#life with the burrows series
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Burrowing owl Grian propaganda
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sweet child o' mine | pt. iv
to @mrsmando - without whom this insane story would never have happened in the first place. i love you i love you i love you
thank you all so much for coming on this journey with me - it has been a blast. i hope you like where we turn out! love you guys always n forever x
pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader
summary: you're a mom. it's time to get your shit together.
warnings: bon jovi mention straight out the gate, labor/delivery [i have never given birth. those of you who have are nothing short of remarkable. please forgive if some of this is a little inaccurate or vague], use of pain medication during birth, description of pain and post-birth recovery, super emotional reader, unprotected piv, oral, alcohol consumption.
DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there’s ever anything you feel i’ve missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.
word count: 12k
pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵
It’s September twenty-third.
Well, by now, it’s probably the twenty-fourth. You’ve been a little distracted, rolling between the sheets with your next-door neighbor for the last couple hours.
The wedding’s still going strong downstairs. The same Bon Jovi song has played three times over. Tommy has called Joel to ask where he is so much that Joel’s phone is now switched off and shoved to the bottom of his bag.
You’re slouched on the toilet in a sliver of moonlight. A fistful of tissue, panties loose around your ankles. Rolling your forehead side to side along the cool tile, heartbeat hammering between your temples.
Joel Miller – Joel fucking Miller – is in your bed. Naked, sweating, cock probably still half-hard.
This morning, the very idea of the man was an eyeroll. Stood in your mirror, promising yourself that this time tomorrow, it’ll all be over with.
This time in a month, it’ll be a foggy memory.
This time in a year, it –
His voice is muffled through the bathroom door. “Did you fall in, or somethin’?”
You snort. The milky moon blurs across your vision when you pull yourself upright. You swipe between your legs and stand, flushing the toilet.
“I needed a fucking breather,” you tease, tiptoeing back across the room.
Joel’s stretched out; a worked arm draped along the headboard. Sun-kissed to the middle of his bicep, paler across his shoulder. One leg bare on the mattress, the other under the sheets. They only just cover his modesty – dark hair trailing beneath light silk just in time.
He’s so big. It’s like you never really noticed until now. He takes up half the bed, laying like this. And sure, you’re halfway to fucked, but – has he always been so handsome?
You flop down beside him with a sigh, curling up in the burrow of sheets at his side. Your eyes trail up his body – the sheen of sweat up his side, the dark, damp hair under his arm. All the parts of him you’ve never seen before, will never see again.
You gulp. Quit fucking staring.
He doesn’t notice, anyway. He’s rubbing circles into his temples, grumbling. “How many goddamn times are they gonna play It’s My Life?”
“…for Tommy and Gina…” you nudge him, “…who never backed down…”
Joel chuckles, pulling his hand down his beard. “Twenty bucks says he’s changing that to Maria.”
“Oh, for sure. I ain’t going back down to listen to it, though.”
He hums in agreement, reaching over for his beer. His Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks.
“You owe me, by the way. This is my room, remember? My fucking minibar.”
He pauses, the bottle against his bottom lip. His eyes linger south of your chin before he answers, “I’m paying for the damn room.”
“Then I want a drink from yours. Make it even.”
He clicks his teeth and drinks again. “It’s one beer. Call it an early birthday gift.”
You frown. “When the hell’s your birthday?”
“Tuesday.”
“Bullshit.”
“Serious. The twenty-sixth.”
You push yourself up onto your elbows; chest bare and on display. And it’s a strange feeling, how little you care. Twelve hours ago, you didn’t know how close to sit next to him at the ceremony. How many times you could accidentally bump knees or brush elbows and it not be weird.
But in the last two hours, he’s made you come more times than you can count. More times than anyone you’ve ever been with before – that’s for sure. And you’ve repaid the favor: the proof is still dribbling out of you. Still dripping between your legs, all pearlescent and warm. You’re soaked, swollen, still sore from the size of him.
It’s a fucking strange feeling, that you don’t mind at all.
“How old are you turning?” you ask.
Joel swallows. He settles the beer on his sternum, thumbing the corner of the label. Sucks in a deep breath and says, “Forty-eight.”
“Jesus,” you mutter, eyes wide.
He turns slowly, glaring at you. “Hilarious,” he drawls, bumping the bottle against your tummy.
You hiss at the sudden chill. Wiping cold droplets from your skin, you swipe it from his grasp.
Joel pushes himself from the bed with a quiet groan and pads across the room. His cock sways with each step, an arrowhead of thick hair at its base.
He doesn’t seem to mind, either.
You tip your chin back, taking a hefty swig.
The pulsing bass is heavier, guitar squeal sharper, when he cracks open the window. Cool air sweeps past the scent of sex and settles softly on your skin.
The mattress dips again as Joel settles back into bed. He pulls the sheet over himself, silk falling over the stubborn shape against his thigh.
“Well,” you pass him the bottle, “happy birthday, old man. Here’s to forty-eight.”
“Here’s to forty-eight,” Joel echoes, staring off into space, “and whatever the hell it has in store.”
1:29. 1:29. 1:30.
It’s blurring across your vision. The pain and the panic and the blinking of your fucking alarm clock.
Your stomach is still tensed in the aftermath of the contraction; an ache like the slow sway of the ocean, a wave rolling off into the distance. You’re hunched over the edge of the bed – knee bouncing, palms kneading your round belly.
“We’re okay,” you whisper, blowing into the still night. “We’re fine. Maybe it isn’t labor, right? Maybe it’s just those…Braxton…shit…Hicks.”
The cicadas laugh as your uterus swings again.
Another kick of pain; a bolt that winds you, piercing from your stomach down between your legs. So slow it feels fucking personal.
Your back curls, nails digging into the mattress. You grit your teeth until it passes, then push yourself to your feet, reaching for your phone.
You think of Joel: the flecks of gold in his eyes, the rough surface of his palms. The fresh, woodsy scent woven into every thread on his shirt, seeping from every pore on his skin.
The way he’d pull you under his arm and walk you to his truck. Play more Eagles or whatever shit he has to take your mind off the pain – tell you he knows, he knows as you whimper in agony. The way he’d hold your thigh the entire ride, loosening it only to weave his fingers through yours.
He’s in Houston, though. He’s something like three hours away. There’s nothing he could do, even if you did call – even if he did pick up. Even if he got in his truck right this second.
Shit. Shit fuck shit. How are you in labor right now, on this fucking night? All your teasing, all your taunting the universe. You really think that’s gonna happen? You think your kid’s that much of an asshole?
Yeah. They’re half you.
You’re on your own. It’s nothing new; you’ve been on your own for most of your life. You drove yourself to college, worked your ass off, and sold your graduation guest tickets to your roommate. You found a job by yourself, moved back to Austin and turned it into home by yourself.
You haven’t needed anyone or anything, since you were eighteen.
But – oh, Jesus, fuck it. This was a two-man job from the start. Some things you figure you can let slide – and having a kid seems like a pretty decent excuse.
Fuck it.
You move, hunched and hobbling, to the bathroom door. Slumped against the wooden frame, you cup a hand between your legs.
Sure enough, your underwear is soaked. The fluid trickles down the seam of your thigh, warm and thin. It glistens in the moonlight when you lift your fingers.
“Shit,” you whisper. “Goddamn it, Duck.”
Body tingling and almost numb with pain, you scroll through your contacts to J. You stumble into the bathroom, wet fingers slipping around the sink. A weight begins to pull low between your hips.
Two rings and the tone cuts, his voice instantly spilling a cool comfort down your spine.
There’s no hello, no double checking that you haven’t accidentally dialed him in your sleep. Only that trademark drawl, that flat tone you’d swear sounded bored, if it weren’t for the haste with which Joel asks, “You okay?” the second he answers.
As if he were awake anyway, just waiting for your call.
“Yeah,” you choke, rubbing the nape of your neck. “I just called at one in the morning to…to say hi.”
He sighs, the crackle of breath echoed by the tinkle of wind chimes. The creak of wood as he settles into a chair on Vanessa’s parents’ porch. “Alright, smartass. What is it?”
“I’m…I’m in labor.”
“Mhm. That sure is funny, baby. Good one.”
You groan. “No, Joel, I swear – I swear, I just went into labor.”
He pauses. The chimes titter in the background. “You’re…You ain’t kidding me?”
The sharp peak of pain swipes the air clean from your lungs. The phone hits the sink with a clatter, drowning out your cry.
This kid is beating the ever-loving shit out of you. You’d be embarrassed if you had the energy to think about it.
“Baby?” Joel yells, loud enough that the sound loops around the bowl. His voice lifts to an octave you didn’t know it could reach. “Talk to me. Please, talk to me.”
Your fingers clamp around the phone. “I’m f-fine. It’s fine. I just gotta…gotta change my fuckin’ sheets, Joel, my waters broke while I was sleeping –”
“Oh, Christ,” he growls. The door squeals as he storms back into Vanessa’s family home. “The sh…Change the goddamn sheets? You gotta get to a hospital, darlin’!”
You laugh, head tipping back. “It’s fine,” you tell him. “Feels like the kid’s trying to kill me, but I can – shit, I can take ‘em.”
There’s the jangle of keys, the ruffle of a shirt being thrown over his head. “Yeah?” Joel says.“You can take childbirth, all on your own? Do me a favor and call a damn ambulance, baby.”
“An ambulance,” you repeat, laughing again.
“Yes, an ambulance. Call 9-1-1 right now. You want me to call ‘em? Let me go grab the landline –”
“Joel, do not call an ambulance –”
And if you thought you’d heard him at breaking point before – plucking your underwear from his lawn, dragging you around Home Depot, paling in your room with a pregnancy test in his hands – you know you have, now.
“You gotta get to a goddamn hospital now, baby!”
His voice trembles at its end, quivers like the pluck of a guitar string. A high-pitched echo, a nervous vibration.
Joel’s panicking.
It’s the second thing in less than five minutes that you never knew he could do.
“I can’t afford a f-fucking ambulance, Joel,” you yelp, sitting back on the edge of the bathtub.
“I will pay for it,” he pleads, “I’ll pay. Just – you gotta call them. You gotta…” He sighs again, breath wavering. “You’re in labor, and you’re alone. If anything happened to you, I –”
A hushed voice interrupts him. Follows him through the house, knotting her nightgown around her waist and twisting her dark tresses into a ponytail.
“She’s in labor,” Joel tells her. “I can’t stay. I’m going back for her.”
The porch door slams shut before Vanessa can reply, and Joel’s back outside again. Gravel crunching beneath his boots, crickets screaming in the background. “Still with me?” he asks.
