often forgets about the big picture. It always surprises you how a man so perceptive and attentive to detail -when he chooses to apply it- could fail to notice something right under his nose.
“Where?”
“Home. Desk-job, by the ocean. Private firm and a nice salary too. What’s not to love?” You add the extra information in an effort to detract from the thing you least wanted to face. Home is far. Far from him.
“Fuck,” Santiago breathes, finally looking up at you. “Because of me?”
You bristle again. “You arrogant piece of....” you sigh heavily, biting your lip and reminding yourself it isn’t worth it to grow aggravated. Plus, there’s a kernel of truth in his question, after all. You gather yourself before speaking again. “I stayed so long because of you, Santi. But I’m leaving for me. I’m tired of waiting.” Maybe he’ll notice you when you’re gone, you think. Maybe he’ll want you then.
“You can’t go. Someone with your skillset will be impossible to replace at short notice. How the hell am I supposed to keep the operation afloat without you?”
You shake your head softly, smiling in disbelief, his response confirming so many of your reasons behind going. Always focussed on the mission.
“Frankie’s looking into someone, actually. He knows a guy. He’s not as good as me, of course, but-”
“-You told Frankie?!” You can hear in his voice that the revelation hurts him. He has always been your confidant. But hey, things change, even if Santiago never does.
“Yeah, well,” you say thinly, through your teeth. “There’s plenty you don’t tell me, Santi.” You look at him pointedly. “Besides, I think you’ll manage. You always seem to find someone to meet your… needs. Don’t you?”
Santiago brings one arm up beside your head, leaning against the fridge with his palm, his dark eyes turbulent and boring into yours. “You’re the one who’s got some guy in there. What do you want from me, huh?”
He crowds you, but you can’t bring yourself to push him back. Instead, you languish more readily up against the fridge door, your grip on your sheet becoming less and less sure.
“Oh! That’s your fucking grand gesture? You came here to ask me what the hell I want from you?” Your passions rise, heart thrumming in your chest. You try and tell yourself it’s entirely from anger and nothing at all to do with his proximity. That it’s certainly not because of that look he’s giving you.
Speaking of proximity, Santiago’s now close enough to smell the other man’s scent on you. He’s leaning into you, breath ragged and desire clouding his eyes, even as you still bear the signs of being ravaged by another between your legs. Or perhaps… because of it.
Even as you stand here, like this, signs of another lover temporarily strewn over your person, it’s ludicrous to think another could claim you. You belong to Santiago. It’s Santiago who is indelibly written onto your body, the map of scars telling the story and you and him. The scar on your shoulder from a bullet wound, the scar on your calf from an off-road collision, the marks all over you serve as a reminder of the times Santiago has been there for you. Pressed his lethal hands to you to keep your lifeforce from ebbing away. He is your ride or die, and your body knows it.
Equally, as he stands there fully clothed, you know that his body similarly hosts a constellation of scars from all your shared moments; in the field, on missions, over continents. One of you could not hope to be read -to be understood- without the other. Your bodies would forever move through the world as a team, as a pair, even if you left his side.
You were each the key to cartographing each other’s lives. To imagine that the hickey on your neck or the slick between your legs could begin to compare to the way Santiago had marked you as his was almost comical.
“You really need a grand gesture to know I care about you?” You know what he’s asking. Is running into a hail of bullets for you not enough? Hasn’t he proven himself to you time and time again?
“Santi. I don’t doubt you care about me. I could never. I just… I don’t feel like you know yet what you want from me. And I can’t wait anymore for you to make up your mind.” You shrug. “I don’t know. I just feel like… like sometimes you don’t even see me because I’ve always been right in front of you.”
Santiago looks at you, pained, expression weighted, as if he can’t find the words to tell the story of you. But your bodies are not stories. They are maps, and maps are to be understood through being travelled. That’s why, when his hand slips to you shoulder to slowly trace the scar there, it makes sense. It is understood without words as his fingers journey over your skin, a varied terrain of memories flashing through Santiago’s eyes. His touch retracing years in only moments.
“I see you,” he insists, his voice a husk, his calloused fingertips trailing over your smooth, delicate skin. Making you feel weak. Making you want to become a soft, fluid thing beneath him. Oh, he’s looking at you now. There’s that attention that feels like it might end you. You commune wordlessly, breath quickening, that pulse of desire tending toward collision, the stillness of having arrived home as he touches you.
“I see you,” he purrs, his hand moving to your sheet, gently tugging it away from your grasp and giving you ample opportunity to protest. But you don’t. You don’t protest. You are symbiotic with him. You move as a team, and you can’t help but want to merge. Maybe that’s why you let him tug the sheet from your grasp, fabric pooling at your feet. Maybe it’s the ache between your legs. Maybe it’s because you know he gives it to you good.
Santiago exposes you completely to him, eyes then hands hungrily trailing down over your contours. His fingers grip your hips firmly as his mouth sinks into your neck, his hot breath fanning over you as he speaks.
“I see you, baby.”
Your arms are still pinned to your sides as you pretend that somehow you can resist your urges, despite being naked and needy and oh so ready in front of him.
“Fuck you, Santiago,” you breathe, voice trembling, and you know exactly what he’s doing as his lips and his teeth snag angrily over your skin. Reclaiming you. Marking you as his. And instead of pushing him away, you pull him closer to you. Instead of recoiling you arch your body against him, breasts pushing up against him, the cold metal of his chain harsh against your skin. The sturdy mass and heat of him beneath his clothes only highlighting how exposed and vulnerable you feel, your desire entirely on display like a flare in the dark.
His mouth has already ravaged your neck, your collarbone, his stubble abrasive against you, leaving a pleasant burn in its wake. His cologne is the only scent enveloping you now. Then, his hands rove over you, everywhere, like he’d wished they could in the bar, your skin still cloying, tacky with sweat. He paws at every bit of you as if to reinstate his claim on you. Your breasts, your ass, your hips, your thighs. He isn’t gentle. His hands showing their strength in a way they haven’t with you before now. He tongues your salty skin and the way his mouth punishes you is bitter like lime, foreshadowing his words.
“Did he make you come?” he asks into your neck, his hand slipping between your legs and finding you wet and welcoming. “Did he?”
“Yes,” you breathe, his voice commanding enough that you want to answer. Your face contorting as if in pain as Santiago continues to grind two girthy fingers over your folds. Your companion had made you wet, but nothing like this. All he’s doing is feeling you, coating himself, and Santiago has you drenched already; you can feel it slick against your inner thighs as you tremble under the weight of yourself, suddenly so heavy with lust that you can barely stand.
Your arms wind around his neck to steady yourself and he pins you between him and the fridge, your fingers inching up through the buzzed hair at his neck, nails trailing over his scalp and up into his grizzled curls as you finally become molten against him. Your hands fist in his hair and you tug his head up towards your lips, earning a grunt from him as pain needles across his scalp. The sound is growled into your mouth as his snarled kiss crashes against yours.
He’s frustrated, and he’s jealous, and he wants to show you that you’re his. What’s more, you want him to show you. Oh, how you want him to.
You shudder against the sudden blunt pressure of two of Santiago’s fingers at your entrance, your need urgent and a tightness building so immediately in your core. He pushes himself more firmly up against you, pinning you between his taut body and the fridge. His tongue ravages your mouth and your pleas for him to touch you become incoherent sounds that you work into him in return. His kiss is rough, his teeth scathing you, lips on yours in a crush, stubble grating at your chin and cheeks as he opens himself up as if to devour you. Then, he sucks your bottom lip in between his own and clamps his teeth down until you howl against the sting of it, bucking your body against the pain as you cry into his mouth.
With the bucking of your hips, you grind yourself against his hand, and Santiago barely needs to move as you willingly spear yourself on his fingers. He leaves you wanting though, allowing you just an inch of him when he has so much more to give. Already, the ridges of him against you are providing divine friction, his fingers curling and scissoring inside you, but he leaves you begging for more. Begging him to plunge himself all the way in.
“Did you think about me when you took him? Did you use him and wish it was me between your legs?” Santiago’s voice is like gravel in the shell of your ear, and his words curl into the depths of you. With them, he thrusts his fingers angrily into your heat, driving himself in all the way to the knuckle. Your eyes practically roll back into your head as he thrusts harshly and asks you again, even more insistent. “Did you?”
“Yes,” you admit, in a broken voice, tugging him closer to you, crushing your lips onto the column of his neck, tugging the collar of his shirt aside until you can bite down into the meat of his shoulder, stifling your moans there as his pace intensifies. His fingers are curling relentlessly towards your sweet spot and your walls are already fluttering against him. The heel of his hand is rocking against your excruciatingly sensitive clit, applying steady rolls of pressure as his fingers delve into you. His watch strap digs into your pubic bone but for some reason it only adds to the heightened sensations coursing through you.
“Do I make you feel good? Do I make you feel better with my fingers than he could with his whole body, huh?”
His words practically make you sob into him. It’s dirtier than you’ve ever heard him talk. It’s more intimate and further from friendship than anything you’ve done with him so far. Yes, you’ve fucked but this… this is something else. This is you admitting you are entirely his. This feels simultaneously more like battle and more like surrender than it ever has. And you wholly surrender.
You moan. You moan out loud despite the fact you shouldn’t. Despite the fact there’s still another man in the apartment who you had underneath you only moments ago.
“Are you gonna come on my fingers – show me who you belong to?”
You agree. You agree wholeheartedly.
Santiago pulls back just to watch you. To see the pleasure play over your face, both the overabundance of it and dearth of it as every touch satisfies yet has you craving more. You see a prideful glow in his eyes that he has you this wrecked, mewling and writhing on him as he adds a third finger into your wetness and pumps himself hard in and out of you.
“Fuck,” he intones, his voice hollowed-out. “You’re fucking drenched. Wettest I’ve ever felt.” God. You can hear how wet you are.
In dire need of some relief himself, Santiago presses his clothed, hardened length against your hip as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you. Even through the substantial fabric of his jeans you can feel the thick, hard promise of him as he begins to grind himself against you, low and guttural moans escaping his sweet lips. The fact that he’s so fucking desperate for you, that you have made him hot enough to get off from only this has a knot tightening in the pit of you as you watch him start to unravel alongside you.
“Fuck, Santi,” you moan into the air, not even caring that there’s someone else in the apartment. Past caring about anything at all except your need for him to keep touching you, his fingers filling you up so well.
“That’s it, baby. Say my name, say you’re mine.”
Santiago is still grinding his clothed length against you, even as his fingers overflow with your essence. He dips his head into the crook of your neck and the growl he emits fans over your skin. Makes it sound as if he’s about to lose it too, simply from this. His spare hand dips down to collect one of your breasts and he lifts your nipple into his mouth, sucking and tonguing and biting the peak of you, squeezing you -not gently- as you topple towards your end.
He continues to grind against you, and the thought of him exploding in his pants for you tips you over the edge, his name tumbling from your lips over and over as you flutter and clench around his fingers. The feeling spreading outward through your body like an explosion, leaving you levelled, a resounding buzz reaching all the way to your extremities and whiting out your vision like a flashbang. Your fingers tangle in Santiago’s curls as you spasm against him, his fingers eking every last drop of pleasure from you - as though he knows his way around you better than anyone could.
At the feel and sound and sight of you coming undone, his hardened length grinds on you with renewed vigour, a wracked and disbelieving moan stuttering through him as he loses it without you having laid a finger on him. His body becomes stiff against you as he pulses his seed out beneath his clothes. Something about him being so lost in desire for you that he’d make a mess of himself like that has you clenching with deep, generous aftershocks, adrift with the thought of his hardened length pearling with his warm release.
Santiago’s head settles into the crook of your neck as you both come down together, even as his fingers continue to lazily pulse in and out of you - just to feel you. Your arms lovingly cradle his head, fingers tangling in his curls, your lips finding their way to his hairline to plant gentle kisses there. Your Santiago. In your arms.
You stay there a moment until your jagged breathing and thrumming heart settle, enjoying him languorously touching you. With a shiver of contentment, he withdraws from your heat, wrapping his unsullied hand around your waist to pull you closer.
For a moment, everything is in soft focus, like the break of day before an alarm. You close your eyes against his touch and breathe him in as he whispers lovingly into your neck, planting light kisses where a moment ago his puckered lips left angry bruises.
“Fuck. I love you. I love you. I adore you. I need you.”
When you don’t respond though, Santiago stills against you, lifting his head to look you dead in the eyes. He finds them tearing in the corners.
Your voice begins weakly. “You love me, Santi. But do you want a life with me? A life outside of the mission, outside of all of this?”
He brushes his thumb softly over your jawline. “I know I haven’t been all in. But I swear it to you, baby... you’re my end game. It’s just, we’re not there yet. We’re too deep in this shit. If we can get one more of Lorea’s deputies then maybe-”
“-Sure,” you say sadly, the word heavy and the intimacy of the moments prior dissipating quickly. You know fine well what “one more” means. You dip to collect your sheet from the floor and tighten it around yourself, using the motion in a vague attempt to distract both Santiago and yourself from the tears threatening more violently in your eyes now.