“Still here,” you breathe, tracing your nails along your leg. “Duckie says hi, I guess.”
He hums. “Hi, Duckie. You little shit.”
You rock back and forth, eyes closed. Breathing between contractions, your head low between your shoulders. “How long will you be?”
The truck door creaks open. “I’m leaving right now. I’ll be…Fuck, I’ll be a couple hours, at least. I’m on my way, alright?”
Tears drip onto your bare thighs, the salt spilling into your mouth. “Joel,” you shake your head, “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Yes, you can,” he says. “Are you kidding? Got us this far ‘n now you want to bail? That ain’t you, baby. Come on, now.”
“I wanna bail,” you insist. You slump to the floor, head lolling over the rim of the bathtub. Weeping like a little kid. “I’m scared, Joel. I’m so scared.”
“I know you are. Lord knows I’m scared, too – scared as hell. But –” the engine roars to life, “– I can’t wait to finally meet this kid. Our kid. Can’t wait to hold ‘em. Can’t wait to see you become a mom, and me become a dad.”
“Mom and Dad,” you whisper, sniffling.
“Mom and Dad, right? Yeah. You can do this. I know you can.”
The bathroom blurs behind your tears. You close your eyes, replacing the pale night with warmer dawn. Replacing it with images of tiny hands and feet; missing front teeth and a love-worn teddy tucked safely into bed.
Joel’s voice is softer, kinder. Calmer, now that he’s closing the hundred and fifty miles between the two of you.
“Just – don’t let the kid give you any shit, alright?”
The fear boils into determination. Something more irritating than it is terrifying. You inhale, blowing a heavy, shuddered breath to the ceiling. “Whatever, Miller.”
“Attagirl,” he says. “That’s the spirit. Now, call a damn ambulance.”
With a scoff, you push yourself to your feet, waddling towards the foot of your bed. You sway back and forth, holding your bump and listening to the hum of Joel’s truck.
And then you hear it.
Three sharp raps, from downstairs.
You wander to the hallway, squinting in the dark. “Joel?”
“Hm?”
“Are you…?”
The sound grows louder the nearer you draw. Quick knuckles against your front door.
“Am I what, darlin’?”
You lower yourself down the stairs, fist tight around the rail.
It’s August again. Sun’s encore blazing through your kitchen windows, bleeding golden through your living room. Everything shining, everything new and untouched.
Knock knock knock.
Light satin, duck egg blue; string lights and a diamond-encrusted necklace. The bones of your wardrobe propped against your porch. A rattling toolbox hanging from his fist, a positive pregnancy test in yours.
The knocking halts when you flick the porch light on. She calls your name once, old voice quivering.
Your phone is still glued to your ear as you pull the door open. “Al…?”
She squints at you and lifts a hand to shield from the light. She’s still in her pajamas – green dressing gown loose and lifting in the breeze.
Her eyes drop to the tee draped over your bump, the silver stream of fluid down the inside of your thigh. As she opens her mouth to speak, your hand slams into the doorpost.
“Oh, fuck,” you groan, and Alice Brown steps straight over the threshold.
“Are you in labor? Oh, sweetie. Sit down, sit.”
She backs you towards the stairs. One bony, trembling hand around yours – squeezing as tight as you are. She rubs up and down your spine, shushing until the pain subsides.
You blink up at her glowing figure, haloed by the porch light outside. “How did you…?”
She hushes you with a finger in the air. “I’m up most nights. I heard you from the window. Have you called 9-1-1?”
You shake your head, beginning to cry again.
Alice just nods, dismissing your bullshit. “Where’s your overnight bag, sweetheart?”
You toss a thumb over your shoulder. “It’s up in the nursery. I can go grab it –”
She holds you still with a hand on your shoulder. “Stay.” Another curt nod, then, “Get your shoes, get yourself over to my car. Do you need pants? You need pants. My car, right now.”
“Alice, you really don’t have to –”
“Get in the car,” she insists, climbing past you. “I’m right behind you!”
You watch her figure dissolve into the dim upstairs, and lift the phone back to your ear. “Did you…hear all that?”
“Alice Brown,” Joel replies, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “What’d I tell ya? That woman doesn’t miss a goddamn thing in this neighborhood.”
“Three centimeters,” the obstetrician says, covering your legs with the sheet. “Still a little ways to go.”
The suite is hushed and still. Walls an unoffending shade of oatmeal; decorated only with oak paneling and a framed painting of some lilies.
A nurse tilts the shades, averting the twinkling city lights in the distance. She turns and smiles – the same fucking smile everyone’s been giving you since you set foot in the place. Head tilted, brows arched.
Sympathy that you want to chew up and spit back out at their feet.
You force yourself to smile in return, and she floats back out to the bustling reception.
“Will he make it?” Alice asks. She’s still in her pajamas; the floral print goes well with the interior of the room. “The father, I mean. Joel.”
The obstetrician peels the gloves from her hands. She shrugs as she drops them into a wastebin. “I don’t see why not,” she says. “Things are moving a little quickly, but I don’t see you having your baby in the next couple hours.”
“You don’t know this kid like I do,” you groan, shifting in the bed.
She lifts the cardiotocograph reading, scanning the jagged lines. “You’re doing great,” she says. “I’ll be back in a little while. Just holler if you need anything.” She strolls off, letting the door sweep shut behind her.
Alice adjusts your pillow and squeezes your shoulder. She holds out a cup of water, guiding the straw to your lips. “He’ll be here,” she whispers.
You take a sip and settle back. “I don’t think I’m that lucky. I told him I hoped he’d get a flat on the ride there. This feels like karma.”
“Well, if it’s anyone’s karma –” she wiggles her fingers, “– it’s his. Going to Houston was ridiculous in the first place. Hell, you two not being together is ridiculous.”
You scoff, shaking your head. “Just because we’re having a kid doesn’t mean we should be together. You shouldn’t be with someone for the sake of a baby who won’t even know any different.”
“Right, right,” Alice agrees, turning away. “You should only be with someone if you love them.”
“Exactly. And me and Joel – we’re not in love.”
She murmurs to herself. She lowers into a chair by the window, crossing her arms. “I’m seventy-three,” she says. “I’m not a damn fool.”
Something twists awkwardly between your hips. You wince, clutching your bump.
Duckie’s heartbeat pulses through the room. Muffled little bubbles of noise, popping one after the other. Strong and steady as hell – a determined little thing, the doctor said.
Don’t I fucking know it, you thought.
You reach for the silicone mask and cup it over your mouth. The gas is cold and funny when you inhale, feeling it shoot straight for the back of your skull. It does little more than dull the spiking pain, but still – you tip your head back, eyes rolling closed.
You let yourself fade from the suite – its yellow lamplight and hushed chatter outside – to somewhere warmer. Somewhere brighter.
Birdsong high overhead, and the whispering leaves on the oak trees in your yard. The sweet breeze on your skin, soothing the sting of the sun. Prickling wood on your fingertips, the gentle strum of a guitar somewhere beyond the fence.
Peering between the slats, catching glimpses of him like watching a film reel. His head nodding, his foot tapping. The concentration tight on his face; the perfect pick and pluck of his fingers on each string.
Half-hoping that he’ll spot you, scold you for spying and storm back into his house. That he might bring it up later – And another thing, while he whips his newspaper from your grasp, ignoring your cackling.
Half-hoping that he won’t. That he’ll sit there at his back door, bottle of beer at his feet, playing to his audience of sparrows.
And you’ll stand here, wishing you could ask the name of each song he hums.
The contraction splits your daydream in two.
In two hours, you dilate almost three centimeters.
You pace back and forth across the suite, pausing only when your womb clenches like a fist. The contractions are lasting longer, swinging lower, and punching harder. They’re giving you less recovery time; less of a chance to get back on your feet.
It’s a fucking nightmare.
Joel’s still not here. Last you heard, he’d just hit Travis County. Twenty minutes, baby, I promise. That was half an hour ago.
It might be for the better that he hasn’t gotten here. You’ve warned Alice three times already that you might just beat the shit out of him, whenever he walks through that door.
And you know what, sweetheart? She chuckled. I bet you could beat the shit out of him, sore as you are.
“Fuck,” you cry out, collapsing onto the bed. You stretch out forward, head hanging between your shoulders, and gulp back more of the laughing gas. The ache barrels from your stomach to your hips, peaking in the very center.
Alice rubs circles into the small of your back. It’s not helping, but you let her do it anyways. Gives her something to tell the neighbors that isn’t damaging to your reputation.
“That’s it,” she coos. “A little longer, just a little…”
The door clicks open just as the tense band begins to loosen.
Your head is spinning. The mask slips from your fingers.
Alice’s hand pauses. “…a little longer…” she repeats, voice drifting. Her weight leaves your back, replaced by something heavier, stronger.
Safer.
Someone grounding, someone smelling of pine and sweet spice.
He sits on the bed at your back and curves around your body. Lips to your shoulder like the sun in your backyard. His beard scratches against your hot skin.
You blink your eyes open.
Joel’s watch face winks back at you. His hands are over yours – bigger, wider. His fists swallow yours whole. They turn, slipping beneath your palms, and your fingers lace together.
“Joel…” you breathe, face turning in to his neck.
“Hi, sweet girl,” he says, wiping sweat from your brow.
You fall limp against his chest. “Holy shit.”
He looks exhausted. Gray, almost translucent. Looks like he’s just driven a couple hundred miles, half asleep and wholly panicked.
But – he’s here. He made it.
The sight of him, the feel of him holding you upright, melts away any anger or resolve to fight back. For now, at least. Picking an argument can wait until there isn’t a human splitting you in two.
He’s here. You’re not doing this alone.
“Holy shit,” Joel repeats. “You okay?”
“How did you get here so –?”
“Ninety-five the entire way.”
You frown. “Only ninety-five?”
“Trunk’s a hunk a’ shit,” he admits. “Couldn’t break a hundred.”
Alice scoffs, somewhere across the room.
He cradles you, his lips to your forehead. “Where we at?” he asks, staring at the paper churning from the cardiotocograph.
“Five, almost s–shit – six centimeters.” You clamp down on his hands, your uterus winding again.
Joel holds the mask back to your lips and you suck another chemical breath in. “Six? Jesus,” he gapes at Alice, “ain’t that…ain’t that real fast? For – for your first?”
Your fingers are weak and shaky, resting on his knuckles. “Your kid has a sick sense of humor,” you mutter into the silicone.
“That ain’t from me,” he says. “That’s all you, maestro.”
You turn closer into his shirt with a groan. He’s solid as a rock, swaying you through it. He’s here.
Alice swipes her coat from a hook by the door. She shakes her head, pulling it over her shoulders. “Ninety-five, Joel? Sweet Lord.”
He rolls his eyes. His hand curves around your bump. “Had a little bit of an emergency, Alice,” he says, watching your face twist with pain.
“And what if you’d had an accident?”
“I didn’t, Alice.”
“You could’ve, goin’ that damn fast. You’re lucky you’re even here.”
Joel finally looks up. “It’s four in the mornin’,” he protests, like a teenager. “Lucky if I passed five cars.”
You give him a weak smile, lowering the mask. You won’t win, you mouth.
He presses his lips to your head. “’s too much fun,” he murmurs, and you snort.
“Oh!” Alice throws a hand up. “I’m glad you find it funny!” She buttons her coat and glares back at both of you, hands on her hips.
She’s a busybody – has been since before you even moved in. She showed up on your doorstep on your first night with a casserole in hand, and made sure to get a good look at your living room before she shuffled back to her own place.
Always watching, always listening.
You never thought you’d see the day when you’d actually be thankful for her snoopiness.
“Thank you, Alice,” you say, head tilting. “For getting me here, for holding my hand…Thank you.”
Her expression thaws, eyes gleaming. With a sniff, she composes herself – and then points to Joel. “You call me as soon as that baby arrives. I won’t sleep, Joel, until you call.”
“I’ll call,” he assures.
She looks back at you. Balls her crepe paper fists, gives them a hearty shake. “Good luck, Mom,” she says, and with one last glance, slips out of the room.
Joel turns back to you, an eyebrow raised. “Take it she was out tendin’ to her tulips again?”
“Yeah,” you snicker, “one in the morning, those fuckers had to be watered.”
He chuckles. “You feelin’ okay?”
“Better now,” you tell him.
“I’m so sorry, darlin’,” he says, shaking his head. “I should’ve been here. A goddamn idiot, headin’ off like that. So damn stupid.”
“Shh, you’re here now.” You wipe the tears from the corners of his eyes. “I just needed you to be here.”
He nods. “I’m here, whatever you need. Tell me what I can do.”
You take a deep breath. “I need…”
Joel straightens – bracing, ready to jump at your first request.
“…I need a fucking break, Joel. I’m so tired, and this fucking kid –”
“Alright,” he sighs, shifting from behind you. “You and your goddamn jokes.”
You smirk, looking over your shoulder. “You missed me.”
“Hm,” he fixes the neckline of your gown, “I missed you. I really did.”
Born at 07:43. It’s a girl.
It’s like being broken open. Like splitting at the seams; your old self falling from you like shards of fruit. Separating, rolling apart; making way for someone older, wiser. Someone with all of the answers in the palm of her hand.
Mom.
You finally get it. She turns to you, finally glances over her shoulder. And she’s no stranger – no one you haven’t known your entire life. I know you, you whisper, nail trailing her smile lines and the pimples along her jaw.
I see you every time I look in the mirror.
Duckie is pulled from your body with a scream like bloody murder – a scream which matches the whimper you let out in shock, if not in volume.
The kid can scream. Jesus Christ, she can scream. It pierces the dull room; deafens you for a couple seconds the first time you hear it.
You’ve never heard a sound so fucking beautiful.
She wails as they lift her from your body. All curled-up, wriggling in the midwife’s arms. She wails as they slot her beneath your chin, as they wipe the blood and amniotic fluid from her.
She wails until the moment her skin meets yours, and as though it’s all you’ve ever known, you begin shushing her cries. Your arms close around her body, rocking her until she settles.
Her tiny hand grabs for something, for someone, for –
You.
Her mom.
“Joel,” you gasp, watching her tiny, pruned fingers clasp tight around just one of yours. “She’s…she’s so small…”
He sniffs in reply, lifting his hand from your shoulder to wipe his face.
You turn to look up at him.
He looks as broken open as you feel. Eyes bloodshot and soaking, tears streaming into his thick beard. A sob in his throat which chokes and silences him, until he catches your eye and he can’t help but laugh with elation.
“Look at her,” he weeps, all torn up by the little girl in your arms. He presses his lips to your forehead in a crash of a kiss: wet, soaking wet on your skin.
You beam up at him when he pulls away. “We did it,” you whisper.
Joel shakes his head. He runs a thumb across the damp print left on your head. “You did it, honey,” he mutters. “I was nothin’ but a spectator.”
“You almost missed the game,” you quip, and he laughs again.
Your body throbs; nearly numb with pain, heavy with fatigue and emotion. But as long as she’s here, this tiny tornado of a girl, you don’t feel a thing.
Clenching and then unclenching her fist around your finger – so delicate compared to the punches she was throwing at your ribs just six hours ago. She’s worth every fucking second of it.
You finally fucking get it.
She fits so perfectly in the crook of your arm. It feels as though your body was made just to hold her – the very shape of you, designed especially for the very shape of her.
You wonder whether it was the same for your mom. Whether you came along and made her feel whole, for the first time in her life.
Duckie’s eyes open – all glossy and brand new, blinking up at the both of you like she needed no introduction. She already knows you, from the inside out. Her dad’s graying beard, the threads of silver around his temples. Her mom’s tear-stained cheeks, eyes red and bleary with sleeplessness and pure love.
You’re Mom, you’re Dad.
It’s all she’s ever known.
The pillow sighs as you lean back into it. The doctor begins repairing the damage done between your legs; threading and knitting your body back together.
You’re caught between a state of bliss and shock. Your brain is doing much the same work to itself as the woman between your knees is. Patching over all the bloody parts: the screams which tore your skin, the pain which cracked your teeth.
None of it holds a candle to the weight of her in your arms. No matter how tired you are, you can’t take your eyes off her. Her puffy cheeks, the little creases between her brows. No matter how sore, you never want to let go of her.
Joel runs a finger down Duckie’s cheek. “Ain’t she the most beautiful thing in the world?”
“I love her,” you say, bubbling again. “I love her more than anything.”
An hour old, and she’s already a daddy’s girl.
Joel ambles back and forth at the foot of your bed in the recovery suite, bouncing Duck in his arms. He’s never looked so relaxed, so natural at something. He’s never seemed so content, so peaceful.
Everything he’s ever made with his hands – structures and framework and your goddamn closet – and yet this, this tiny accident, this baby girl you were so sure you’d dreamt up right up until an hour ago –
This is the thing he’s proudest of.
Morning lifts through the windows, all soft and vanilla. It floats around him, sunlight spilling across his skin and breathing life and color into him.
Sunlight – or his daughter. They’re the same thing, anyway.
You pull apart a slice of toast, watching. Just watching. Sweet strawberry jam on your tongue, the flavor of everything sharper, fresher. The colors brighter, more vivid.
The world makes more sense like this, you think. Painted in shades of honey and ochre; a room in a corner of the world where time slows to a halt. A soft lullaby from his lips, and the little coos from hers.
The ache of love and labor lingers deep inside you, and nothing has ever made more sense.
You suck the sticky sweet from your fingertips.
Joel looks up, toying with Duckie’s hand. “You want her back?” he asks, a dumb grin on his face.
You shake your head. “I like watching you.”
He scrunches his nose, nuzzling it against his daughter’s, and whispers, “I wasn’t gonna give you back, anyways.” He sways in the early light, staring down at her. “Jesus,” he mutters, swiping at his eyes again, “I didn’t…I didn’t know I could love somethin’ this much.”
“Me, either.”
He drifts over, lowering himself slowly onto the edge of the bed. He extends his elbow, still cradling the baby, and helps you pull yourself upright.
You hiss, a not-so-subtle sting between your legs.
“You, uh…you think of a name yet?” Joel asks.
“Not yet,” you reply, hooked onto his shoulder. Duck blows a bubble and you wipe it with your knuckle. “I thought we were sticking with Duckie?”
His cheeks swell. The sun kisses the edges of his beard. “I thought of one,” he says softly. “Maybe. It’s your call.”
You yawn into his shirt, the warmth of him calm and soothing. “Alright, Miller. Hit me.”
He looks down at the baby nestled in his safe hands. The smallest thing either of you have ever seen.
The name must roll around his head a few times, the way he tilts to-and-fro – looking at her from one angle, then the next. Deciding, when he pulls back, that she suits it from every direction. Like it was her name long before he or even you knew it.
You watch his lips shape the name before you hear it.
Sarah.
And for what feels like forever, you just stare at him. The syllables lingering in the air like glistening specks of dust in a sunbeam. Your eyes follow them down to your daughter, now sleeping peacefully with two hands around one of her dad’s thumbs.
“Sarah,” you repeat, remembering whose name it was, whose name it is – whose name it has always been. “Sarah Miller.”
Joel’s shoulders lift. “What do you think? She look worthy of bein’ a Sarah?”
The rustle of tissue paper. Blue and green and purple tearing between your fingers. The funny fuzz of pom poms as your hands rummaged through the bag. Her hand swimming towards you, an orange foam fish riding the waves between her fingers. Bubbly sounds erupting from her lips.
Your girlish giggle. Her silly grin. Hopscotch along the sidewalk; stopping to look for cars before she’d walk you across the street. How much do I love you, baby girl?
More than the whole world, Mama.
“I love it,” you breathe, tears running to the corners of your mouth. “Sarah fucking Miller.”
“Sarah fuckin’ Miller,” Joel echoes; two wet lines the same as yours, curving down his cheeks. He shifts her into the crook of his arm.
You’re impossibly close. Your chin rests on his shoulder, foreheads brushing when you lean in to each other. His breath is hot on your lips, closer and closer and closer until –
He tastes like salt, rich with emotion. Salt, and then sweet when your tongue meets his. He lifts his free hand to cup your cheek, and your fingers link around his wrist.
And you know you shouldn’t be doing it – know this isn’t your man to be kissing. But in this room, where no one else can see – where it’s just you, him, and all the best parts of yourselves shaped into someone better – he feels like yours.
Just for a moment.
Joel takes the first week of Sarah’s life off work.
He spends a good twenty minutes on the phone to the contractor, talking more about the kid than he does the job. Her eyelashes, her fingernails, the way her legs scrunch anytime he lifts her up.
He’s besotted with the entire thing. And he tells everybody so.
He moves in with you both, stays in your guestroom. It’s a week of no sleep, no peace, and a total of three showers between you. Wearing the same clothes covered in spit-up and drool until one of you has the time or energy to do laundry.
It’s hard. It’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done. By your count, you’ve already cried three times to Joel – terrified you’re getting it all wrong.
But you’re doing it. Jesus God, you’re doing it.