The footsteps you hear approaching the kitchen are a further welcome distraction, and you surreptitiously clean off Santiago’s hand on the already soiled sheet before your first companion of the evening (now fully clothed) pops his head around the doorframe.
“I’m just gonna leave,” he interjects awkwardly, and your cheeks flush in humiliation. You’re sure one day, far into the future, this may be a funny story you tell, but, right now? It feels more than a little mortifying.
“I’m so sorry. I…” You reach for a more robust apology but come up with nothing, far too aware that Santiago’s eyes continue to needle you. What are you going to do? Tell him it was fun? And so, since you opt to leave it hanging, your companion simply pumps his eyebrows once before striding smoothly out of your apartment. You jump slightly as you hear the door slamming shut behind him, evidently feeling a little on edge despite being wrung out so recently by bliss.
Your eyes linger on the doorframe a little too long, staring at nothing except the now vacated space. You’re not ready to turn your attention back to Santiago quite yet, and you’re much less ready to deal with what will follow.
It turns out, you don’t even have to look back at him, because your cowardice says it all for you. Instead, a small voice escapes him.
“You’re still gonna go, aren’t you?”
You look at him then, and you see a sadness blooming in his eyes which is so heart-breaking that you're half-glad when tears gather in your own, blurring-out the sight of him. His pain always was too much for you to look at.
Your gladness is short-lived however, as your own tears begin to spill out of you. You wipe the deluge away with the heel of your hand, but the tears are coming quicker than you can mop them up. Your chest shakes as you speak your next words.
“I love you, Santi. Believe me. I love you. But it’s always ‘just one more’.” One more woman. One more mission. One more way to break your heart. “You’re living like... like you can get to the end of the line and wish for one more fucking chance.”
“Don’t go. Please,” he pleads, moving close to you and wrapping his arms around you. His broad, warm hands at your back. “Please. I’m putting it on the line here. I want you. I love you.”
You smile thinly at him. You know he’s trying and God, you love him too. But this? For you, it’s too little, too late. For him, you guess you’re asking for too much, too soon. He’s not ready to leave this life. He’s not even ready to imagine leaving it. But, oh boy, you are. You are.
You sniffle and take a deep, steadying breath, giving it everything you have to stay firm, despite every fibre in you telling you to surrender. To just stay with him. It would be too easy to do.
“It’s a hard out, Santi.”
He senses the finality of your words and nods slowly, his eyes shining with tears, his whole face becoming taut with emotion. His silence is prolonged as he draws in ragged breaths. His hands slip away from your back and the moment slips away with them. You miss the warmth of them instantly.
“Okay,” he says in a small, curt voice. “Okay.”
He about turns, precise and efficient, swivelling towards the door and tracking along the hallway leading out of your apartment.
“Santi, wait!” you call, traipsing along after him, slowed by the material bundling at your feet. “Santiago Garcia, don’t you dare leave it like this,” you plead. “Not after everything.”
He turns his head back towards you as he swings open your front door. His eyes are cold, face set as he looks at you, his voice monotone. “I’m not the one leaving.”
An anger and a sadness erupt in you at the coldness, the cruelness of his words, and, apparently, not even the sight of the fresh batch of tears spilling down your cheeks can slow his retreat from your apartment.
Santiago “Pope” Garcia turns and swiftly walks out without looking back, leaving the door swinging violently on its hinges. The fucking nerve of this man.
You start after him; but he’s already making his way down the stairwell and you’re in no position to chase him. Your pain boiling over you yell, voice creaking under the weight of your emotion.
“I hope your fucking knees give out on the way down, you asshole.”
Your cruel, cheap words carry down the stairwell, yet an echo is all the response you get. Santiago is gone. He didn’t stop for a second.
He doesn’t know how to stop.
He’s mission over emotion. Near-death over living. He’s seemingly in this until it kills him, but you can’t be in it anymore. You have always been his ride or die, but now is the time for you to live, even if that means you can no longer be side-by-side with him.
He is the other half of you and no matter where you are to go, your bodies will move through the world as a team, one unable to be read without the other. Santiago is written all over you, and nothing can change that.
Besides, you know if he really wants to, he can always come find you. He has a map for loving you, if he would ever follow the route it was trying to take him. But he’s not there yet.
He just has one more mission to go.
And then the next.
And the next.
And the next.
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Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 3
Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.
Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.
And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?
Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude
Chapter word count: 4.9k
SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST
☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻
Chapter notes: Frankie and Jude both step onto the plane not knowing what awaits them. Descriptions of injury, blood, death and a plane crash.
Enjoy! 🖤
Chapter 2
Present Day...
Overhead storage on a plane is a pointless endeavour.
They say your bag has to be a certain height and width, and you go through that whole rule abiding rigmarole of sticking to a tiny bag - despite not being able to fucking pack anything of use actually in it - and the sucker still doesn’t fit in there just to spite you.
Jude shoves it with her fist, practically punching the bag in whilst having a mild breakdown in the process until she’s composed herself and slumps into the window seat and buckles in, tasting wisps of her hair in her mouth.
She’s seated at the very back of the plane; the last row that backs onto the emergency exit in coach, and will give off the subtle feculent stench of the toilets right behind her throughout the flight.
The faint cries of a grumpy toddler down the front somewhere can already be heard droning, even over the hum of the engine as the plane is loaded up with bleating passengers ready for the eighteen hour long flight.
It was an easy decision to make; an unconscious autopilot. Jude had some savings and decided to quit life for a time out and take a break from the aftermath of Nate's continuous infidelity. The destination was purely left to the spin of her old, antique globe on her desk, having racked up nearly forty-nine countries already in her career, and wherever her finger landed, that’s where she’d go.
It landed on Madagascar and that was it, decision made. Ideal opportunity for some relaxation, to forget that shit-stain Nate, and maybe take some photographs whilst she was at it. Or maybe she would just mellow out on a hammock on the beach for two weeks, forgetting the world and plying herself with strong drinks until she forgot her own name. She'd carefully packed minimal camera gear into her carry on regardless - old habits die hard and her camera was like a limb, essential.
She checks her phone one last time before switching it into flight mode. The constant barrage of calls from Nate has died off somewhat since her stark warning in the café, but he’s still haranguing her by text message, or Whatsapp, or via any other social media platform he can try and reach her on to just ‘talk to me’ or ‘give me another chance, please babe.’
But holding strong only works if she is strong. And that's questionable right about now.
The temptation to listen to him to explain his deceitfulness all over again has been there swilling around the sides of her bandaged heart and rational thinking, and rather than risk the fallout of letting the scumbag wheedle his way back in with his Machiavellian falsehoods - like he usually does knowing Jude's backbone is already at breaking point - it’s best to scarper and seek some clarity in a foreign sunny land and have some much needed alone time to regroup and plan the next course of her life, without Nate.
Plan B always sucks, but you definitely have to have one, right?
She scrolls through her Instagram feed; her thumb hovering over Nate’s profile, hesitating and then clicking on the unfollow button, followed by the block button. If there had been a button to Taser in the balls, she’d have clicked on that one too.
Jude's seat is moderately comfortable, with just enough legroom for her to sit cramped up without developing DVT. She glances around and observes fellow passengers stowing their carry-on luggage in the overhead compartments, some enduring the same frustrating battles as she did, and settling into their seats.
The air inside the cabin carries a distinct blend of aeroplane air - a mix of recycled ventilation and a hint of the disinfectant used to clean the aircraft. The subtle scent of lemons fills her nose.
She hears the gentle murmur of the flight attendants as they go through their pre-flight routine, checking the cabin, demonstrating safety procedures, and preparing for take-off. The occasional announcements over the intercom remind passengers to fasten their seatbelts, stow their tray tables, and turn off electronic devices.
The empty seat beside Jude is soon filled with a middle-aged woman embracing a plethora of gossip magazines to keep her entertained during the flight, to which she's thankful for; polite, strained conversation with a stranger that has absolutely nothing in common with you, and an unhealthy penchant for dried cheese crackers, is never an entertaining feat at thirty-odd thousand feet.
Jude simply puts in her ear buds and sets her phone’s Spotify playlist to uber loud, waiting for the classic rock tunes to fill her ears and block out anything else, and sits back in the seat shutting her eyes and grinding on her teeth.
Further down the plane in business class, Frankie drops his worn backpack at his feet whilst he fishes out the contents of his jeans pockets, glancing down at the oversized seat he’s to be glued into for the next eighteen hours or so.
Plenty of legroom is waiting for him and it’s a surprise, and a relief, that he won’t be cramped up in economy. Dustin had done him a real solid.
He zips up his pack after depositing his iPhone - which flashes up a number of unchecked voice messages from Eddie - his wallet and all manner of random things guys feel the need to carry in their denim pockets, such as crumpled bar receipts from months ago; a night out with Benny and Will and a few games of darts, and ultimately the last time he had seen Will.
Frankie’s mind casts back to them talking about how things were different now that Tom was no longer around to hold them all together. How there were less of them now to have bar nights with now that Santi was shacked up comfortably in Australia with his lady and her millions, and how Frankie had also inadvertently exchanged more of those nights out with the Miller brothers for nights alone in his Pickup with bags of powder as his only company.
As Will scratched away at the layers, trying to push his way in, conversations had turned sour about how different Frankie had seemed as his addiction metastasized; Will regarded him with a concerned look in his frosty blue eyes.
I’m worried about you, Fish. This ain’t like you.
It’s just a rough patch. I’ll get through it. I’m fine.
You’re not fine.
I’m handling it. It’s none of your business-
It is my business. I care about you. We all do. Does Carla know what's going on?
I'm dealing with stuff. It's my problem.
It stops being just your problem when it starts affecting everyone around you. We care about you, Fish. I care about you. But I can't stand by and watch you self-destruct like this.
Then fuckin' don’t! Frankie had simply snapped at him.
It followed a heated argument, a threat of spilling over into the physical when Benny warned Frankie to leave, and held his brother back as Frankie cussed him out for interfering. He usually wouldn't talk to a friend like that, the way he so belittles himself at times, and he knows that Will meant well, somewhere in the recesses of his befuddled mind.
But that’s the cost of addiction, in the end you end up with nothing and no-one.
In the aftermath of Will's expression of concern, an uncomfortable gap settled between them. It was a silence charged with the weight of unspoken truths, an acknowledgment of the growing distance that addiction was creating between Frankie and his friends. And Frankie left the bar that night to retreat into the safe confines of his own slow destruction.
In the depths of Frankie's life, an insidious force had taken root, spreading its tendrils like an unseen cancer. Addiction, the silent invader, had established its presence in the once quiet corners of his existence. It had started subtly, unnoticed - a small, hidden malignancy that grew and thrived beneath the surface.
The root of origin unknown, but the talking therapy he was forced to endure had convinced him that things had all finally gone to shit when Tom had died on that damned mission. The cherry on top of a mountainous cake of years and years of unresolved trauma carried over from his time in Delta Force.
Leaving behind the regimented world of Special Operations felt like stepping into an uncharted wilderness, once a bastion of discipline, had unfolded as a chapter of his life marked by growing solitude and abhorrent self-discovery. The decision to leave the elite forces wasn't an easy one, but it was one they all had embarked on together. Shit just got too dark.
The camaraderie that had defined his military experience became a distant echo, replaced by the isolating silence of civilian life. The transition was akin to leaving the tight confines of his cockpit and soaring into the open sky, uncertain of the turbulence that awaited.
As Frankie navigated the challenging terrain of civilian life after leaving Special Ops, his reliance on the Veterans Affairs system for support became a crucial aspect of his journey. However, what he encountered was a bureaucratic landscape that often left him feeling more stranded than supported.
The VA proved to be nothing but a labyrinth of paperwork, long wait times, and un-clippable red tape. Despite his sincere efforts to seek help, Frankie found himself grappling with a system that seemed ill-equipped to address the complexities of his post-military challenges.
He couldn't help but lean into the bitterness at how easy Will and Benny seemed to have found the transition. On the outside, their lives seemed far more rosy compared to his. They had each other to lean on, after all.
The system that was supposed to provide a safety net for veterans transitioning back to civvy life became a stumbling block, adding an extra layer of complexity to Frankie's journey. In facing the inadequacies of the VA, Frankie discovered an unexpected coping mechanism of his own which seemed to work far better - cocaine.
But it was one that spiralled out of control when he came back from Santi’s stupid mission that left him even more lost. In something he once dabbled in for a fun high now and again, albeit causing him to lose his license when he was caught smuggling it in for some extra bucks, soon became a daily habit that chipped away more pieces of him.
The bond that Frankie had sorely missed since leaving Special Ops seemed to rekindle in his connection with his sponsor Eddie for a while. Their alliance wasn't forged in the crucible of combat but in the shared struggles of recovery. The Special Ops ethos of "leave no-one behind" found new meaning in the context of addiction, and Eddie became the embodiment of that commitment.
But as Frankie delved deeper into the challenging journey of recovery, a subtle shift occurred in his relationship with Eddie. The once unwavering connection began to fray as Frankie found himself instinctively starting to avoid the very person who had been a crucial anchor in his battle.
The avoidance didn't happen overnight. It began with subtle excuses - a missed call here, an unattended meeting there. An extra shift in the workshop that soon piled on top of his already weakened shoulders. Frankie soon learned that if he kept busy, kept tinkering, kept his mind on something else other than the constant yammering thoughts about coke, then he wouldn't be tempted to give in.
Thus finding his own solution to his addiction, which was akin to slapping on a flimsy plaster over a deep gunshot wound - it would only be a matter of time before it fell off.
I care about you. But I can't stand by and watch you self-destruct like this...
Will's words linger in Frankie's memory like an indelible mark besmirching all the memories that he'd filed away as once good. He shakes his head despondently as he recalls the concern that seems to have faded into ignorance now.
It feels like a long time since Frankie's heard Will’s voice or seen his face. He bites down on the inside of his cheek.
He finds loose change, a shit ton of lint, and his sobriety coin in his pocket too. A small but potent talisman, speaking volumes about the milestones he's conquered on his journey toward recovery, even if it feels like a lead weight in his pocket most of the time.
It nestles comfortably in the palm of his hand, a tangible reminder of the strength he’s summoned to break free from the chains of addiction, even if he doesn't know where that strength has come from. Frankie knows without a shadow of a doubt that he isn't strong. Never has been.
The coin, worn smooth by the constant touch of Frankie's fingers, bears the tactile evidence of countless reflections and countless moments of considering just throwing the towel in. It doesn't seem worth it in the quiet masochistic tendrils of his thoughts.
He squeezes it in his palm tightly, feeling the indents of it bore into his skin. Six months and what does he have to show for it?
He runs his hand over the sparse layer of fluffy stubble covering his tired face, a physical manifestation of the days when self-care took a backseat to the relentless pursuit of an unyielding high, and he's just let it grow out now.
His jaw sets firm before shoving the coin back down into the trenches of his pockets and placing his bag in the spacious compartment above his head.
Frankie sits back in his seat buckling up, and a peppy stewardess, doused in way too much perfume that makes the insides of his nostrils sting and itch as he inhales, approaches him and enquires about what he would like to drink immediately after take-off.
He orders a beer and a bottle of water and sits back staring down the aisle from his single, plush seat, people watching as the other passenger’s faff around with their laptops and briefcases as they fill up the cabin, which makes Frankie feel even more like he doesn’t belong, in his scuffed jeans and faded salmon shirt and worn in cap.
As the plane begins to taxi, he looks out the window, watching the terminal and other aircraft pass by. The distant sound of luggage being loaded onto the conveyor belts and the low hum of the engines create a sense of morbid anticipation; a feeling that causes his fingers to shake as he balls them into a fist and takes a calming breath.
The cabin lights dim slightly as the plane approaches the runway, and Frankie settles in, ready for the long, arduous journey ahead.
Hours later into the flight, Jude stirs in her seat with the heavy feeling swelling in her bladder again, and excuses herself to her fellow passenger, who is crunching loudly on the unbuttered crackers, so she can get up to pee.
Well aware that this is the fourth such instance and that she’s probably annoying the fuck out of the woman, but when you gotta go, you gotta go.
The plane judders slightly as she makes her way towards the tiny cubicle that smells of stagnant piss. The mirrored panel above the sink reflects a condensed version of Jude’s image. She catches a glimpse of herself - perhaps a bit dishevelled from the hustle of the day's travels thus far - but something else lingers in her worn features.
Her reflection is sleepy in the small mirror and the heat of her cheeks paramount as she’s been overheating in her sweater whilst snoozing. She removes it, leaving her in a flimsy t-shirt, and sits down on the toilet staring at her battered Chuck Taylors and thinking idly that it’s probably time for a new pair soon.
Washing up, she glances at her reflection again, revealing the innate vulnerability she’s been trying to hide that hits her. It’s been a minute, since the break-up, that she really stopped to take herself in.
Pronounced tears well up in her eyes. She leans against the cold, metal interior of the cubicle, her breath shaky and uneven. The subtle vibrations from the plane match the tremors of her own emotional upheaval as it pours out of her, seemingly from nowhere.
Vile images of her and Nate in happier times plague her thoughts like sharpshooters as it all crumbles away. It was all bullshit wrapped up in pretty crepe paper bows.
The metallic surfaces seem to close in around her, mirroring the claustrophobic ache shoved in her chest where a heart once beat. Tears stream down her face, leaving streaks of mascara like war paint on her cheeks. The mirror, once a reflection of ordinary moments, now bears witness to the shattered remnants of her composure.
Jude’s hands tremble as she clutches at the sink, knuckles turning white with the force of her grip to stop her from collapsing onto the floor and screaming unrestrained like the toddler down the front of the cabin.
Her body convulses with the force of her sobs as she throws her arm over her mouth to muffle them, fingers clenching into fists, nails biting into the palms of her hand. It's a gut-wrenching, primal expression of heartache, the kind that leaves no room for pretence or restraint.
The slow, tumultuous purging of that asswipe out of her blood. Or at least the start of it anyway. It pulses through her veins like poison. Disbelief, heartbreak, and the indignant rage that comes with the sting of betrayal flood through her limbs; a future paradise shattered into a million fragments as she envisions punching the mirror in - she can’t bear looking at her face anymore.
The restroom seems to close in around her, mirroring the suffocation she felt when confronted with the undeniable truth fucking into another woman in their bed. A truth she had always known, but perhaps ignorance really was bliss for a while.
And where has that got you?
With shaky determination, she wipes away the evidence of her breakdown, acutely aware that the scars of betrayal will linger long after the tears have dried, a harsh velocity of time she’ll have to endure and navigate through.
Once back in her seat, her sweater stuffed in the overhead with her crushed bag, Jude glances out the window at the billowy dark gray clouds that are passing underneath the plane mirroring her own self-contempt.
She sees lightning flashes pulse like a camera now and again and rolls her eyes with a deep lacerating sigh. The plane rumbles once more.
It better be fucking hot when we land...
She asks for a bottle of still water from the passing flight attendant to refresh her cottonmouth, but they return with sparkling instead. Before she can ask for another, the attendant disappears off, hurrying down the aisle out of sight, and she’s left to make do with a tight frown.
Sparkling water tastes like licking TV static; such a pointless endeavour, but Jude drinks it anyway, the woman sitting next to her eyeing her oddly as she makes disgusted noises whilst swallowing it down.
Frankie sips at his third beer quietly as he watches a lame comedy film, that doesn’t even make him snicker once, on the screen to the right of his seat; his headphones plugged into it so only he can hear the sound.
He watches without any real enthusiasm, trying to pass the inevitable boredom that accompanies most of the commercial flights he’s endured in his life.
He’s still feeling jangled and all manner of anxiousness swills around him about being somewhere hot and isolated sooner rather than later, so he can throw himself into some work with helicopters - which admittedly has been something he’s looked forward to since Dustin mentioned it - and to forget his troubles and woes for a short time. A rest and recharge of those Morales batteries that have been running on empty for a long time.
His mind does that ominous thing of wandering into territories it shouldn't just to mess with him, and he realises he hasn’t heard from Carla at all since she’d left. He wonders if she had indeed been back to his apartment and cleared it of all her belongings; erasing herself from his life as though she was never there to begin with.
He’d arranged with Benny to be there, albeit through short, clipped texts, to ensure she didn’t cut up his clothes or destroy his shit like some warped revenge fantasy that women harbour when they feel they’re slighted.
It seems weird to think of her now as merely an ex too. At one point Carla was his better half, he’s sure of it. The half of him that propped him up. Frankie engages in unspoken conversations with the ghosts of his past love. Imaginary dialogues played out in the confines of his mind, expressions of sentiments left unsaid.
And it still seems odd to put it together and work out where things had gone so drastically wrong between them to the point they had ended up so far off course.
But he knows why. Knows it’s him. It's all his fault. All she did was have the audacity to love and care for him, and that makes it all the worse somehow.
He finishes his beer a little later, feeling slightly gassy as the bubbles rumble under his sternum, and it's soon cleared away by the pretty steward who offers him another, but he declines reaching for the bottle of water instead and holding in a fizzy belch inside his cheeks until she leaves.
The plane jolts again; this time a little heavier and the steward grips the back of the seat in front of him to stay upright. The smile on her face reassures him it’s just normal turbulence and she then continues on her way with his empty beer bottle back down the aisle; his eyes drop to her ass absentmindedly, tightly bound in her skirt.
Frankie's just swallowed another mouthful of water when the plane judders harshly again and this time his stomach goes with it completely. The seat belt sign flashes on and he looks up at it and its faint yellowing light seems like it’s burning slowly into his retinas.
While Frankie maintains an outward appearance of relaxation, a mild concern lingers in the background. The rhythmic bumps of turbulence become a reminder of the unpredictable nature of the skies; a reality he’s intimately acquainted with from his days in the cockpit himself.
But his eyes, scanning the cabin for the reactions of fellow passengers, reflect a nuanced awareness of the situation. The subtle tightening of his grip on the armrest betrays the reflex of a seasoned aviator attuned to the gradations of flight, even when occupying a passenger's seat.
The plane shakes harshly again and the heavy, grating sound cuts through all rational thinking.
It takes him a moment to register the sounds of screaming, and the sensation that the plane is now descending - and descending real fast.
Frankie looks down the aisle and sees the pretty steward with the ass on the floor in a heap before he’s blinded by the oxygen mask falling into his face.
The seat belt sign flashes on and although Jude’s already buckled in tight, the passenger beside her stands up and heads off towards the toilet, she can only assume. There’s always one, isn’t there?
Sighing, she rests her head back against the headrest and shuts her eyes, letting the loud guitar riffs fill her ears.
The unexpected jolting and commotion as though the plane is dipping forwards a mere few seconds later causes Jude to yank her ear buds out of her ears, one of them rolling out of her grip onto the floor, to be met with the sounds of screaming and hysteria.
The heavy resonances of the turbines and engines whirring seem to shriek behind her at a deafening pitch, and the smell of aviation fuel and burning wafts into her nose sharply.
Jude pushes against the seat in front of her with both hands for support as the plane takes a nose-dive forward on a dangerous slant; a wayward drinks trolley shifts past her sight down the aisle, clattering and making a hell of a racket as it goes.
The oxygen mask flaps in front of Jude’s face and she’s not sure how long it’s been there. She scrambles for it, panicking and fastening the elastic around the back of her head. Her fellow cracker addict is still nowhere to be seen.
Jude glances quickly out the tiny window again and the sight of the ocean coming up fast is the last thing she sees before it all goes black.
When a plane hits a body of water, it invariably breaks apart.
The fuselage splits, the wings crack, practically disintegrating for all intents and purposes, and the tail often breaks off completely. Essentially, it shatters fully on impact and often the fuel tanks will explode.
When a plane hits water, an incompressible fluid, the water hits back at it and causes the aircraft to decelerate. That's all fine and dandy for the plane, but your body is still "flying" at the same speed as the plane was before it hit water, and well... objects inside the fuselage becoming embroiled in a kinetic tornado, are about to make you decelerate too, in a very violent way.
Let’s do the maths, shall we? The equation F=maF=ma simply means that for constant mass, FF is proportional to aa, and so a bigger aa also means a bigger FF. A bigger FF doesn't sound too good, does it?
Did you get that? No, me neither. Basically, you’re up shit creek without a paddle.
Most passengers on the plane will die from blunt head trauma. If they’re lucky it will be quick. A quick bop and you’re gone bye-bye so to speak. Some will be fortunate enough to pass out before their inevitable death through sheer terror alone - lucky bastards.
If you haven’t died before or after impact, your chances of survival then become bleaker as time wears on. Head trauma is the most common fatal blunt injury in a plane crash, followed by injuries to the chest and the abdomen.
Thirty-six per cent of head injuries, and twenty-seven per cent of chest injuries will have associated cervical and thoracic spine fractures, respectively. A slow, painful death would await you as you suffer from internal bleeding. And that’s before you drown.
Remember, you’ve just crashed into the ocean, bub.
It’s all very doom and gloom isn’t it? But Frankie’s flight is currently in pieces, some aflame, and he’s swimming against the current, equally difficult because the impact has created a swirling whirlpool that keeps trying to pull him under within the vicinity of the main body of the plane.
His long arms are striding away and he splutters and coughs as he’s pulled under constantly despite being an adept swimmer.
His skin is burning around his neck; he can see a slick, shimmering gloop mixing in the water’s surface all around him and the stench of aviation fuel and barbecued skin fills his nostrils.
He turns back to see the water literally on fire, and is convinced he can hear some distant screams for help, before he dives under and swims away from the fires before he burns up with them.
His ears are ringing, his sight is blinded continually by water splashing over his face whenever he surfaces for air, and as he swims away to a safe distance, that’s when the shock bites into his body and begins the slow onslaught of trying to drown him.