You order takeout most nights. You can’t stand long enough to cook just yet, and you don’t trust Joel not to burn your fucking kitchen down – despite his protests. And it feels like, after everything your body’s given you, it deserves a greasy pizza and some chicken wings.
You rot on the couch together, watching shitty TV and arguing over reruns of Jeopardy! – until Sarah wakes and the whole thing begins again.
Joel loses the game of rock, paper, scissors tonight.
“Shh, baby girl. ‘s alright now, I gotcha,” he lulls, tucking her back in to her bassinet.
She fusses and stretches out; arms over her head, legs curled up. Her onesie is still a little too big – the socked feet all baggy, the sleeves rolled up her wrists.
He lingers for a moment as she drifts off, a hand stroking her tummy. Watching, always watching her. The rise and fall of her stomach, the puffs of breath from her nostrils, her lips still suckling away in her sleep.
“I swear I have a baby photo that looks just like her,” you say. “Same nose and everything.”
Joel clicks his teeth. “Got her looks from her mom. Lucky thing.”
“Low-hanging fruit,” you snort.
He drifts back over, sinking into the couch at your side. “Doin’ okay?” he asks, and you nod.
Every muscle in your body still feels like a ton weight. Your stomach is still swollen; there are still stitches between your legs. There are moments you can’t tell if you’re crying because of hormones, exhaustion, or joy.
Every time, it’s a combination of all three.
Life before feels so long ago – and it hasn’t even been a fortnight. But then you held her for the first time, and now – your arm misses the weight of her when she’s not in it. Your house feels eerily quiet when she’s not laughing, or whimpering, or screaming the fucking roof down.
You can feel your daughter growing up already, and she’s only ten days old.
On the mantelpiece, safe in a stippled gold frame, your mom beams down over her. The photo at least twenty years old, the memory even older. Laughing, the way she always was; nothing quite so funny as a joke frozen in time.
Joel prods you with his elbow. “She’d be proud of you, you know. Your mom.”
“Oh,” you scoff, “no, she’d be like, Holy shit. This kid totally kicked your ass.”
He chuckles. “Sure she did,” he shrugs, “she’s your kid.”
The TV babbles to itself across the room. In its glow, Joel meets your eye. A tiny, pearly fleck swimming in deep honey.
It’s familiar – each shade of bronze in his eyes, each thread of silver through his hair. Like you’ve mapped each and every line on his skin, collecting them like the sleepless hours between you.
Everything about him feels so normal. Burnt toast in the morning, a spoon clinking around a mug of coffee. The rustle of the newspaper, the sizzle of eggs in the pan, the baby snoring on your chest.
Everything – and yet nothing you’ve ever known.
“I miss her,” you whisper. “I miss my mom.”
His hand finds yours instantly. “I know, baby. I know you do.”
You slouch down, leaning on his shoulder, and close your eyes. Joel presses his lips to the crown of your head, his thumb looping around your knuckles.
Sarah gurgles in her sleep. She sighs – a satisfied little sound. Nothing has ever made more sense.
His voice rumbles against your skull. “Who sent the lilies?”
Your eyes flutter open. “Hm?”
Joel flicks his finger towards the window, towards a sprawl of speckled, cream flowers. “The lilies? They weren’t there this morning.”
“Oh…” You turn to look up at him, cringing.
He sees the flicker of her behind your eyes. Her lustrous curtain of hair, her perfect almond nails.
“Really?” Joel asks, mirroring your expression.
You nod, trying not to laugh. “From her and Kate. You were upstairs with Sarah when she came by. I offered to call you down, but – she just wanted to drop ‘em and go.”
“What did she…? Did she say anything?”
Your head shakes. “She just…she said congratulations, said she hoped we were okay. Then she got in her car and she left. I kinda figured things weren’t sunshine and roses, anyway. You haven’t fuckin’ seen her since Houston.”
He snorts, fingers massaging his eyes. “I was goin’ to tell you,” he mumbles into his palms, “I just…Honey, I don’t even know what day of the week it is right now. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” you mutter.
“Yes, I do,” he insists. His eyes flit over to Sarah, then back to you. “We haven’t really talked it through yet, me ‘n her. I called her a few days ago, we agreed it’s time. It – it’s past time. I shoulda called it months ago.”
“I guess,” you sigh. “Are you okay?”
Joel’s brow furrows. “’course I am. I got the most beautiful baby girl in the world,” and then, rolling his eyes, “you’re here.”
“Oh, fuck you,” you clip, batting his arm. “Vanessa could do way better, anyways.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
You squeeze his fingers, softly adding, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Joel.”
He stares down at your clasped hands. He looks tired, worn out. You figure it’s not just from the newborn. But he takes a deep breath, something the color of relief dawning on his skin, and looks you dead in the eye.
“I’m not.”
“Hey, Duckie – can you say, Happy birthday, Daddy?”
A vinyl wobbles on the turntable – some acoustic record from when Joel was a teenager. There’s wrapping paper still crumpled beneath the coffee table; four plates with more crumbs than cake left, dotted around the room.
Tommy leans in, a lopsided party hat on his head, and tickles Sarah’s chin.
She blinks at him, unamused, then scrunches her little nose and turns back into your chest.
He sighs, straightening. “She don’t like her uncle Tommy all that much,” he grumbles, sulking back over to the couch. Maria puts a consoling arm around his shoulder.
You rest your lips on Sarah’s head, breathing in her sweet scent. Swaying back and forth, you tease, “She don’t like anyone all that much, not unless they’re her daddy.”
Joel’s head lifts and he smiles, eyes glistening. He watches you and Sarah dance; laughs when you twirl her around and she tips her head back, flashing a gummy grin.
“She’ll come around to ya,” he tells Tommy, wandering over to your side. “We all learned to, eventually.”
Tommy scoffs. “Very funny, old man. Jesus.”
Joel stoops down to let Sarah run her small hands through his beard. He catches her fingertips between his lips and pretends to nibble on them.
She giggles, squirming in your arms. Her fingers find the sweeps of hair on his forehead and, taking a fistful, she tugs.
“Christ,” Joel hisses, pulling back.
“That was on you this time,” you chuckle, pointing a finger. “You know she does that, and you still fall for it.”
Maria glances down at her watch. “Is that the time?” she asks, turning to Tommy. “We should really turn in.”
“Oh – right, right.” Tommy tips the last of his beer into his mouth. “We’re takin’ Mom to brunch tomorrow. Better get some goddamn rest.”
Joel hums, still massaging his hairline. “Hey,” he whispers, elbowing you. “Maybe I should take her over. She’s getting sleepy – ain’t you, little Duck?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Tommy stands and holds a hand out. “Why don’t you let Maria and I take her? We’ll tuck her in, keep an eye on her. We weren’t half bad the other day, while y’all were at work. And if she’s stayin’ at Joel’s tonight anyway…”
You glance to Joel, who shrugs. Something shaped like Sure.
“As long as you don’t mind,” you reply, bouncing the baby slowly. “Let me go grab her things.”
Joel’s hand slips across the small of your back as you pass, making for the stairs. He lingers at the bottom, watching until you turn into the nursery with Sarah in the crook of your arm.
You set her down in her crib and gather some of her favorites: a yellow blanket, a duck comforter, a rattle shaped like an elephant. She watches contentedly as you shuffle back and forth, staring when you lean over the wooden rail.
“You know how much I love you?” you whisper, curling a finger inside her fist. She squeezes, and you say, “More than the whole world.”
She grabs at the chain dangling from your neck, the letter S catching the light. Instead, she lifts your finger to her mouth. Her nails scratch light as a feather across your skin. Her gums are tiny and soft around your knuckle.
Everything about her is tiny and soft. Her sweeping eyelashes, her plushy cheeks. Her round tummy, and the squeals she lets free as you dot kisses and blow raspberries all over it. No matter how much she’s grown in three months, she’s still so tiny.
She’ll always be the smallest, sweetest thing you’ve ever known. And she’s all yours.
“Jesus, kid,” you sniff, swiping at your tears. You slip your hands around her back and prop her on your hip. “Alright, let’s go. Quit making your mom cry.”
The bag over your shoulder, you carry her out of the room and into the dark hallway. It’s quiet downstairs; nothing but the crackle of the record player, the distant chink of dishes in the kitchen.
That – and hushed voices in the living room.
“Joel,” Tommy says, over and over again. He’s trying to cut in between his brother’s rambling. Joel – listen to me. Just listen, for one second –”
You linger on the bottom step, trying to split Joel’s voice from Tommy’s. Trying to pluck the words out, over Maria’s humming from the next room.
“…and it ain’t that simple, Tommy it’s –”
“What ain’t simple about it? You have a –” Tommy says it through his teeth, “– you have a kid together, Joel. You really think she’s gonna –”
Sarah grabs the charm around your neck and shakes suddenly, rattling the chain.
You close your hand around hers, losing your balance. “Shhhhit, Duckie, you –”
Joel’s eyes snap to your figure as you step down. He clears his throat, leaning away from Tommy. “Hey – hey, darlin’.”
“Hey,” you reply. Bright. Chipper. Unclenching your fist to let your daughter shake your necklace some more.
She squeals with delight when she spots Joel across the room.
“She ready to go?” he asks, slinging a quick – telling – look at Tommy.
You look between the brothers, browns quirking. They look as guilty as each other: scratching their beards, staring at the furniture instead of you. “Uhuh,” you reply, tongue against your teeth. “Everything…everything okay?”
Tommy slaps his thighs as he stands. “Everything’s great, sweetheart. Sure as shit. Joel – you, uh…you got a key on ya?”
“Oh, yep.” Joel reaches into his pocket. He unhooks a silver key from the chain and drops it into his brother’s open palm.
Tommy calls for Maria. He sidesteps around you, face flushed and smiling.
She floats through from the kitchen, drying her palms on her jeans. “Where’s my baby duck?” she sings, reaching for Sarah.
You pass her over and she melts into her aunt’s arms, curling up into a little pink lump on her chest. “She just had a feed, like, twenty minutes ago, so – she should go down pretty well. And there are more bottles in Joel’s fridge, if you need ‘em.”
Maria nods, wrapping Sarah’s blanket around her. She lifts the bag strap from your shoulder and hands it to Tommy. “I’ll text you as soon as she’s down. Come on, Duckie, let’s get you to bed.”
Tommy leans over and squeezes your arm, winking as he follows his wife. He calls goodnight to Joel, lifting a pointed finger over his head, and closes the door behind them.
Things could not have gone smoother.
It’s suspicious as shit.
You turn when you hear Joel shifting.