The freezing stab of the water is what rouses Jude awake and she’s still fastened in her seat; the water pooling at her ankles, soaking into her battered Converse and rising.
She’s unaware at first that blood is blinding her right eye, as she rips off the oxygen mask and claws at her seat belt to unbuckle it frantically.
Oh God! Oh God! Oh Shit!
Jude glances across the aisle and half of the cabin is missing; she gasps out as she can see a couple of the passengers slumped over in their seats, but the rest of them are gone.
She can no longer hear the screaming toddler piercing her ears.
The water is rising fast and is covering her thighs now. She stands up on jellified legs and rushes to the passenger opposite and tries shaking him awake, but he’s unresponsive.
She tries another, but it’s fruitless. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows they’re already gone, but it takes her body a moment to catch up. She wipes at her face and the slick, ruby red that coats her palm panics her further as she observes her trembling hand that now looks like she’s wearing a scarlet coloured latex glove.
But there’s no time to dwell on the root of that blood loss now; the water is already up to her hips.
She wades towards the side of the fuselage in big, quick strides, climbing over seats with limp bodies strapped into them, and takes a deep breath before she jumps into the water on the other side of the gaping tear in the cabin.
Jude cries out as she feels something sharp rip at the back of her calf as she plops ungracefully into the water and begins to swim away, grunting and gasping with sheer terror.
Swim! Swim, come on!
She can smell burning and turns back momentarily to see flames on the water in the distance making the horizon wobbly and opaque through the smoke. She tries to call out for help, but she’s certain no-one is alive to hear her; her mouth keeps filling with rancid sea water as she splashes about frantically.
Jude bobs around on the ocean’s surface, her arms and legs kicking and keeping her afloat and calling out again for help. She shouts as loudly as she can, but is met with no response.
Whimpering, she latches onto a nearby piece of scorched debris and clings onto it for dear life. She wipes her face again and more blood rinses off in her hand. She feels all around her head and the searing pain makes itself known at the top side of her right temple in her hair line, just above her ear.
Shit!
Bewildered and panicking further in the process, Jude tries to scan the horizon behind her to see if there is anything, anyone; a hint of land perhaps that she can swim towards.
The thought of barely floating here on the ocean’s surface holding onto a small piece of rubble to keep her suspended births all sorts of nightmarish outcomes that her brain processes in a quick blur; the most notable being a shiver of sharks circling her below because they can smell her blood from miles away.
Her body is buffeted by the currents, causing her to grip onto the makeshift float desperately until she can't feel her fingers anymore, but the numbness doesn’t register.
Her heart races, pounding against her chest. In the midst of the chaos, a primal instinct for survival kicks in. She scans the vast ocean, searching for signs of rescue, grappling with the overwhelming uncertainty of her situation.
The taste of salt on her lips, the sting of the wind against her face, and the weight of her own mortality converge in a disorienting mix of sensations that render her still, frozen in her own paralysis of fear.
There’s nothing as far as the eye can see; absolutely nothing at all except for the burning plane wreckage that makes Jude’s wide eyes glow in terror.
To be continued...
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Taglist: @souyasbabyy @kittekat420 @mellozhi @bro-let-me-sleep
This was long overdue…also do I have any idea where this series is going? Honestly I’m just wining it, so if it seems like there’s no consistency…that’s probably bc of me wining it.
Warning: ooc hobie? Shit writing?
Butterflies can’t see the colour of their wings series:
Part 1
Part 2
part 3 (you are here)
When Hobie told you that he’d be there if you were going through something; he meant it.
When Hobie told you that you could come to him for anything that might be plaguing your mind with doubt; he meant it.
He meant every promise he’s ever made.
Every. Last. One.
However Hobie knew that to push you into telling him everything wasn’t the right way to go about solving things, and instead he should wait until you were ready to talk about the issue on your own terms. You’re amazing Hobie and I’m not dismissing your help or anything but I’m sure I can figure this out on my own, if I can’t then I’ll come to you. Were the words you spoke to him. You always wanted to figure things out yourself first before resorting to relying on others for help. While that was admirable, Hobie secretly wanted to be the one you relied on most; after overhearing what you said to Miles about the consequences of wanting what you can’t have because you felt as though you didn’t fit with him.
Which -for clarification- Hobie found to be utter and total bullshit because to him, you couldn’t have fitted better with him. He could give less of a shit about how different you were, whether it was based on lifestyles, aesthetics or differences in personalities, because at the end of the day Hobie only wished to help you realise how beautiful your butterfly wings were; and they are the most beautiful he’s ever seen that to try and describe them would be a fruitless endeavour for you made him feel all kinds of things and those things you made him feel were new and exciting.
How he wishes he could find the way to rid you forever of your self doubt and insecurities that run so deep within yourself that it was nearly impossible to find where it was that the seed of doubt was placed within your heart and soul. Hobie knew he can only say so much before it begins to sound like he was rehashing those same words in a multitude of different ways until they held no emotion nor meaning.
Another thing he often pondered to himself in his spare time was the kiss you left engraved upon his cheek that day as he often ran his calloused fingertips across it gingerly, still feeling the phantom of your lips there. He first wondered if that kiss was merely a gesture of thanks for his offer to help; nothing to be looked deeply upon for it untimely meant nothing outside your appreciation for the strong platonic bond you both built since meeting one another; Whereas he sometimes wished it was you slowly accepting his willingness to become more integrated with your life then he already is but to a more deeper and intimate level.
A level where in his fantasy you both could sit in a together in total silence as you both did your own thing, easily finding comfort within one another’s presence and knowing that you’d never be too far away from actively seeking for one another when wanting to show something.
A level where you would wear his vest outside of the excuse that you looked cold but more so because it would inherit your scent within the fabric, so that whenever he was away he would be reminded of the piece of you that he had with him, telling him that you were waiting for him back home.
A level where he could look into your eyes and see his entire life within them.
A level where he would’ve finally found a way in making you see you from his point of view; for you were a butterfly who would one day realise the colour of your wings and he was the human that would help you see their beauty and worth.
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Reprimand
Double Bind Masterpost
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Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader
Summary: Follow on to Endeavour. Anthony suspects you may have been seduced by another and reprimands you.
Warnings: 18+smut, minors DNI, dom/sub relationships, mean dom, jealousy, consenting-non-consent (CNC) play, deepthroat breathplay, rope bondage, whipping with a riding crop, rough vaginal sex, orgasm control, emotions, confessions.
Word Count: 5.8k
Authors Note: Here is part 4 of the Double Bind series requested by @eleanor-bradstreet where our reader finds herself back with her original dom, Anthony. Please note, everything here is very consenting; they are just playing as if it's not. If that is at all triggering for you, please do not read this. Thank you to @colettebronte for the beta read, particularly around the CNC play. Enjoy! <3
The following night you see Anthony at a gathering—a very dull musical recital just a few doors down from Bridgerton House. He accompanies you as the respectable courting partner, your gloved wrist gently resting in the crook of his arm as you circuit the room before the show.
Once the decidedly mediocre entertainment begins, he leans close to your ear.
“You have about five more minutes, then we are leaving,” he drawls quietly.
“Where are we going, my lord?” you whisper back.
“Anywhere I can fuck you,” he states plainly as you struggle not to spit out the champagne you just sipped, a dribble still escaping down your chin that you attempt to dab away discreetly. He intentionally did that—waited to drop that line when you were taking a swig.
A warm finger catches the drip and pushes it back to your mouth, his pupils dilating. “Can’t quite swallow it all; that looks familiar,” he murmurs, intentionally being utterly filthy.
“Anthony!” you admonish quietly but fiercely.
“We both know being on your knees is your favourite place after being face down over my desk,” he mutters, knowing this sort of talk always gets you breathless.
And indeed, it does. “Are those five minutes up?” you ask archly.
Wordlessly, with a bemused huff, he grabs your hand and pulls you out into the aisle, briskly walking towards the rear of the room and out of the door. He keeps marching, out of the building, into the street, making a beeline for his home less than a hundred yards away.
“Your family…?” you check as you realise where he is headed.
“All at that dreaded recital. The house shall be empty except for staff. Not that it is consequential, for we are not going into the house,” he smirks back at you.
“Where are we going?” you ask as you realise he has veered into the mews running behind his property.
“Stables,” he answers as if that explains everything.
“Why?”
“You are asking an awful lot of questions tonight,” he comments, then pauses and crowds you into a cold brick wall in the narrow dark lane. “How about you trust me and just do as you are told, you wilful little thing?” his warm breath gusts over your cheek.
Oh. It's already playtime.
“Yes, sir,” you respond instantly, and he nods and beams at you.
“Good girl,” he compliments, grabbing your chin. “Now, you will do whatever I tell you from here on out. Do you understand me?
“Yes sir,” your breath speeding up, excitement flaring low in your belly.
“I do so love you obedient,” he sighs and kisses you bruisingly, trapping you forcefully between his body and the wall. “Take off your underwear,” he commands.
“I'm not wearing any,” you stumble honestly.
He growls, “I love when you do that, behaving like a wanton whore.” He knows how aroused you get when he calls you that in play. “Show me right now; pull up your dress.”
You scramble to obey, but he quickly stills your movement. “I see people in the window of our neighbour's house. We should move on,” he offers sagely, stepping out of character and retaking your hand.
Anthony has never been one to attempt play in public; his image as Viscount so very important to maintain. And so contrasting to his younger, bohemian brother, memories of Benedict’s sinful voice talking of you crawling naked to him in front of strangers suddenly haunt you. How can they be both so very alike and so very different simultaneously? They are an addictive cocktail.
You continue down the mews until a gate leads you into a rear courtyard—this must be the back of Bridgerton House.
“Wait here,” he says curtly, disappearing into a side building. “Alright, you may come in; the coast is clear,” he calls a few moments later, and you follow.
It's the tack room for the stables. It smells of leather and brass. It’s warm and dry; the mahogany wood-panelled walls give it a cosy air.
“What are we doing in here?”
“There is all sorts of equipment in here I want to use on you,” he crows, closing the heavy door shut and bolting it. The only light in the room is a faint glow from the oil lanterns flickering on the courtyard walls outside and a shaft of moonlight splicing across the room from a high window.
Something in your heart rate spikes as your eyes adjust and look around to see saddles, bridals, whips and ropes. And in the middle of the room, a padded leather bench likely used to change into riding boots.
“Now, do as you were told before we were rudely interrupted,” he prompts, leaning on the wall and crossing his arms casually, an expectant eyebrow raised.
You grab your dress and gather the layers over your forearms until you feel the air swirling around your intimate area. He growls at the sight and is on you a millisecond later, kissing bruisingly, just the way you like. There is nothing more arousing for you than Anthony, this powerful, titled man, so very desperate and out of control just for you. He spins you around, and you are pushed into the wood panels, his hands wrenching open your dress buttons as you breathe hard.
“Open your legs wider,” he gruffs, nudging your ankles with his shoe. You do so, widening your stance to shoulder width as your dress and chemise are yanked off your shoulders. “Wider,” he instructs as your clothing drops to a pool at your feet.
You obey, kicking away your dress, standing there now in stays and silk shoes only.
“Good girl,” he compliments, pulling your hips backwards roughly, your hands reaching out to grab the wall in front on instinct. “That's it, bend over, and hold on tight,” he orders.
Your insides dance with anticipation as he drops to his knees behind you. He is usually savage with his tongue when he eats you from behind like this—pushing his whole face into your slit, into the cleft of your cheeks, very thorough in his attentions. So you are somewhat surprised when he doesn't do that. In fact, he is silent behind you for so long you almost ask what is wrong.
“What… the… fuck….is that?” he spits angrily. But it's not his play angry; it sounds worryingly close to genuine.
‘What is what?” you ask, suddenly nervous, twisting to look over your shoulder.
He jumps up to his feet and yanks you roughly back upright against him by your hair, and you squeak in shock.
“Care to explain why there are teeth marks on your inner thigh, my girl?” his voice cutting and right at your ear.
Your stomach plummets as if you have fallen from a high branch of a tree or gone over a waterfall in a barrel. Everything inside you tumbles, and your vision swims slightly.
Benedict.
It could ONLY be him—last night. You vaguely recall feeling him bite your inner thigh as he teased you. But you were so deliriously aroused you barely felt anything. Washing this morning, you did not think to look there; you just quickly bathed and went about your day.
“It cannot be, sir,” you instantly obfuscate. “It must be a mark, from I do not know what…. from my saddle, perhaps?” you offer, taking inspiration from what is right around you.
His grip on your hair slackens. You are uncertain he believes you. Something feels tender at this moment. Precarious. Like he is vulnerable to what the marks could signify but cannot handle his response in any other way but brusquely—needing the upper hand.
“I have been foolish, perhaps, in not being clear with my boundaries. So here they are. If you are with a Bridgerton, you should only be laying with a Bridgerton, do you hear me?” he lectures, unwittingly giving you a very convenient loophole.
“Yes, sir,” you answer instantly. “I shall only lay with a Bridgerton,” you reply, almost gleeful.
“Why does that appear so entertaining?” he asks cuttingly.