“C’mon,” he utters, a pile of plates in one hand. “I ain’t leavin’ you with this mess.” He heads through to the kitchen, broad figure swaying.
The plates spill into the sink, water trickling over them. Joel hums to himself as he gets to work with a sponge in hand.
You linger in the living room.
Things have been good lately – peaceful. You’re in as much of a routine as Sarah will allow: a steady pattern of dropping her off and picking her back up, patchwork family dinners, daytrips whenever both of you can make them.
Your body is healing, pulling itself back together. You don’t have to think about being Mom anymore – she walks in stride with you. The world is painted a new shade of normal – one where you can do anything with a baby on your hip, one where love becomes your first language.
One where you swallow back the ache in your heart, for better or for worse. The only piece of you still fractured. The only wound left open.
Joel’s birthday cards lie flat on the coffee table. You pluck them up one by one – his parents’, Tommy and Maria’s, yours – and Sarah’s.
A messy splotch of a handprint, bright yellow paint smeared across half the fucking card (she hasn’t quite mastered self-control yet). A googly eye plastered to the bird’s chest; orange crayon for the beak and legs.
Sure, you took charge for most of the project – but when he opened it and saw his daughter’s little masterpiece, you caught him swiping his knuckle at the corner of his eye. He snuggled into her, perched on his lap, and whispered, Thank you, little Duckie.
You prop them along your mantelpiece, dotted around your mom’s photo. When you step back, looking from son to brother to…a good friend, you could almost pretend.
Almost pretend that they belong here, on this mantelpiece. There is no yours and his. Just one of everything; nothing doubled nor halved.
Almost pretend that he won’t collect them as he leaves, break into another teary laugh at the sight of the duck painting, and then kiss your cheek goodnight. Promise to have your daughter back in time to go swimming tomorrow morning.
Almost.
“Hey,” Joel calls, “did you, uh – did you hear Tommy talkin’ about Jackson?”
You slip into the kitchen, side by side with him at the sink. “Uh, yeah,” you reply, lifting a towel. “Moose, pine trees. Yep.”
“It sounds beautiful. You think we should take a trip up there sometime? Could be Sarah’s first vacation.”
“You mean the three of us?”
He shrugs, scrubbing a bowl in the water. “Sure. I don’t think Duckie would let one of us stay behind, do you? She’d scream the damn airport down,” he chuckles, looking back to the twinkling bubbles.
You hum. “Maybe.”
“You don’t feel like it?”
“No, I do. I just – I don’t know. Maybe someday.”
“Okay,” Joel says, nodding. “Put a pin in it.”
He passes you a dripping plate and you drag the towel over it, circling the pattern until the suds are wiped clean. And another, and another.
It feels awkward. It feels stiff. There’s something hanging between you, heavy on both your shoulders. A weight you haven’t felt around Joel in over a year.
You turn to him as he stacks the last plate on the draining board. “Is that what you were talking to Tommy about?”
Joel pauses. “You heard that, huh?”
“Only the part about having a kid. It’s none of my business, I know, I just –”
“Actually,” he clears his throat, “it’s plenty your business.”
He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. A deep breath, cheeks puffing as he exhales. His grip on the dish towel whitens his knuckles.
He’s…nervous. The same shade of gray he wore the night you went into labor.
He takes another unsteady breath.
“Joel?” you ask, head tilting. “Whatever it is, you can say it. I got whiskey, if that’ll make it easier. Probably tastes like shit, but…”
His expression cracks. His eyes twinkle, and he smiles. Only a little, but enough. Enough to let the words slip through.
“You know, that night at Tommy’s wedding was one of the best nights of my life.”
Your heartbeat thuds a bassline in your ears; the rush of your blood the squealing guitar. Skin tacky, moans caught between teeth. Laughter and lust tangling together in the air.
“Yeah?” you ask.
Joel nods. “Yeah. Lying there – talking, laughing, messin’ around. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that hard in all my life. I could’ve stayed in that room with you forever.”
Your eyes start to sting. You look away.
“I thought I would regret it. I thought I should regret it. And I never did. But then,” he takes a deep breath, “the next day, I look out front, and my newspaper’s sittin’ on my lawn. And for two weeks straight, I kept checking – and there it was. I thought, Sure as shit, she regrets the whole thing. I thought you never wanted to see me again.”
You shake your head. “I wanted to see you again. I missed – I missed you. Missed pissin’ you off.”
He laughs. “I missed you pissin’ me off. Missed that annoying as hell thud on my porch.”
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to – you know,” you admit, and Joel nods.
“We got pretty good at avoidin’ each other,” he grumbles. “And then – with Vanessa, I thought I’d be doin’ you a favor. Letting you off light.”
“You…you took her number to do me a favor?”
“Naw,” Joel says. “I took her number ‘cause her brother in-law has a lumber company, and I had a closet to build. I was drunk, I was an idiot, and I brought it up to her at the wedding. By the time I thought it through, you ‘n I weren’t speakin’.”
You stare at him, jaw slack. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He shakes his head. He edges closer to you. Voice low, he says, “I shouldn’t’ve gone out on that first date with her. I shouldn’t’ve done any of it. I should’ve talked to you about what I was feeling.”
“Well, maybe we both should’ve,” you mutter, wringing your hands. “I wasn’t exactly the best at it, either.”
His head tips, considering. “Can I tell you now?”
You glance over to him. “Tell me what, Miller?”
“Tell you…tell you that I love you,” he whispers.
It steals the breath from your lungs. One clean swipe.
He nods to himself, then – certain of it – and says it again. “I do, darlin’. I love you.”
Your heart begins to hammer. Tears spill over onto your cheeks, dripping from your jaw.
“And, look –” Joel takes your wrists, “– I got no right to say any of that, I know. I put you through a hell of a lot, these last few months – and that kills me. But if you’ll let me, I swear to you – I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take care of you for the rest of my life.”
You look up. His cheeks are dappled, too – glistening with tears. “Joel…” you weep.
He cups your jaw. “Listen to me. What we’ve had, the last three months – I want it all the time. I want you, and I want Duck. I want the three of us under one roof. I want to sleep in the same bed as you.”
You breathe a shuddered laugh. Your hands fall over his wrists. Keep talking, you mouth, bottom lip trembling.
“I want to get married, or not,” Joel says. “I want to show up to Tommy and Maria’s anniversary party late, ‘cause Duck couldn’t pick which shoes she wanted to wear. I want to have more kids, take ‘em on vacation.”
“Wyoming?” you sniff.
“Wyoming,” he repeats. “I want…I want all of it, baby. You ‘n me. I want you ‘n me, more than anything in the world. And if I’m too late, then you can tell me. Tell me, and I swear on my life I will never mention it again.”
Your hands curve over his. His strong knuckles, worked and weathered and worn by his years. Down to his wrists – the tatty strap on his ages-old watch, the dark hair peppered along his arms.
“I love you so much, baby. So much that it drives me insane. You drive me…fuckin’ insane.”
“Oh, fuck you,” you whisper, balling your fists against his chest.
Joel laughs, nose brushing against yours. “Yeah,” he sniffs, “I figured you’d say som’ like that.”
“I love you, too,” you mumble, linking your arms around his neck. “Shit, I love you.”
“Ain’t that a thing?” he says, and his lips are on yours.
It’s been a year. A year since the first time you felt him – lips soft as velvet, sweet with alcohol and something stronger. His tongue and yours, his teeth and yours. Every part of you clashing with every part of him.
And goddamn, you’ve missed it.
Joel follows you upstairs, pinning you to the wall by your bedroom door. White heat flooding through your veins, he kneels before you and pulls you onto his tongue.
He’s hungry.
He laps at you as though you’ll be gone in the morning. As though he won’t wake up tangled in you, breathing in your scent, lips on your skin.
Dusk seeps in at the edges of your vision; daylight draining from the sky. It’s dark, too dark to see him clearly, but you feel him fucking everywhere.
His beard grazes the inside of your thigh. He kisses where he scratches your skin. He holds your hips steady, tongue dipping in and out.
“You know how fuckin’ sweet you taste?” he growls, slipping inside again.
He looks so good between your legs. Like he was made for it – made for you. All yours, in ways you never really understood until now.
He brings you to the edge with his tongue flat against your clit. Holding your hips firm against his mouth, groaning with you as you fall.
You come with a broken moan. Hips stutter to a halt, legs fall wide open. The warmth in your belly spills over and rushes to every corner of your body.
Joel moans, tongue still lapping as your cunt pulses all over him. “Good fuckin’ girl,” he slurs, watching you come undone.
He stands, a chaste kiss to your lips, and then parts them with his tongue. “Taste good?” he mumbles, kissing you gently.
Yeah, you think, moaning against him, it tastes fucking good.
He spreads you out on your mattress and kisses what feels like every square inch of your body. You giggle at the feeling of his lips behind your ear; moan when they close around your nipple.
Your back arches; little lightning bolts as he pulls the buds to a peak. Your fingers knot through his hair; hissing at the meeting of pain and pleasure between Joel’s lips.
“I love you,” you whisper, when he settles between your legs. You don’t know that you’ve felt something so true in all your life.
He smiles. Your fingers trace the lines at his eyes.
“Come here,” he says, and pulls your hips to meet his.
You curve a hand around his neck, glancing down at your open legs. “Looks a little different to the last time you saw her.”
Joel shakes his head, licking his lips. “Beautiful, baby. She looks so goddamn beautiful.”
Each movement is careful, deliberate. He notches his tip at your hole and pauses until you’re looking at him again.
And then he pushes in.
He slips an arm under your head; the other holding your thigh on his waist. He kisses you as you stretch around him. He still tastes like salt and slick.
You gasp, teeth gritting around a hiss. “Fuck,” you whimper, turning in to his chest.
“Easy, easy,” Joel coos, voice rumbling against your temple. “Catch your breath. Doin’ so good.”
“It’s not sore,” you tell him, nodding for him to move again. “It’s…it’s just…different.”
“Tighter,” he groans, eyes on your cunt as it draws his cock in.
You agree, “Tighter.”
He catches you in another kiss, his tongue slipping between your lips. “Feel so good, sweet girl. Breathe. ‘m right here.”
It’s never felt like this before. This gentle, this tender.
You have never felt like this before. Broken open, stitched back together. Your heart split into two – whole again each time his body meets yours.
Joel catches your moans on his tongue. He steadies his pace; rocking into you over and over. Laughing against your lips; your fingers intertwined with his.
“Feel good?” he pants.
Your head rolls back. “Mhm.”
“Take it, baby. Such a tight little thing.”
“Joel,” you cry, “I’m close.”
His teeth nip at your neck. “Shit,” his hips jump, “attagirl. Just like that.” He thrusts into you harder, bleeding the color from your vision.
You pull his lips to yours, foreheads tacky. Joel’s eyes gloss over.
I love you, he breathes.
And the world whitens.
He pulls you against his chest when you come back around. Shifts up the headboard, skin all sticky and warm. He kisses your temples, kisses your shoulders, kisses your knuckles.
You melt into his grasp, turning to look up at him. You run your fingers over his lips, through his damp hair. Just staring. Drinking him all in.
“You were right next door, the entire time,” you whisper.
He runs a thumb across your cheek. “Yep.”
“Do you think we wasted too much time?”
Joel’s lip turns. “Nah,” he says. “We found our way.”
“Needed a little help, though.”
He scoffs, tongue between his teeth. “I’m sure she’ll hold it against us forever.”
You think of that evening in August. The last bow of the sun before your world changed forever. Of deals struck and promises made. Of satin on your fingertips – newspaper ink and duck egg silk.
You think of that photograph on your mantelpiece. Bright eyes watching every second of it. A smile on her face the entire time.
You laugh to yourself. Joel looks down and kisses your swollen cheek.
“We should go,” he taps your thigh, “got a little duck who’ll be wonderin’ where her mama and daddy are.”
The church tower rings out twice as the truck purrs between graves.
Joel pulls up under the shade of a sycamore, tires rolling to a halt. Sarah kicks her feet, her heels thudding against her car seat.
“Mama,” she presses a sticky finger to the back window, “flowers.”
“Yeah, baby,” you call over your shoulder, hugging your own graveside gift a little tighter in your arms. “Lots of ‘em, huh?”
“Yeah,” your daughter quietly considers, then kicks her seat again.
Joel waits patiently for you to give him the go ahead. He slips a hand around your knee, looking ahead at the rows of headstones. So patient, so gentle.
Your chest swells, a deep breath filling your lungs, and you nod. “Alright.”
“Sure?” he asks. “Take as long as you want, darlin’.”
But if you wait any longer, you’ll never leave. The paper wrap crinkles in your arms. “You take Duck,” you reply, “I’ll take…”
Joel lifts your hand, placing a soft kiss between your knuckles. “You got it. We’ll walk on.”
He leaves you in the truck to collect yourself. He unbuckles Sarah and sets her loose, following her across the grass with his hands in his pockets.
Her light-up sneakers flash as she sprints; head tossed back, toothless smile pointed to the sun. She turns back to her dad, her little hand fitting perfectly into his.
Made for each other.
You hook your fingers around the handle and leave the truck.
Their grave is a short walk down a grassy slope, sheltered by another towering tree. Its leaves flutter down around you as you near the stone; stray petals which catch in the breeze and lead the way.
You kneel down, the grass dry and prickly through your jeans. “Hi, Mom,” you whisper, sweeping some dust from the base of the grave. “Hi, Dad.”
Your grandma picked this spot. She’s long gone – laid to rest elsewhere with a grandfather you never met – so you try to visit as often as you can. Freshen the flowers, brighten up the stone.
It fucking sucks, but someone’s gotta do it.
You peel the brown paper from the bouquet, exposing the soft colors Sarah picked back in the florist. They fit perfectly on the stone, right beneath the words Devoted parents.
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, a feeling that wraps itself around your throat and steals any other words – until a flash of pink catches your attention.
“Duckie,” Joel calls, following her between graves. “Hey. This is a cem…Hey, Duck, listen – this is a cemetery, we gotta be – Sarah!”
You stifle a laugh, watching him jog after the hoodie tied around her waist. He swipes for her hand and she dodges him, ducking between graves faster than his mid-fifties joints can turn him.
There’s no one else here – it’s only you. And it’s a quiet enough place as it is, so – you let her laugh. Let him chase her, and let her sneakers light the place in pink. What else is there to do?
“Sorry it’s been a little while,” you tell your parents, eyes still on your man.
He’s kneeling now, Sarah on his thigh, in front of a tall, cross-shaped stone. They’re pointing at the words on the stone, her inquisitive eyes studying each one.
“I know I said I’d come visit for Dad’s birthday, but I guess things got busy – what with the move and all. We’re still living out of boxes. But the girls’ rooms are almost done – we just gotta paint ‘em.”
You look back down to the stone. Your mom’s name carved deep into spotted marble, your dad’s underneath. One awful date to tie them both together.
Dad probably heard Duck’s first squeal and turned away; gone back to whatever boring activity he might get up to in the afterlife. But your mom, you know for certain, is sat with her chin on the heel of her palm. Watching her mini-me trace the shapes of words, squirming when Joel presses his lips to her temple and whispers hints to her.
She’s probably smiling, making some comment about how big Sarah’s getting. How smart she is, how funny. How she must keep you and Joel on your toes – and goddamn, she’s right.
“Joel’s been working on the kitchen,” you continue. “I left my phone in the truck, but you should see it, Mom. He got these marble countertops, these little brushed-gold handles. He wrote our names on the wall before he tiled it, so whoever remodels after we’re gone will find that. The four of us.”
“M-meh-mem-orr-mem-or-ree?” Sarah tilts her head.
Joel nods. “Memory, yeah. Good job, Duck.”
“Duckie’s good,” you tell your mom. “She’s top of her class in – well, everything. Really wiping the floor with all the other first-graders. She’d have been your favorite – I know that much. And you’d have been hers.
“She’s gonna be some kind of lawyer, we think. Social justice and all that. She likes to be a woman of the people. Always talkin’ back to Joel – she hardly cuts him any slack, these days,” you laugh.
“He’s good, too – Joel. Working hard, as usual. Tommy and Maria visited last week – they brought Buckley, and now Duck won’t stop goin’ on about us getting a dog.”
You chance a glance over the stone, making sure the pair are out of earshot when you add, “Don’t tell her, but we called the pound last night. We’re heading there tomorrow while she’s at school to pick one out for her birthday. Joel’s giddier than I think Sarah’s gonna be.”
Joel’s carrying Duck now, wandering down a wobbly row of graves.
She halts him by pointing to one. “N-eh-v-eh-never…fff-or-g-for–”
He stares at her, a grin breaking across his lips. “Sound it out, that’s it. ‘s a big word, baby girl. You got it.”
The world seems to blur around them. The birds sing, a light melody from overhead. The green trees sway across the blue of the sky; the straight soar of cars on the highway. It all fades into the background, behind the two of them – wandering from shade into brilliant sun.
Your family. Your man, your blood – and everything in between. The little girl who brought it all together in the end – leading her dad by hand over knolls and broken stone, chasing butterflies, and asking what eh-teh-err-nal means.
“Means forever,” Joel says, kneeling beside her. “’s how long I’m gonna love you for.”
“And Nel?”
“And Nel.”
“And Mama?”
“And Mama.”
Sarah runs her hands through his beard, swaying side to side. “But me the most,” she concludes, nodding.
Joel hms, biting back a laugh. He lifts his chin, asks the little girl whether or not he’s going gray.
She has the same ridiculous laugh you do. The same snort you used to find so embarrassing, until you heard it come from her.
Just watching them stokes the already burning fire in your ribcage – the warmth flooding around your heart. He’s so good at it – being a dad.
Was he ever anything else, before he was a father? You can’t remember a time you didn’t wake up next to him, wrapped up in his arms, or with one of his kids burrowed between your bodies. It all feels so long ago, now.
He wanted to do everything. He’d lie with you between his legs, holding your half-sleeping form upright while you fed her. He’d race home after work specially to bathe her. He picked up any and every single duck-themed thing that he came across.
And what were you? Mom felt like such a fucking longshot. So out of your reach that you couldn’t understand the meaning of the word.
But there are days when she says it – Sarah, looking up at you with Joel’s twinkling eyes and a smirk which matches yours – and it’s like you’ve been waiting your whole life to hear it. Like you’ve been waiting your whole life for her.
Well. Her, and her little sister.
“And, uh – another thing,” you say, reaching for the plastic handle of a car seat. “I brought somebody for you to meet.”
A clumsy fist shoots up to shake a speckled dinosaur toy – the brown spheres of its eyes catching the sunlight. She squeals with delight when you unbuckle her, kicks her legs the same way her sister always did.
“She’s a little nervous, ain’t you, Nel?” you whisper, laughing at her gummy smile and tiny, socked feet. “She spit up on herself on the way here, but – I think you’re gonna love her.”
You perch the baby on your thigh, same as Joel did with Sarah, and she wraps her fingers around one of yours. You wiggle it – waving to your mom’s name, to the petals gently fluttering in the breeze.
“Mom,” you sniff, “this is Ellie.”
#joel miller#joel miller fic#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#the last of us#tlou#macfrog#neighbor!joel miller#babydaddy!joel miller#tw pregnancy
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Have you heard about mole genders?
I’ve heard of this concept in sci-fi, but thought it was absolutely made up. I know some fish and frogs can change genders, but not in cycles like this. Wild. If I slapped this down in some alien world without explanation, I’d laugh in my own face. But no, real biology IS that bizarre.
Image descriptions:
A series of tweets from @NaturalCalendar that say:
Hello lovely Nature Noticers. It is time for today's thread! Follow me, and we'll delve deep into the subterranean and subversive world of Talpa europaea, the common European mole. We'll begin with a bombshell - there are no female moles.
Genetic researchers have recently discovered that female moles have reproductive organs unlike any other mammal. If measured by the standards of other species, there are no fully female moles. Instead, there are males and individuals that would be considered intersex.
So, lets look at how this works. Female Moles are called Sows. Sows have both ovarian AND testicular tissue They also have vaginas that disappear between breeding seasons!
Most of the year, female moles look and behave like males. They have masculinised genitals, with no external vagina + an enlarged clitoris. When this point in the year arrives, mating season begins. At this point the Sow's testosterone levels drop + they develop a vagina.
As is typical for mammals, Sows are equipped with two X chromosomes and Boars with an X and a Y chromosome. Unlike any other mammals Sows simultaneously develop functional ovarian and testicular tissues united in one organ, the 'ovotestis'. This is unique to Moles.
This testicular tissue does not produce sperm. It does however, produce large amounts of the sex hormone testosterone, meaning that Sows have similar testosterone levels to the Boars -except during mating season.
Scientists have hypothesized that these high levels of testosterone provide an adaptive advantage for the mole's underground life - providing added muscle mass for Sows who need to dig burrows and fight for resources for their offspring.