“It is not, sir,” you attempt to school your expression and tone, “more that your order is very… arousing for me, sir,” your response coquettish, knowing the diversionary flattery will work on him.
“You want to be owned by me?” he gusts hot in your ear, a warm hand snaking around your belly, pulling you back forcefully into his muscular frame.
“Yes, of course, sir”, you answer. “I want to wear your name with pride,” you pant gently, slipping into your submissive role with practised ease.
“I will brand your bottom with the family crest,” he snarls, the possessive rhetoric notching up significantly.
You goad him with a challenging look over your shoulder and roll your hips, catching your bottom on the growing hardness in the front of his trousers, knowing it will spur some kind of response.
“You wanton little whore, rubbing yourself on me like some animal in heat just because I offer to brand you with my name,” he rumbles, enjoying your tactics, grabbing your chin and making you look at him as he leans forward over your shoulder. “I should tie you up and whip you to make you obey me,” he declares, staring into your eyes.
You suddenly know why he has brought you here, to this room—to try some more advanced punishment. The fact there is now the added dimension of his suspicion makes it feel even more charged, like the static before a storm. You can't seem to look away from his turbulent mien, knowing tonight will be something new and exciting. You can feel butterflies against your ribs as he speaks again.
“You would just hate that, wouldn't you?” he smirks, and you intuit what he wants.
This is a power play to make you remember who is in charge, a way to brand you as his symbolically, not physically. By making you pretend you don’t want this as much as you do. Achingly so.
“You want to play that game?” you check quietly, ensuring what you think is happening is true.
“You are so very observant, my smart girl,” he whispers flatteringly, and you know exactly what to do next.
“Sir, please don’t,” you play up, voice getting louder, twisting to catch his eye and winking, letting him know your reticence is all for the scene.
“Who said you have any say in what happens?” he chuckles darkly, his hold tightening as he roughly strips your stays from your body so you are completely naked.
This. You perhaps shouldn’t want this, but by god, you do—a little twisted role play. Elation ripples through your body. Somehow you know you both need this today. Anthony to process his suspicions about the bitemark. You, cathartic release of the guilt you carry about your tryst with Benedict. Perhaps it's a dangerous path to walk; you know you are likely playing with fire, but with Anthony, by god, it's nothing but excitement. Mutually assured destruction can seem so appealing behind glowing brown eyes and sharp cheekbones.
“Please, sir, no!” you ratchet up your theatrics, struggling slightly in his hold as he spins you around to face him.
“Shut up!” he grouses and pushes you down to your knees with a firm grip on your hair. “Now, if you don't keep quiet, I will find a way to silence you,” he warns, yanking your head back so you look up at him.
And you know what is coming, your thighs rubbing together almost gleefully at the prospect. Your insides roil excitedly at the idea of him using you, rough and rugged, as you pretend it is against your will. Trust Anthony to take you to the edge of your needs, push your envelope and make you crave him. This is why you can’t resist him. He knows how to give you things you never knew you needed but want so much your blood sings—makes you ache for him, addicted to him like no one else.
You stay on your knees, panting lightly with anticipation as he walks away briefly, his boots seeming to clatter much louder as he returns. He yanks your hands behind your back, and you feel a thin rope wrapping around your wrists.
“You know your safety word and action,” he leans over and mutters in your ear, and you nod, twisting to meet his eye. Confirming that today no won't mean stop; only that word or gesture will.
“No sir, please, no god, I’m sorry; please don't tie me up,” you act up.
He laughs menacingly and keeps looping the rope, tying it off with what feels like a bow. Then a hand grabs your jaw.
“Too late for that; open your mouth,” he commands gruffly.
You instantly obey as two fingers slide thickly over your tongue. They taste of ink, smokey cigars and the tang of money, all Anthony.
“Now I know a certain way to stop this little mouth from being so insolent,” he states, casually pinching your tongue before pulling out his fingers.
“No sir, please, please don’t,” you volley back, a flash in your eyes as you lick your lips, your gaze falling to the tented shape in his trousers as he roughly unbuttons them.
His cock springs free, and you feel a frisson over your skin as you drink in the sight of it, already rigid and leaking. Without preamble, he grabs the back of your head; you can barely take a steadying breath before he pushes into you, hot over your tongue, not gentle in using you, nudging towards the back of your mouth. His cock is always so surprising in size, especially when he does this, showing you no mercy. Gripping your hair and starting a rhythm that pushes deeper on every stroke until he holds your nose pressed up to his body, filling your throat. You want to cough, speak, do anything, but he holds steady, his scent so potent.
With your hands tied as they are, you have no control over how he uses you, but you are determined not to give you safety action, to take the punishment he wants to meter out. Your clit throbs as your lungs burn for air—heady and intoxicating. Still, he does not allow you reprieve.
“Look up at me.” You tilt your eyes up as water gathers at the corner of your lashes. His thumb swipes through them. “Finally, she is silent and obedient,” he chuckles richly, his cock vibrating in your throat, “and looking so pretty on her knees, taking all of me.”
He pulls halfway out, and you inhale sharply before he pushes back in with a groan, and you are again unable to breathe. You want this so much your thighs dampen, and you look back up at him with wide, pleading eyes, playing the part of the victim you most definitely are not.
“Take it,” he stutters gruffly as you feel your throat convulse slightly, wanting to gag. “Stay down,” he orders, crushing your face into his body, his balls against your chin. You feel a pulse in his cock and then a sour tang, that little salty bead of pre-cum sliding down your gullet.
Just as you begin to struggle for air and feel woozy light-headedness, he pulls out entirely, ropes of saliva webbing from your mouth to his glistening tip as you gasp deeply, your throat burning.
“Get on your hands and knees and crawl to that bench,” he grits out, and you do as told, taking a few crawled paces to the padded leather bench in the middle of the room as he loosely refastens his trousers. Your deep wracking breathing sounds so loud, even in the wood-panelled room, as he tells you to climb up and straddle it face down.
“If you move an inch or make a noise, this will be much worse for you,” he threatens.“You will be whipped, and then you will take my cock. Maybe then you will finally remember who you belong to.”
“Please, sir, no,” your protesting murmur is weak and raspy as your throat recovers, but you turn slightly to meet his gaze challengingly, eyes blazing. You had better fuck me so hard, you mouth silently at him.
He twists his face into a bemused pout. I will, you wilful little one, he mouths back.
“Now, do I need to tie you to the bench, too?” he warns, but you get no chance to challenge it as, almost instantly, more rope loops around your back and under the bench you lay on.
Fire flares in your belly; he has never tied you down so wholly. You cannot wiggle free of this; you are entirely at his mercy. The leather sticks slightly to your heated cheek as a hand spanks a glancing blow onto your left bottom cheek, and you groan and push your hips down into the padded leather. Everywhere between your legs tingles, aches even, and feels hot, getting off on the thrill of submitting to his will, the utter commanding way he handles you. You need him to put his mark on you. To make it bigger, better than his brother’s.
“Make it hurt,” you sigh, barely a breath. But you know he hears it from the sharp inhale he makes.
You look back at him pleadingly. It could be the look of a captive pleading for mercy from their captor; it could be the look of a willing participant in a provocative game, conveying just how much they want this. Indeed, it’s both, so many layers swirling in this erotically charged moment.
“My girl, you will feel it and remember tonight,” his voice a low forewarning.
You twist to watch Anthony walk away and snag a riding crop from the selection hanging on nearby hooks, heart speeding up as he walks near your head, brandishing the implement. The cool leather tongue brushes the nape of your neck. He traces it slowly, achingly so, down the length of your spine to where your bound hands lay. Your body shivers in response, and he chuckles, seemingly delighted at how he can elicit such reactions from you.
He leans low over your back, the crop raising from your skin. “Now you can't run and get help; no one is coming to rescue you from me,” he growls. Something in the tone suggests bitter experience.
There is a faint, almost whistling sound in the air then you feel a sting lashing across your left buttock. The strength of this first blow is sharp, taking you by surprise, and you yelp in response.
“Be quiet!” he orders roughly, grabbing your hair. “Or do I need to gag you as well?”
“Please, sir, don't,” your lips plead while your mind hopes he might. You enjoy it when he gags you, especially with his cravat, as he did just a few days ago during your last encounter at Aubrey Hall. That fateful night you physically bumped into his younger brother.
Anthony releases your hair as Benedict's voice and face fill your mind. A similar blow to your right bottom cheek brings you back into the room, and you groan loudly, grinding against the bench, feeling the rope around your waist resisting your movements. He is pacing around you in a circle, his footsteps echoing up the walls; you pant in anticipation, trying to crane your head to track his movements.
The crop tickles your open, bound hand, then traces up the inside of your arm, so ticklish you try to tamp down a giggle. Then you gasp as he flicks the crop on your upper arm across the flesh of your muscle there. The leather tongue drags back down to your hands, then swaps to the other, tracing up your arm in that prickly way until, again, there is a flick to the other bicep. You sense it's coming but still whimper slightly at the lick.
It's a guessing game about what he will do next. These flicks on your arms have been light, not like the force he used on your bottom, but enough to sting and keep you on your toes.
“I do so enjoy the slight of you bound,” he hums, almost absent-minded, as the crop trails back down your arm over your hands, your fingertips and onto your lower spine.
“Please, sir, don’t hurt me,” you play up, panting with anticipation about where he might strike next.
“What part of ‘be quiet’ are you not understanding?” he utters through clenched teeth; it’s all the warning you get before the crop reigns a sharp blow onto the back of your thigh, right below where it meets your bottom.
You hiss and writhe as the crop insinuates between your legs, encouraging them further apart.
“If you keep talking, I will crop you right here,” he cautions, running the smooth leather tab over your labia. You fold your lower lip into your mouth to censor any response you might have. “Good girl,” he intones, and the crop is gone.
You are almost relaxing into the soft bench when he strikes a lick onto your ribs, it's not hard, but it takes you by surprise; your yelp is instinctual. Then with an almost predatory gleam in his normally beguiling eyes, he rains little blows across your back. Short, sharp lashes that sting, not hurting but not pleasant. You flinch at every blow but feel a paradoxical sense of relief with each one, the discomfort as cleansing as it is arousing.
It's when the crop disappears between your thighs that you tense slightly. But he does not flick it against your pussy; he holds it over the spot you assume are the teeth marks, his breathing uneven. Then with a determined glint, he lashes the area hard, and you feel redness instantly bloom there as you cry out. He has done exactly what you wanted; he has covered up Benedict's mark on you with one of his own, bigger, better, bolder—so very Anthony. It almost feels akin to a twisted game of one-upmanship you will wear on your skin for a few days.
Then he flicks little marks on the back of your thighs and buttocks. Again each one feels like absolution and a step higher towards a blissful state where you float outside your body, utterly pliant to his demands and treatment.
“Stay with me,” he dictates.
He senses you slipping into a subspace but wants you alert and responsive to every move he makes.
“Who do you belong to?” his question is a bark.
“You.” It's a reflex.
“And only me, do you understand me? I will not share,” he grits out.
“Yes sir,” you slur as the crop makes one last resounding blow on your cheek, so forceful you scream.
There is a clatter as the crop falls to the ground, and he is tearing off his clothing as you watch covetously and panting with anticipation, your skin burning hot in the places he has cropped you.
“No sir, please don’t take me,” you fib with a small smile, catching sight of his delicious, engorged cock as he strips.
“Oh, but you are mine to take,” he laughs menacingly as he rounds behind you, kneeling on the floor where he lines up to enter you.
With a grunt from him and a cry from you, he plunges into your body; the stretching invasion always steals your breath. The artifice of the game you have been playing falls away as you sigh his name and murmur for him to please take you hard, wanting him to fuck all the guilt out of you.
And he does what you need. He shows no mercy as he grasps the rope around your back in his fist so it digs into the sensitive flesh of your sides and begins a punishing rhythm. Thrusting with such force, your whole body rolls, the bench squeaking in protest. You struggle to form thoughts and just quieten your mind, lean into the intensity of it—allowing your body to be used, taken, finding pleasure in your passivity.
His hand spanks a glancing blow over your left cheek that he has left flecked with crop marks, and you squeal at the layering of this sharp pang over the dull throb from his earlier discipline.
“Keep quiet,” he hisses, leaning over your back and biting the nape of your neck. His incisors grabbing flesh and pulling, a pinching searing pang you know will mean teeth marks and wearing scarves to cover up until they fade.
You are shocked at how fast your body is hurtling towards a climax, your clit squashed into the rounded end of the bench as he fucks into you. You start to pant little noises and writhe in your bindings, your wrists still in the small of your back, starting to feel pins and needles as your movement causes the rope to dig in harder.
“You are so very close,” he observes, suddenly holding still, buried deep inside you. “That will not do,” his tone almost disappointed, “do not come yet”.
You fight the urge, your pussy squeezed tight around him, fighting the little convulsions you feel, every inch of his cock engraving on your walls like he is leaving his imprint inside you.
“I mean it,” he warns, “you will not come until I permit it.”