This is a dynamic process - the ovarian tissue that makes eggs and gets larger during breeding, then regresses. Outside of breeding season the testicular tissue, expands until it’s larger than the ovarian end - flooding the Sow's system with testosterone.
This explains why female moles have male-like genitalia... But it doesn't explain how patch of testicular tissue forms in female moles even though they do not have a Y chromosome. Up until recently the Y chromosome was thought to be fundamental to male sex determination.
In 2020 a team of molecular geneticists studied the female mole's ability to produce testicular tissue without a Y chromosome. They found that changes in the structure of the Mole's genome that lead to altered control of genetic activity.
But what does this mean? In short the female mole shows us that evolution doesn't work in the way that we have assumed since Darwin - their DNA changes within the living organism.
Since Darwin, it has been generally accepted that the different appearances of living organisms are the result of gradual changes in genetic makeup that have been passed onto subsequent generations - but Moles experience changes in the regulatory regions belonging to sex genes.
The researchers found that female moles do not have a Y chromosone but they do have a triple CYP17A1 gene. CYP17A1 is involved in the formation of steroid hormones + the triplication of this gene in the mole creates a dynamic sex regulatory system.
This dynamic process appends additional regulatory sequences to the gene and leads to an increased production of male sex hormones in the ovotestes of female moles, especially more testosterone.
What the intersexual mole shows us is how important the three-dimensional organization of the genome is for evolution. Nature makes use of existing developmental genes and rearranges them to create a characteristic such as intersexuality.
We see in the mole that evolution is not a linear process, arranged around the principle of Euclidian geometry. It is rather a topological process - a structure cast in rubber that is responsive and adaptive to the environment.
The mole also reminds us of the complexity of sexual development. The shifting sexual characteristics of the mole shows how the process of sexual development can, and does result in a wide range of natural variations.
#biology#gender#moles#fun animal facts#intersex#truth is stranger than fiction#yes I’ve read The Left Hand of Darkness#I’ve seen this idea elsewhere too#I had no idea it was based on something so exact#bonkers man#trans#mole genders
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Leftovers [2/3]
Simon Riley x fem!Reader | a non-canon addition to my mafia!141 series
part 1 | part 3
warnings: unhealthy relationships, anxiety and depression, minor smut, possessive Simon, abusive behavior
you're his, now
wc: 4.6k
It had been months since the night your life ended and started again.
For the longest time, you were livid. Inconsolably upset at everything. A special type of betrayal festered in your chest where it rattled and raged against the hollow cavern between your ribs. That betrayal quickly revealed itself to be grief as the days went on. That utter melancholia threatened to suffocate you every time you thought about your old partners, The Prices. How they kept you like a pet, to be played and toyed with. How they decided to have a child without your input. How they only told you when they announced it to all their friends, like you were nothing more than a guest in their lives.
Then, there was Simon. Your savior. Or, at least that’s what he liked to call himself. It didn’t feel like salvation when he ripped you from the grasp of your old partner's bitter and unloving hands, not when you realized the cost of it. Lying wasn’t supposed to be synonymous with loving, and yet it was the very thing that had put you in the palm of Simon’s hands, made you so pliable for him as he fucked and marked you that night, making it impossible for you to ever return to your old life.
There was nothing but poison waiting for you with your old lovers, if you could even call them that. But being force fed the antidote hurt just as bad when that corruption had become the only comfort you had ever known.
Simon had a way of making things feel better, which usually consisted of him being anchored between your legs. If there was an issue he couldn’t fix by talking or kissing it away, then he would fuck it out of you, and you hated that it worked as well as it did. When you wanted to be mad at him for lying to you, for tricking you into giving yourself to him, his cock always ended up burrowing into your cunt. Your breath would be lost, stolen from your very lungs, and your words along with it. He had grown to know you so well that he was able to pull orgasms out of you with his eyes closed, rendering your brain numb and incapable of argument or resentment.
This cycle continued for what felt like forever. Your days would pass by with you rotting in bed in frustration and anguish as you choked on that antidote and feeling of betrayal, and when Simon had enough of your unresponsiveness, he would fuck you into submission. Coo and embrace you like a true lover would. It created some sort of dissonance within your very being. You were supposed to be mad at him for tricking you, and yet it felt divine being held against him. You couldn’t get enough of the searing sensation of his lips along your skin, or his breath caressing your ear as he slept.
It was agony being torn apart; forever caught between the gravity of your old lovers and the man that stole you from them.
Eventually, you woke up one day and it didn’t hurt anymore. Whatever frustration or anger that burrowed underneath your skin dissipated; vanished into thin air as if it had never existed in the first place. Things seemed brighter, you cried less, and Simon looked at you with adoration rather than pity for your shattered mental state.
Perhaps it was the ignorance that made things better. Without any access to the Prices, you had no knowledge at all of how they handled your absence, if they even cared at all. All you knew was that you had managed to find solace within Simon, despite the terrible start to your relationship. He really did take care of you, just like he said he would. He insisted on paying for everything, refusing to let you work, and provided you with everything you would ever need.
After all, you were his now.
Which was why you found yourself in front of a boiling pot of water in the kitchen of his apartment. Without the use of your phone, Simon had given you an old CD player to keep you occupied as you cooked or went about your day. Radiohead’s album In Rainbows droned on in the background as you mixed the pasta around the pot to keep them from sticking together. Spicy marinara bubbled on the next burner over, and its heavy aroma hung thick in the air around you, leaving you in a mouthwatering stupor.
Just as the alarm on the stove went off signaling the pasta was cooked, the deadbolt began to jingle behind you. After you turned the burners off, you quickly slipped out of the kitchen to greet Simon, who flashed you an entertained smirk. Exhaustion pulled at his eyes, yet they always seemed to light up when they landed on you, and you couldn’t help but grin up at him. It wasn’t often that he got home before ten, as his new job often kept him late, so you were ecstatic that he arrived just as you finished cooking up dinner.
“Smells like you’ve been busy,” he chuckled as he locked the door behind him.
“I thought I would have to leave some out for you again,” you admitted. His hands found your hips and he drew you closer, catching you in his gravity. “I’m glad you’re home.”
Before he allowed himself to respond, Simon squeezed your hips as his lips descended onto yours. It was the way he always greeted you when he arrived home from work, like he couldn’t get enough of you, or more accurately, like he knew you couldn’t get enough of him. You could taste the stale cigarettes on his breath, and the slight hint of mint that he used to attempt to cover it, and it took everything in you not to moan at the flavor. He was the one to pull away first, and your lips curved into a smile as his thumbs rubbed soothing circles along your hips.
“Let’s eat, yeah?” he prompted.
It didn’t take long for dishes to be served and for both you and Simon to settle on the couch in the living room while some programme droned on in the background. Even during meals you always huddled close to him as if you would die without his heat. Your leg laid pressed against his as you leaned into his side, and had Simon not been as large of a man as he was, you certainly would have smothered him with your presence.
“How was work?” you questioned once half your plate had been emptied.
“Was alright,” Simon replied with his mouth full of pasta. “Bit slow.”
“That why you’re home early?”
“Mhm.”
Simon never seemed like much of a talker, and neither were you until recently. A majority of your life had been spent in silent pining for your basic needs and desires, but once Simon had stolen you away, it was like all you ever wanted to do was talk. Perhaps it was because he genuinely seemed to care about what you had to say. Or maybe it was because some sort of loneliness still managed to creep into your life, like a ghost that haunted you.
“I’m glad you’re home early,” you admitted. “I’ve been missing you all day.”
“I missed you too, sweetheart. I always try to come home as soon as I can,” Simon assured you.
A twinge of exhaustion lurked underneath his tone, screaming at you that despite the fact he got off early, he certainly had a long day. He always seemed drained after arriving home, proving to you just how hard he worked in order to support you, to give you the life he told you that you deserved. You always had someone who would crawl into bed with you, someone who wasn’t ashamed to show you affection and love, someone to truly take care of you. Despite the circumstance, Simon was everything you could have ever asked for. Everything you would ever need.
So why did it feel like something was missing?
That night after the dishes were washed and the lights were turned down low, you and Simon hid underneath the covers where your limbs intertwined with one another. For some reason he always insisted that you sleep naked, and though you weren’t sure why, you didn’t really mind. In fact, feeling the warmth of his body seep into you was so intoxicating you probably would have come to that conclusion even without his prompting. You couldn’t get enough of his scent, or how his skin felt against yours, and even though the two of you had laid in bed for nearly twenty minutes you buzzed.
Nothing could satiate your need for him. You wouldn’t be satisfied until you were able to crawl into him and hide yourself away underneath his very flesh. You wanted to shrink yourself down, become some small thing, and tuck yourself into his pocket to be forever stuck with him. A vile yearning for him tainted your very essence, and yet you wished it would destroy you all the same.
“What’cha so wiggly for?” Simon questioned, half awake yet still teasing.
“I missed you,” you whined as you buried your face further into his bare chest.
His chuckle sounded low and grumbly in his throat as his arms wrapped firmly around your center. Wandering hands caressed along your hips and down your thighs, traversing and memorizing every single dimple of your flesh like it was the only story he ever wanted to know.
“I’m here now, love,” he hummed.
“I know, I just get so lonely when you’re gone,” you admitted with a pout. “You’re gone forever at work, and I just wanna talk to you. I was thinking that maybe if I had my phone back I could message you-”
“What did I say about your phone?”
The tone Simon used to cut you off was sharper than anything you had ever heard from him before, and it stopped you in your tracks. There was a fatigued sort of frustration that drenched his words which left a part of you wishing that you had never opened your mouth in the first place. He was too tired, too irritated to have a conversation, especially one like that, and you were afraid you had pushed his buttons a bit too much.
You swallowed hard as Simon’s hands moved to your chin, forcing you to look up at him through the dim light rather than keep your face hidden in his chest. Darkness obscured his face, making it near impossible to truly read his expression, and yet you found your bottom lip quivering all the same.
“Sweetheart,” he urged, softer that time, “what did I say about your phone?”
“That it’s… better if I don’t have it,” you answered as your teeth bit into the inside of your cheek.
“Yeah?” His hand moved from your chin to your cheek where his thumb gently rubbed at your skin. The notion was comforting, soothing even, yet you knew he was truly checking for tears. “And why’s that?”
“Because then the Prices won’t be able to contact me.”
Just like that, your mood was ruined. Any reminder of your past lovers was a painful one. Even after all those months they still seemed to have some sort of control over you, and the fact that they could sour your mood with just a simple memory was dehumanizing. Your somberness was so potent it exuded from your body like fine mist, and Simon’s caressing of your face increased tenfold in an attempt to calm you before things became catastrophic. You were his sweet, fragile girl, after all.