“Yes sir,” you croak, gusting hot breaths into the bench and trying to calm your body. To stave off your orgasm until he allows it.
Then there are fingers resting on your clit, and you inhale sharply, twisting in your binding to look at him over your shoulder, something wild in his manner, his eyes glittering.
“No,” he says firmly as he teases your bud with expertise, edging you but refusing permission to let you break.
“This is not fair,” you groan, puffing hard as he begins to fuck you again, this time with an unhurried rhythm, withdrawing then surging in as his fingertips expertly hook under your hood to massage your engorged little nub.
“Fair is not my concern,” he dismisses, “what is my concern is demanding your utter obedience.”
Every ounce of your body is aflame, the tension of holding to a precipice as each welt on your body throbs in sympatico with your clit.
“Please,” you mumble, unsure you can stem the tide building; obey his rules.
His grip on your bum tightens as he spears into you roughly, making you grunt as your whole body rocks with the force. Boring into you now, unforgiving in his mounting of you, he once again wraps the rope that lashes you down around his knuckles, ensuring you gasp at the harsh binding, the rough fibres repeatedly rubbing until small welts appear.
He is setting an almost punishing pace, ploughing into your body repeatedly as you listen to his panting breaths, desperate for his consent to release all the tension, almost an unbearable weight.
He spanks your right cheek for good measure. You moan, and the pleasure-pain that blossoms makes your break impossible to fight anymore. Your eyes screw shut as his fingers slide over your sensitive bud, the grip of his spanking hand now banded around the crest of your hipbone, strong enough to leave more marks on your delicate flesh.
“You may,” he pants, perhaps sensing the inevitable.
You call his name and bury your nose into the bench, your teeth snarling and biting against the leather as your body, denied over and over, finally relents, your pussy palpitating around him so harshly you almost propel him from your body. Each synapse firing so hard your mind blanks out, a snapping of something inside that is your tether to reality. Then you are floating, somewhere far away, on a cloud of throbbing skin and pumping heartbeats, the pain transmogrifying into something beautiful, like amnesty, appeasement, peace.
You are barely cognisant as he rapidly withdraws from your body with a shout, spilling his seed onto your aching cheeks, the splash of it somehow both stinging and soothing the ache, bringing you back into the room as he slumps over your back, head between your shoulder blades.
For a few moments, there is nothing but the joint sound of your laboured breathing and the creek of the rope as you shift lightly under his weight.
“That was… truly something else,” he pants, drawing upright to untie your body and wrists delicately.
“It really was,” you agree, as he rubs the sore spots on your wrists from the chafe of the rope.
“Thank you. For giving me your trust like that,” Anthony says quietly, sincerely. “It is a rare thing to play like this…. Very rare indeed.”
He looks so thoughtful you don't know what to say in response. “Any time, Anthony. It was a very cathartic experience for me,” you admit honestly. “Something so freeing about playing that role for you,” you clarify before he asks what you mean, Benedict’s face flashing in your mind, guilt flooding your heart.
He jumps up, gathers a padded blanket from a hook, and lays it on the ground, pulling you into an embrace atop it. You settle into his arms, allowing your body to feel soothed by his idle, gentle strokes as he speaks again.
“I have come to realise that you are chasing challenging experiences. And my darling girl, I always want to be the one, the only one, worthy and able to do that, to challenge you in all the ways you may need,” he offers as he nuzzles your temple, dropping a light kiss there.
“That's so funny; Benedict was just saying the same last night,” you giggle lightly, your idle tongue running away from you in your post-orgasmic haze.
“You talk to my brother about such matters?” He freezes and sounds strange as he says it, and instantly you wince inside but try not to let it show.
“Sometimes he and I talk. Of you and I, our compatibility, our courtship,” you attempt breezy nonchalance, gesturing into the air. “We bumped into each other at the Trowbridge Ball, and perhaps I had too much champagne,” you offer, relieved that partial truths and alcohol may explain how you came to talk of such matters with his brother.
“But you said this was last night?” Anthony argues, slowly twisting and sitting up away from you. “And the Trowbridge Ball was two nights ago. I should know; I was not well that day.”
Bile rises in your throat. You try not to let your panic show on your face, but you suspect your acting skills may be somewhat lacking. “Oh, of course, I… I am mixing up my days. The season is such a whirl, is it not?” You overshoot, mugging a smile too large and too brittle, clutching at proverbial straws.
You sit up and instinctively grab your chemise to cover yourself up, feeling the need for a physical layer of protection, your skin registering a cold draft that breezes along the floor, making you shiver. There is a few moments of silence where you curl your lip under your teeth. Scared, you will slip up more, knowing Anthony is too smart not to see it.
“I thought I warned you to stay away from him,” he intones, his voice going low.
“Come on, Anthony. He is your family; why would I not talk to your family? To the outside world, at least, we are courting.” You try to appeal to his logical side.
“Do you converse with Colin? Do you talk such intimate things with him?” He bristles, and you stay silent. Knowing what he points out is true. You have barely spoken more than five words to Colin, all mundane. “Yes. As I thought,” he adds, more than a little bitter. “And I find it strange that I went to call on you yesterday afternoon to apologise for being unable to accompany you to the ball, only to be told you were not home. That you were, in fact, receiving art lessons from my brother. Indeed, your family valet seemed most perplexed that I was not aware, seeing as I had apparently arranged the whole thing.”
Oh god.
He knows.
He knows something is happening between you and Benedict. And he has kept it in until now. Again you are tumbling over that waterfall. Suddenly, so much of tonight takes on more nuance than you could possibly have imagined: the desperation, the possessiveness, the want to tie you down and punish you hard, the now-weighted phrase that no one is coming to rescue you. Part of you wants to run away, be sick to your stomach, but part of you wants to stay and fight.
“Anthony…” you appeal, not knowing what else to say.
“Don't,” he chides, and you feel him building up his walls, brick by brick, cutting you off. “But thank you for confirming what I didn't want to know. You may leave,” he adds bitterly, and you can see untold hurt in his eyes.
You can see that trying to reason with him is a lost cause at this moment. So silently, you pull your stays on loosely over your chemise and then your dress, the initial panic giving way to a melancholy sinking into your bones about how he is closing himself off. You slip out of the stable door and don't allow yourself the luxury of a glance back, or even a tear, as you walk the few hundred yards back to the recital venue and your awaiting carriage.
You suspect that were it any other man, Anthony would not be so very agitated—his younger brother very much his Achilles heel, right from that first warning at Aubrey Hall. Perhaps he sees something in you that is a kindred spirit to Benedict more than to himself and fears the choice you may make. Little does he know, you crave them equally and more than ever, even as you feel uncertain about where you stand with either brother now. Both knowing of your dalliance with the other, and neither happy about it—precisely what you didn't want. In hindsight, it was never going to be easy playing off both brothers. But you never expected Anthony’s reaction to be so emotional, the hidden depths he keeps so well concealed under the mask of responsibility.
And things are about to get even more complicated when Benedict sees what Anthony has done….
Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld@eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog
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Cool About It
it's here. the third and final part!
joel miller x fem! reader
Description: it's been over a year with joel and some things have just fallen apart. you miss him, more than you'd like to admit. after some time apart, you find yourself at tommy's christmas party. your recent endeavours catch up with you, and joel doesn't like the way it's looking.
Part 3/3
Links for Part 1 Part 2
Word count: 6.8k
Warnings: MINORS DNI! this is 18+, post!outbreak joel, very angsty, age gap, joel being very protective, use of homophobic slang, guy being creepy towards reader, very smutty, unprotected p in v, fingering, oral (f and m receiving), overstimulation, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, orgasm denial, pet names
Author's Note: I'm so happy to bring this final part to you beautiful people. I've loved writing this series so much! Thank you for your patience and kindness. please leave feedback, I love hearing from you guys.
Once, I took your medication to know what it's like
And now I have to act like I can't read your mind
I ask you how you're doing and I let you lie
But we don't have to talk about it
I can walk you home and practice method acting
I'll pretend being with you doesn't feel like drowning
Tellin' you it's nice to see how good you're doing
Even though we know it isn't true
“So are you and Joel going to work it out?”
It was a question bearing on your mind for months. You really didn’t want to hear it from Ellie.
You and Joel had officially been broken up for three months after seeing each other for over a year. It was never a concrete thing, the foundation of your relationship was cracked due to some unresolved trauma from both of your pasts. Joel was in the same boat as you when it came to not being able to cope with his grief. His daughter being taken from him so young, the horrors he went through trying to survive the end of the world, and of course the deep and complex relationship he had with Ellie. You had a lot of unsettled trauma from losing your entire family and being alone for most of your life. You also always had this sinking feeling that he was not telling you the full story about the last couple years. He seemed hesitant to discuss how he found Ellie in the first place. You could tell there was some awkward tension and unresolved issues between the two of them. You just wanted to help.
He started drinking a whole lot towards the tail end of the relationship and you weren’t sure why. He’d stumble back home drunk, not even able to kiss you goodnight.
It was getting complicated. He was terrible about communicating his feelings and you were too stubborn to accept you were ever wrong.
Of course, there were good times. Like all of the Saturday nights going out dancing with Tommy and Maria. The game nights with Ellie. Sitting outside on his front porch with nothing but his guitar, making you sing songs only your father would know.
You missed him terribly. But you knew it was for the better. It has to be for the better.
Ellie sits next to you at the annual Christmas party which was hosted by Maria and Tommy. They usually did it at their house, but with a toddler, it just didn’t seem realistic there anymore. So instead, they had it at the large food hall and invited all of Jackson.
You glance over at her, your eyes glazed over from all the alcohol you’d been consuming.
That was another thing. You couldn’t stop drinking, now. It was the only way you could get to sleep at night. You had even started going to the Tipsy Bison every night to get wasted and on some rare occasions, have a guy take you home.
You were almost positive Joel was sleeping with one of the other patrol leaders too, a girl named Kelly. She had made eyes at him before you two got together. You’d seen them around a couple times, just talking and getting close. The first time you saw them, you got wasted at the Bison and threw up your entire breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
It only made you want to get over him faster, so having those guys take you home was a distraction. But you’d never fully admit that.
“I don’t know, kid,” Is all you could think to say to Ellie. Your mind was muddled with stupid emotions and disgusting whiskey.
“He’s nicer when you’re around. Now, he’s just… angry.”
You felt bad. But you couldn’t fall back into that routine with Joel. Fight, makeup, fight again. There was an extreme disconnect in communication. It was exhausting.
You stand up on wobbly legs, “I’m gonna go grab ‘nother drink. You want somethin’?”
Ellie was technically underage but you knew she drank with her friends sometimes. She looked at you with a bit of contempt.
“No, thanks.”
You shrug, sauntering back over to the bar.
You notice a familiar silhouette at the end of the bar, but don’t bother glancing that direction. You knew he was watching you and Ellie talking a second ago, his eyes always trailing you. You didn’t want to look over and see Kelly beside him, so you act like he isn’t even there.
“Another whiskey, pleaseeee,” You beg the bartender standing nearby. He doesn’t look too happy about serving you more, but you had lost all sense of self control about an hour ago and he knew that by the look on your face. He pours you some more dark liquor and sends you on your way.
As soon as you turn to walk away, you spot another familiar face walking directly towards you.
Josh Hall.
He was one of the guys you slept with. He was a nice guy, kinda. He was a know it all, shallow, and a bit arrogant. So maybe not a nice guy.
You slept with him twice, both times when you were drunk. From what you could remember, he didn’t make you cum.
He was only a bit taller than you, blonde hair and blue eyes. He was cute enough to get into your pants. But every time you thought about any other man, you reminded yourself that it wasn’t Joel.
“Hey there,” You try not to slur, “How are ya?”
“Hi beautiful,” He grabs your hand, pulling you in for what you assume is a kiss. You wince, directing his lips to your cheek. He presses his chapped lips against your skin.
“What are you doing?” You ask, trying to avoid the gazes of the people around you. You could feel his eyes on you even from 50 feet away.
“Thought you’d wanna come dance with me,” He has his hand slipping around your waist. You feel a sinking feeling in your stomach. He knew you were drinking, your glass swaying right in front of his face.
Your red flags are raising quickly. Josh never approached you any other times of the day. Never during patrols, never just around town. He only showed interest when you had a glass of liquor in your hand.
“I am actually bringing this drink to someone, so please get off of me,” You lie, trying to get him away.
You had to be patient with a guy like Josh. He could be pushy sometimes, so you had to be firm but sweet. You wouldn’t want to start a stir at a party with a bunch of families, right?
But he wasn’t letting go.
His eyes were piercing into yours. You could tell he was drinking, his eyes a bit glassy like yours. You hadn’t even seen him come into the party. It’s like he just appeared to make you mad.
“Just have one dance with me,” His breath stunk of alcohol and unbrushed plaque. You wanted to vomit.
“No, I need to bring this drink to someone.”
His grip is getting progressively tighter and he’s walking you backward.
“Who? Who’s drink is it? New boyfriend?”
You swallow hard, not knowing who to say.
“It’s for Ellie.”
He smirks, “You givin’ an underage dyke a drink? Don’t think her daddy would like that.”
Something in you flips. Rage. Pure unadulterated rage. Your body doesn’t even give your brain a moment to mull over your next move. You throw the drink on the ground, the glass shattering all over the floor. You step back, finally breaking away from him.
“What did you just fuckin’ say?!”
He releases you, backing up. He had this offended look on his face, like you had kicked a puppy.
Liar.
It made you even more mad.
“What did you say, Josh?” You emphasize his name, never breaking eye contact, “You fuckin’ call her that again I’ll fucking kill you.”
You stomp forward, your hands reaching up to him. You had never snapped so quickly in your life. Something about him saying negative about Ellie made your protective maternal instinct go into overdrive. Ellie meant a lot to you, especially after spending the last year with her and Joel.
Your fingers wrap around his scrawny little throat. He was trying to back away, but a table stopped all his movements. He was pinned.
“You fuckin’ dare talk about her or anyone I fuckin’ know, I will make sure you never utter another wor-“ You feel hands around your waist, pulling you back from possibly choking him out. It almost takes the wind out of you. Your hands let go of his neck, but not without digging your fingernails into his skin.
You are so blindsided, you don’t even know who has a grip on you.
“Hey, hey, stop!” His voice is familiar. Almost Joel’s, but not.
No, because Joel is instead grabbing Josh from the spot you pinned him to. You look back and see Tommy, his face panicked and confused.
You watch as Joel grabs Josh by the shirt, throwing him towards the middle of the dance floor. A bunch of people are standing around watching Josh stumble, trying to gain his composure. The music completely stops, bringing the hall to complete silence. Joel doesn’t give him enough time to stand up straight. You try to push Tommy off of you, but he’s got an iron grip on you.
“What did he say?” Joel yells towards you, gesturing towards Josh. Everyone has completely stopped what they are doing to watch the scene unfold.
You look towards where Ellie is, her face twisted in horror. Jesse stands next to her, his face serious. You know this is probably embarrassing for her, so all the anger leaves your body, replaced with guilt and shame.
“Joel,” You warn, “Please.”
Joel was extremely protective when you two were together. Ever since you two split, he has tried his very hardest to not snap. Once he sees a man’s hands on you, though, he can’t help but let fury fill his entire being. Tonight was no exception except this time, you got violent before he could. Which only meant you had no other choice. You usually keep a calm exterior, trying not to step on anyone’s toes. When you drink, you’re actually sweeter and more complacent.
“What did he say?”
Instead of you saying anything, Maria steps in. She wedges herself between Joel and Josh, making sure neither one of them takes another step.
“Cool it!” She yells, her eyes flying over to you being held back by Tommy.
“He better get his ass out of this tow-“
“Shut it, Joel,” She warns, reaching out for his arm, “Let’s take a walk.”
“‘m not going anywhere,” His voice is booming which sends a chill down your spine, “Get this fucker out of here and away from her.”
He looks towards you, Tommy slowly loosening his grip on your upper body. You wiggle out, trying to steady your breathing. You didn’t even realize that you were panting like a dog.
You’ve completely sobered up. The dizziness you feel is just from adrenaline.
Maria guides Josh to the door, listening to him rant about his side of the story. You look back at Tommy, who’s obviously taken aback by the way you snapped. He’s never seen you so mad.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Tommy. He just said something about Ellie,” You whisper it, trying to ensure Joel didn’t hear. You know well enough that if he found out the words Josh uttered, he would have a pistol between the poor guy’s eyes.
“I think you need to go home and cool down,” Tommy suggests, “This is not the place for that.”
You felt horrible. Everyone’s eyes were still on you. You nod, understanding Tommy’s reasonings for practically kicking you out of the party. He gestures Joel over, grabbing him by the shoulder.
“I’m gonna have someone walk her home,” He nods to you, “Would you be willin’ to or should I ask Jesse?”
Joel shakes his head, “I’ll get her home.”
“I can get home myself,” You retort, trying to regain some sort of control over the situation. You didn’t want Jesse or Joel walking you home, it felt like a walk of shame times a million.
“Get her home safe, Joel,” Tommy remarks, tapping you on the shoulder. He wasn’t giving you an option.
You step over the shattered glass, while Joel guides you to the door. You felt so humiliated, not knowing what face to make at the people who were scowling you. So you keep your head down, grabbing your coat from the chair beside Ellie. Joel is trailing behind you. You look up for a second, meeting Ellie’s brown eyes.
“I’m sorry, kiddo,” You mumble, “For everything.”
She shakes her head, her lips thin, “It’s okay. Get home safe.”
Joel taps your shoulder, nodding his head towards the door. You put your winter coat on, pulling out your hair that’s stuck between it and your thermal.
It was snowing, soft pillows of white ice covering all of Jackson. You breathe out a loud sigh when you get outside, while Joel shuts the dinner hall door.
You didn’t know what to say to him, really. You felt like he shouldn’t have stepped in, but deep down you were glad he did because it probably put the fear of God into Josh. Maybe he won’t ever speak to you again.
When you start on your journey home, you and Joel are silent. You hadn’t spoken much since your separation. You two got into a huge blowout fight in which the both of you said some pretty terrible things to each other. It was the first and last time you yelled at Joel.
“Why can’t I just make my own decisions?”
“You almost got yourself killed! You almost got Ellie killed. How the fuck am I supposed to react? Just let you two back on patrol like nothin’ happened!? No fuckin’ way. You’re not going back out unless I’m with you.”
Your heart was going to beat out of your chest, “I had it under fucking control, Joel! You always find ways to blame me for something! I brought her home. I did. You weren’t fucking there because you were too fucked up to even get up this morning,” You knew that stung, the way his face twisted in disgust, “You’re the last person on Earth to make decisions for me or Ellie.”
You struck a nerve, you could tell by the deadly serious look on his face.
“You don’t know what’s good for, Ellie. Stop actin’ like you fuckin’ do. You have manipulated her to believe she knows what’s good for her. She doesn’t, okay?”
He couldn’t be serious.
“You’re not even her real father, Joel. She is going to remember all the times you shut her down and made her feel like she didn’t have a choice. Is it really worth your pride?”
He slams his fist on the table, “Get the fuck out!”
You accept that as the end of the conversation and the relationship.
You start to walk through the slush, knowing you had a good 15 minute walk home. You felt sick with anxiety.
“How have you been doin’?”
You laugh, “Fuckin’ fantastic, Joel.”
“Yeah me too,” He lies. He clears his throat before continuing, “So, what did he say?”
“Drop it Joel,” You warn, a hiccup coming up your throat, “Let’s just not talk about it ever again.”
“I’ll get it out of ya one day,” He comments, zipping up his jacket some more. You shake your head, chuckling a bit at the absurdity.
“You didn’t have to step in,” You add, “I had it handled. Like I always do.”
His pace picks up, matching yours.
“Wrapping your hands around ‘nother guys throat is not very you, darlin’,” He says, grabbing your arm to halt your next step, “He had to of said something pretty bad for you to throw your drink and choke him out in front of a bunch of people.”
You knew what he was trying to do. He wanted to lure it out of you, but you weren’t caving. He was good at making it seem like there was no choice other than tell him what happened.
“Guess you’ll never know, Miller,” You tug your arm away, “Tommy said you’d walk me home, not interrogate me.”
He huffs, “You are so stubborn.”
You stop mid step, turning to look him in the eye. You couldn’t believe your ears.
“You’re the one to talk, Joel.”
“And you need to quit the drinkin’. Makes you sloppy.”
His tone was condescending and for him to call you out on drinking? No fucking way.
“You sure were sloppy the last couple times I saw you drinkin’. Remember the four patrol shifts you had last summer you couldn’t get to cause you were too fucked up the night before? Or how about a couple weeks ago when you tried to fight that guy at the Bison?”
He takes note of your aggressive tone. You weren’t just going to cower your head and take his shit.
Maybe you were using the drinking to not think about the fact that you missed his stupid ass. Maybe it was to medicate the anxiety that rattled your bones every time he slipped your mind. Either way, he was such a hypocrite for trying to use that against you. Make it seem like he wasn’t doing that same thing when you were still together.
“I’ve quit all the drinkin’… and hey, he called you a name,” He mumbles, “Had to put him in his place.”
You furrow your eyebrows at his statement, “What do you mean he called me a name?”
He continues to walk, almost trying to physically dodge the question. But if he was going to be persistent, you were going to be, too.
“Joel-“
“Garrett said you were whoring yourself out to him and a couple of the other guys. Called you a slut,” He confesses, not looking towards you at all.
You felt sick to your stomach. Garrett was a guy you had patrolled with, a guy who seemed really nice to your face. The same guy Joel gave a black eye to.
“I’ve only slept with like, two other people.”
You could tell it rattled him a bit. It was a statement he couldn’t be mad at, really. He was a man with needs, too.
“Well, the word’s gettin’ around. He said you told him he had the best dick you’ve ever had,” He laughed as the words slipped his tongue, “God knows that’s ain’t true.”
You push your hands into your pockets, “I never slept with him. It’s only been Josh and…”
You stop yourself, instantly feeling sick to your stomach at the next name that almost came out your mouth. It was something you regretted so deeply in every fiber of your being. Something you tried to forget the very second the interaction.
“Who else?”
“No one,” You say, trying to steady your voice, “None of your business.”
“It was Jesse, wasn’t it?”
Caught.
You cough, clearing your throat. You never wanted to talk about this to anyone, let alone Joel. You were desperate and no other guys really made you feel appreciated.
The wind picks up, which causes the snow to billow towards your face and take your breath away.
“Can we just,” You shake your head, trying to get the hair out of your face, “Can we just discuss this when we get to my house?”
He leads the way, moving quickly. You follow close behind, almost using his body as a shield from the snowstorm. When you finally see your house through your frosted lashes, you feel some sense of relief.
Joel walks up to your front porch, gesturing to you to lead the way. You knew you’d have to light a fire in the living room and warm up the small abode, so once you open the door, you rush to your fireplace. You stack wood, not taking much mind to Joel who’s kicking off his shoes and removing his coat.
You didn’t want to do this with him. You didn’t want to discuss anything, explain yourself, or hash out any unresolved bullshit. After the night you had, you wanted to carry yourself straight to bed.
“Want help?”
You crouch down, flicking a match into the pit, igniting the old coals.
“No, I got it, Joel.”
He huffs, sitting down on your slouchy red couch. Nothing in your house was particularly nice, but you kept it clean and tidy. Everything had a spot, except for the man taking up space before you.
“So,” He slaps his hands on his knees, “You want to explain or?”
“No Joel,” You respond, “I don't feel like I owe you an explanation, truthfully. I honestly don’t wanna rehash all this shit with you.”
His lips tighten into a half smirk, “Okay, that’s fine.”
Silence fills the room again. You were shocked he didn’t press it further, but a bit relieved.
“Just wanna ask one thing,” He grumbles. You stand up straight, shimmying your coat down your arms.
“What?”
“Was his dick the best one you’ve ever had?”
You feel like all the air has left your body.
“What?”
“Jesse. Josh. Were they the best you’ve ever had?”
Hearing their names made you cringe. You knew your answer, but you wonder if you should indulge him in the truth.
He knew it already, but he wanted to hear it from your lips. The haze and exhaustion from the crazy evening makes the confession slip from your lips.
“Joel,” You whisper, “You know damn well they aren’t shit compared to you.”
It’s like you blinked and he’s on you. His hands slide up your waist, grabbing your hips and pulling you into a bruising kiss. You don’t pull away because this is what you’ve been wanting.
The sex with Joel was like nothing else. Maybe your relationship was rocky. Maybe you hated the way he spoke to you sometimes. Maybe you hated the way he tried to control every little thing.
But the sex made it all worth it.
The way his hands molded around your body. His lips trailing up and down from your neck to your calves. He knew your body better than you probably knew it yourself. He never walked away from an encounter without making you cum several times. He could play you like his guitar.
You two are falling all over your furniture to make it to the couch. He sits down, holding you close while you straddle his thighs. He’s not letting up, his kisses feverish and hurried.
You pull away to catch your breath. His pupils are huge and his lips are already swollen.
“What are we doing?” You whisper, using your thumb to brush across his pink lips.
“This is what we do, baby,” He grabs your ass, pulling you flush with his crouch, “We fight and fuck. That’s all we do.”
You lean up, grinding down on his growing bulge.
“I shouldn’t want to, but fuck,” You throw your head back, trying to ease the throbbing you feel, “I always want you, Joel.”
“I always want you too, sweetheart,” His hand finds the back of your neck, rubbing circles into the sides while you grind yourself on his lap, “I don’t want any other pussy but yours. No one else compares.”
You smile in sick pleasure, “We are so fuckin’ toxic, Joel Miller.”
He laughs, pulling your head forward. Your eyes meet his and it’s a sudden realization that you two are just actually insane. That after all the bullshit you put each other through, your horniness always wins. He wants you just as much as you want him, and yet you two can never figure out how to work problems out like actual adults.
“Tell me you don’t fuckin’ like it that way,” He trails a kiss up your neck to earlobe, “And I’ll stop right now. Leave you alone forever. Keep your dirty little secret that you like to fuck guys half your age.”
The rise Joel Miller can get out of you should be studied. He knows exactly how to push every button you’ve ever had, even the one’s you didn’t know existed. The idea of people knowing you fucked Jesse makes your stomach twist, especially since he was Ellie’s friend.
You and Joel’s age gap never really bothered you. Maybe it was because he was older than you, but he didn’t feel that much older than you. You felt ancient with Jesse and even Josh. Joel made you feel like you were on the same level with a man.
You stop grinding on him, grabbing a handful of his hair and pulling him back to meet your gaze. He’s smiling a shit eating grin, knowing you’re pissed.
“You’re the guy who’s fucking people half your age,” You lift yourself a bit, looking down at him with half lidded eyes, “And you flaunt it. You love having me as your little play thing. Y-”
“And you fuckin’ love it.”
“I’m talking,” You shush him, “You are going to let me talk.”
You grab his belt undoing it like you used to almost every night, “You’re going to sit back like a good boy, and let me remind you why this is the only pussy you want to fuck.”
Joel has never seen you like this. It’s like the distance between you two gave you time to gain more confidence. You tested him now, and he kind of liked it. He’d never say but he loved when you were bratty to him. Sure, before you were a little smart ass, but you were practically dominating him. It was a good change of pace.
“Talk ‘bout toxic, baby girl,” He groans, “You know I can’t sit back and be a good boy.”
You use one hand to reach into his pants and grab his hard on.
“You’re going to learn today,” You smile, “Because if you don’t, you’ll walk home with blue balls and you can call Kelly over to fuck you.”
He chuckles a bit, “Sounds like you’re jealous.”
You stop your actions, looking at his smug fucking face.
“You literally just interrogated me about how I fucked half of Jackson,” You spit, “I can continue adding to the tallies. Have you watch me whore myself out to all of your patrol partners.”
“You ain-”
“Maybe I’ll get even bolder,” You continue, “Maybe I’ll even try to fuck the other Miller boy.”
You were completely fibbing. You’d never cross that line. You loved Maria and you respected her more than any other person in Jackson. You just really wanted to get under Joel’s skin.
And you quickly realize you did.
He flips you on your back and cages you under his arms.
“You’re a fuckin’ dirty slut,” He is grabbing at your pants, yanking them down. Your jeans were skin tight and wet, but it took no time at all for him to tear them off your body, “You ain’t in charge here.”
“Let me up,” You demand, pushing at his chest. He wasn’t budging, he was on a mission. He tears off your underwear, exposing your wet slit. You didn’t even realize how dripping you were for him.
“Look at you,” He teases, “Fuckin’ pathetic. Tryin’ to say you’d fuck my brother?”
He shakes his head, using his fingers to trace up and down your slit. You wanted to scream out, but your mind goes blank. You were quaking with anticipation. You surrender to him pinning you against the couch. You’d get him back eventually.
“He’d never fuck a slut like you,” He continues, “No, he doesn’t know how to handle someone like you.”
“And you do?”
“I’ve been at it for awhile,” He sticks a single finger in you, making a squelching sound as he does, “Think ‘m gettin’ pretty good at ruinin’ you. Puttin’ you in your place.”
You finally moan out in pleasure, which makes his face twist in satisfaction.
“Fuckin’ Christ, I’ve missed how tight you are,” He groans, “Squeezin’ my fingers and cock so good.”
You’re practically soaking the couch with how wet you are already. All the build up and smack talk really put you in bind, his fingers driving you absolutely wild.
He eases out of you, tracing your body to begin lifting off your shirt. He throws your shirt across the room, noticing you were actually wearing a padded bra. You smile at his realization.
“Found one of these,” You gesture, toying with the straps, “Bet you’d never see the day.”
You had gotten used to never wearing a bra and Joel usually enjoyed it that way. You could never find a comfortable one and all your old ones were ragged and gross. On a recent patrol, you found a red bra in your size in an abandoned home. You stole it, tucking it carefully in your backpack to try on back home. Lucky enough, it fit and made your boobs sit better than they ever have.
“Jesus Christ,” He mutters, lining the bra with his fingers, “As pretty as it is, it needs to go.”
You reach around your back, undoing it without another word. As soon as it is off, his fingers make work at pebbling your nipples. He smacked one with a gentle open hand. You squeak at the impact, watching Joel’s eyes revel at your bare body. He loved seeing you like this, crumbling under his touch.
He props himself up on his knee which is wedged between your thighs. He pulls his shirt over his head, discarding it on the coffee table next to him. His buttons are already undone after you found yourself with your hands down his pants, earlier. He pulls those down too, letting them pool around his ankles.
“For being a brat,” He nudges you, making you move your legs and plant them on the ground. You sit up, his hand ripping you off of your spot on the couch. He positions you between his legs, his cock standing up waiting for you. You sit back on your heels, enjoying the view.
“You’re gonna try to be a good girl and suck me off.”
You smile eagerily, slowly running your hands up his thighs and to the base of his cock. Instead of getting straight to it, you bring the head of his cock to your lips and kiss it softly. You toy with the idea of completely ignoring his demands, but you come to the conclusion that you’d probably get nothing if you did that. And you wanted him so bad. You thought about this moment for so long.
“Stop playin’,” He groans, watching you with his arms laying across the back of your couch. He looked like one of those statues you saw in old textbooks when you were a teenager. The ones you’d see at an old art museum scuplted from marble. The ones with the small dicks. That’s truly the only thing that differentiated the two. Joel was massive.
“I’m not playing,” You disagree, “Shush.”
Before you can continue your tease, he grabs the top of your head. He is usually pretty assertive, but good God, he was not letting you get away with anything. You widen your lips, taking his cock into your mouth. Instead of progressing down his shaft slowly, he makes you take it fully down your throat. It causes you to gag a bit. You pull back, only for him to push you down again.
You grip onto his thighs, digging your nails in a bit. You knew you would probably leave marks with how hard you were pressing into his skin. He winces, but continues to practically face fuck you.
“You don’t tell me to shush, little girl,” He moans, watching your saliva drench his cock. He finally lets you pull up off him, holding your face in the process, “You hear me? You take this cock like a good girl.”
“Yes,” You manage to say, your throat already hurting from taking him in.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, now come sit on my face.”
You oblige, standing up to let him reposition himself.
You two have done this maybe twice. Each time you practically suffocated him, but he fucking loved every second of lapping you up. You knew that you were in for a ride with the way he was toying with you.
He lays on his back, his hands keen on pulling your legs up to his shoulders. Your ass is positioned on his chest, his face between your thighs. You look down at him, sitting up straight before you ease down, letting your pussy take up the bottom half of his face.
He dives in instantly, his mouth hungrily devouring your pussy. You scream out, letting your body relax against him. His facial hair brushes across your folds and inner thighs while his tongue begins tracing your insides. He stops at your clit, flattening his tongue and pressing forward. You couldn’t control yourself, sinking yourself down further onto him. His nose nudges your folds before he runs his mouth down your slit again, so his nose is now pressed against your clit. He moans into you, the vibrations sending you into ecstasy.
You cum, your juices flowing down his face and your legs. He is moaning so loud, mewling at the fact that you never warned him you were about to cum.
He taps your thighs, advising you to get off of him. You shakingly remove yourself from his face, standing up to look down at him. He was so hard and his lips and beard were soaked with your cum.
“You fuckin’ squirted on me,” He laughs, sitting up. You felt kind of embarrassed, like you couldn’t even contain yourself for more than 2 minutes. “I’ll forgive you since it was hot. No cummin’ without permission.”
“Okay, sorry.”
Even though you weren’t sorry.
Your legs were practically numb and still quaking from your orgasm. You’re breathing heavily, trying to regain your composure. He notices your quivering and starts pulling you into his lap. You widen your legs, mounting his thick thighs. You look down at his cock, it sliding so perfectly between your pussy lips. He was a fucking dream.
He doesn’t even say anything, just watching you try to catch your breath.
“Relax baby,” He mumbles, “We haven’t even gotten started, yet.”
He grabs his cock, stroking it a bit before having you lift off of his thighs. He eases you up and onto the head of his dick. He spits into his hand, coating his shaft with it.
One thing about Joel, is he’s still the biggest you’ve ever had. No one ever got close to him.
The stretch makes you moan out in pure euphoria. You missed it so much. It was something you craved almost every night.
“Fuck,” You whimper, “Never gets old.”
He laughs at your admission, “Likewise.”
He snaps his hips against yours, settling into a slower pace. He was dragging it out, letting your walls become accustomed to him again. After a minute of slow strokes, he picks up his pace. He repositions, kneeling with his one leg extended out to the floor. You’re lifted up in the air partially, grinding down as he meets your motions with his strokes. Your hands are wrapped around his neck, your fingers finding his hair. His hands and grappling at your sides while you two moan in unison.
You two were finally on the same page, not bickering, just fucking out your feelings. You felt the aggression, resentment, and fear dwindling away from you as you sweat out the brutal pace he’s bringing to the table.
“I don’t want anyone else,” He sighs in between his cock hitting you at the perfect angle, “I only want this.”
You don’t think to hard about it, whimpering your response.
“Please let me cum. Please.”
“So pretty when you beg.”
He’s drilling into you at this point, your tits bouncing right into his face. You lazily throw your head back, letting him take one of your nipples into his mouth. You’re so overly sensitive, you don’t know what to say other than beg him to let you release.
“Fuck Joel, I’m gonna cum. Please, let me cum.”
He releases your tit with a pop, “Cum for me, baby.”
After two more strokes, you’re falling apart in his arms. He wraps himself around you, fucking you through the second orgasm.
He’s a whimpering mess, chasing his own release.
“Fuck, baby, fuck.”
“Cum for me, Joel. Moan out for me.”
His deep and guttral moan sends shockwaves through your body. You could feel his cum release inside you, while his arms grow tighter around you. After he finishes, he lays you back onto the arm of the couch. His cock still rests inside you, twitching at every little movement your hips made.
He swipes his forehead for sweat, marveling at you. He looks so endearing, like he didn’t just fuck your brains out and call you a bunch of names. The thought makes you giggle.
“What?”
You shake your head, touching his chest with your fingers, “You’re just handsome.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
You swat him while he slowly eases out of you. You whine a bit, letting the heat from the fireplace warm your body as oppose to Joel’s body heat.
He stands up, abandoning you on the couch as he picks up his discarded clothes. You prop yourself up, trying to sit up but your body feels like jello.
Your really didn’t want to watch him go.
“You should stay.”
His back is turned away from you. He freezes as he grabs his shirt from the coffee table where it landed.
He clears his throat, “Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to leave.”
It was true. You wanted to figure it out. You wanted so badly for this to change everything. But it was just sex. Exactly how this trainwreck started.
He starts to get dressed. You didn’t want to take that as his answer, but deep down you knew this is how things worked. You’d been through it with Joel before. You just had to wait for Ellie to come in and call you his “lady friend” and have him demand you “go get dressed”. It was the same thing every time. You thought it meant something but it really didn’t.
Once he slips his shirt over his head, he walks back to sit next to your naked frame. He brings his hand up to trace your leg, which is perfectly nudged up against him.
You really don’t want to believe all the things running through your mind. You craved an explanation.
“You said you only wanted this, Joel,” You grab a blanket from the back of the couch to cover yourself. You could tell he was at war with his thoughts, “Why can’t we start again? Do I seriously not mean anything to you?”
He realizes you’re pleading with him. He felt so guilty and it was written all over his face.
“Of course you mean somethin’ to me,” He acknowledges, “But we can’t keep doin’ what we were doin’. We always end up screamin’ bout somethin’ stupid. I don’t want to make you unhappy. You deserve to be happy.”
You contemplate for a moment, unsure how to respond.
“If being with you means screamin’ about something stupid and fighting over patrols and drinking too much and bickering over Ellie’s future,” You huff out, trying to not let the hitch in your throat become obvious, “Then I want it. I want it all. All the shit, all the fights. I want it because it’s with you.”
He doesn’t say anything immediately. The silence was deafening.
“We can try,” He mutters, “But we gotta stop tryin’ to fix everythin’ with sex. We gotta like… talk about things.”
You laugh out loud, noting his seriousness. You two were seriously thinking the same things.
“Can we talk about our problems, like, during the sex?”
You were completely joking. You wait for his response, but it comes with him shaking his head. You wrap your arm around his shoulders, pulling him in. Your boobs press against his now clothed chest. You feel his hands slide up and down your sides. You groan in pleasure, his touch sending chills down your spine. You wanted it like this. Forever.
He clears his throat, “Well if I’m sticking around… round two?”
THE END.
taglist: @pedrotonin @mysingularitybts @harriedandharassed @paleidiot @misatoad @lottieellz101 @cool-iguana @bbyanarchist @am-3-thyst
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ENDEAVOUR
Series 9, Episode 3.
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