“Right. And it’s better that way, isn’t it sweetheart?” he concluded softly. “It’s better here with me, because I take care of you, don’t I? I don’t neglect you, or treat you like some pet.”
Although he was right, it didn’t make the bitter ache in your chest go away. Simon did his best to sooth the pain with his hands and words, and you shivered as his fingertips traversed from your face, to your shoulders, and down your waist. He had to find some way to distract you, some way to remind you that he was the only one you needed, and that you had to stay far away from Price and his trophy wife. You were too good for them; he needed you to know that.
“You’re mine, and I’m yours, that’s what we agreed on, yeah?” he continued. His hand began to dip lower, moving from your waist, over your stomach, and between your legs. Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers burrowed between your thighs, searching for access to your not quite slick cunt. Your emotions were too high for you to be wet, Simon was well aware, but you both knew he could change that within an instant. “They’ll never see you again, never get to abuse you again because I’m here to protect you. I love you in a way they never did.”
Right as he spoke those last few words, his fingers greedily swiped against your clit, and your legs had no choice but to fall apart and grant him greater access. A gentle tremor shook the bed as Simon repositioned himself, pushing you on your back so that he could hover over your exposed body like it was a fresh meal just for him. Famished lips descended onto your neck as his fingers prodded against your entrance, forcing your mind to go blank with longing.
“Needy thing, aren’t you? Need my full attention? I’m sorry, sweetheart, shoulda fucked you the moment I got home, huh? I’m all yours, and you’re all mine. Say it,” Simon urged as he still withheld himself from you.
Squirming, you reached out for him with wanting hands as you snaked your arms around his neck. This was how he healed you, with his fingers teasing your cunt and his saccharine words plugging your ears. There was nothing else in the world you needed besides Simon. Every chord of your body yearned for him as if he was the only sustenance your body craved. This was how he healed you. With honeyed words and a worshiping mantra reminding you of who you belonged to.
“I’m yours.”
That night only added on to the other countless evenings spent with Simon tucked between your legs to voraciously consume you whole. There was no thinking to be done when he could mercifully do it for you, and you were content with that. At least, you thought you were. Things always became difficult when Simon vanished off to work, and he would do his best to make it up to you when he arrived home, to distract you from the empty feeling that seemed to fester inside of your chest. But no matter what he gave you, what he did for you when he was home, your mind always wandered when he was away.
You couldn’t help but think back to when you lived with the Prices, how cold and lonely that house was, and how colder still your lovers were. Mr. Price — no, John — had sent you over to Simon like a bitch; some obedient pup meant for entertaining but not for loving, and it didn’t make sense. He had sent you over to comfort Simon so flippantly, yet acted as if the world had ended when you never returned back to them that terrible night. Was there some sort of miscommunication? Was that never his intention at all? And still, they left you out of the imperative conversation about their pregnancy like it never concerned you at all.
You were spiraling again, and Simon was able to pick up on it just as easily as he could sniff out a bad wound. He could only keep you caged up so long, and he knew he needed to remedy it before he was back at the beginning with you. So you shouldn’t have been surprised when he arrived home one day with a gift. Beautiful, blush pink cloth sewn into a perfect sundress sat underneath delicate tissue paper, and you had a hard time hiding your awe and surprise when you revealed the astonishing dress. Simon’s eyes seemed more dilated than normal when he saw you hold it up to your body, and you caught onto his small smirk.
Without hesitation, you slipped into the dress at his prompting, and you were ecstatic to find that it fit perfectly. Simon had gotten used to your sizing after having to buy you a whole new wardrobe after you escaped the Prices, but even then you were impressed at how well it formed to your measurements. It was as if Simon had every inch of your body memorized after the months you had spent together to the point that there was no way he could mess up your sizing. You couldn’t help but smile knowing that no one else had ever done that for you before.
It didn’t end there. With Simon having to work longer hours that night than normal, he insisted on taking you out to lunch, which was something you couldn’t ever recall doing. Ages had passed since you had even stepped foot out of Simon’s apartment, and you couldn’t remember the last time you felt the sun on your skin. You didn’t know why he hadn’t taken you out sooner, but if you had to guess, you were certain it was for the same reason he did everything else; to keep you safe from the Prices.
The restaurant Simon took you to was the fanciest you had ever seen before. Several art pieces adorned the walls with such vibrant shades you were convinced that the art itself cost more than whatever it took for them to construct the building itself. Crystal chandeliers hung high above your heads, and before either of you could order the waiter had filled your glasses with the finest of wines. The menu itself didn’t even have any prices, but Simon didn’t seem at all concerned with it, and insisted that you ordered whatever you wanted.
There was something deliciously domestic about being there with him. You belonged to him, and he belonged to you, that much was evident, but there was something exciting about being able to show that fact in public. To prove that someone loved you enough to show it off, rather than hide you away. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t wipe that grin off your face as the two of you talked about nothing while eating the mouthwatering meals on your plates. For a moment, you two were the only beings in the world.
For a moment.
A flash of something caught your attention. Maybe it was a giggle, or the cooing and awing, but all you knew was that your eyes suddenly glued themselves on the patrons a few tables away from you. For a split second, you thought you saw them. John and his wife. It wasn’t them at all, but you realized you only feared that because this woman, this beautiful woman with her glowing skin and healthy laugh, was pregnant. Obviously so, too, as her stomach swelled and stretched with the growing life inside of her. Her husband could hardly take his eyes off of her, constantly reaching across the table to hold her hand despite her attempt at trying to enjoy her lunch. It was… stomach lurching.
By that point, Mrs. Price would be four months along. Or, no, more than that for sure. It had been four months since you had been taken from them, since you had even heard from them. Four months without closure, or the opportunity to talk and get answers. A part of you needed to know why things happened the way they did, but you were completely in the dark. All you had received was whatever Simon spoon fed you, but it wasn’t enough. You weren’t sure if it would ever be enough. Maybe you had been empty for too long to ever be full again.
“Everythin’ alright, sweetheart?”
Your eyes tore away from the unsuspecting couple and landed back on Simon. He studied you carefully with a neutral expression, but you saw the slight press of his lips. Dark red wine faintly stained his pale skin, yet you couldn’t find yourself able to appreciate the beauty of it. All you had was a rotten feeling in your stomach and the sudden urge to vomit.
“Yeah, of course,” you lied.
Things got bad again when Simon left for work that night. Maybe it was the knowledge that he wouldn’t be home until late that made your brain ceaselessly buzz. Or maybe it was the image of that pregnant woman at the restaurant, the one that reminded you of the suffering you had to endure all those months ago. You attempted to silence that incessant sound in your mind as best as you could, because you knew you couldn’t afford to blow up, so you did anything to distract yourself. Music blasted through the CD player louder than it ever had, certainly to the annoyance of your neighbors, but for once you found yourself incapable of caring about anyone but yourself.
When that didn’t work, you put on a movie instead. It wasn’t one you recognized, just something you had flipped to when you were browsing through streaming services. You had gotten dressed in one of Simon’s plain tees in an attempt to drown yourself in his scent, and yet that didn’t dull the ache either. All you could think of while the images flashed in front of you on the screen were the movie nights at the Prices. How John would make you cuddle up next to Simon, how the only comfort you could find was in his beating heart as he held you close to him…
There had to be a reason for it all.
When the movie ended and there was nothing to accompany you but silence and the sound of your own breathing, that’s when you knew you couldn’t handle it anymore. You needed something. You needed answers.
Like a feral rat, you began to search every nook and cranny of the apartment for your phone. If you could find it, maybe you could get some answers from John. Even if Simon said it was bad for you, you knew you needed closure, no matter how much it hurt. Wherever Simon had put it, it was well hidden. You nearly tore apart his dresser, every drawer in the kitchen, the corners of the bedroom closet; everywhere you could think of, and it wasn’t there.
Just when you were about ready to tear the floor up, you finally found it. Really, you had half expected him to have thrown it away, yet there it sat underneath the bathroom vanity, hidden behind a myriad of cleaning supplies so far back the overhead light couldn’t illuminate it. When you finally had it in your grasp, you nearly cried, and you weren’t sure why. A fit of emotions bubbled in your stomach, each of them violently conflicting, yet frustration took over when you attempted to turn the phone on and the screen wouldn’t light up. Of course it wouldn’t, it hadn’t been used for months.
Rushing off to the bedroom, you quickly borrowed Simon’s charger and let your phone sit on the nightstand as it ever so slowly charged. Answers almost within your reach, and yet your anxiety bubbled up more than ever as you waited for that black screen to flicker to life.
It took ages for the thing to fully load up once it was charged enough to turn on, and you held the device in your shaking hands. All your old apps appeared on the screen, countless pictures that you had taken over the years, but the most eyecatching of them all was the amount of notifications you had for your text messages. 172, all within the last four months.
When you clicked on the app, you quickly realized that all of those messages had been sent by John, and you hated the way your stomach dropped. But this was what you wanted, wasn’t it? Answers? To have him explain why he did what he did? To make it stop hurting? With a heavy breath, you clicked on his name, and the app instantly scrolled up to the very first message he had sent in his cluster over the last few months, and it was then that you noticed something was wrong. Just before his onslaught of messages, there was a reply sent by you, one you didn’t remember sending.
Don’t contact me again.
This wasn’t you. That had to have been Simon, because he had taken your phone from you before you ever got the chance to respond to them yourself. Their worried messages, their pleading for you to come home, to know that you were okay. It didn’t work, obviously. The next few messages after that one was full of John pleading to speak with you, of several missed calls, of him apologizing for anything they did to upset you. The texts dated back only hours, sometimes minutes apart, and it was strange. You had never seen him so desperate before. Not for you.
Eventually they seemed to stop for a while, only to start back up again weeks later. There were plenty of comments saying how much they missed you, how they wished you would change your mind and come home, and it felt… wrong. Hadn’t Simon told them that you were with him? He told you he did. He had even quit his job with Price because he didn’t want any bad blood, so why did they act as if you were lost? Like they didn’t know where you were at?
Confused, you continued scrolling, eyes glossing over at the repetitive messages, until eventually you stumbled across pictures. Baby clothes. Cute little shoes. Ultrasounds. Pregnancy announcements. A gender reveal. They were having a girl, and they painted the nursery a cute shade of pink, just like the dress Simon had gotten for you that day. And then there was a video. It was short, and though it wasn’t visually stimulating, it had a rhythmic pulse accompanying the audio. The baby’s heartbeat.
Wish you were here to share these moments with us.
You weren’t able to stop the tears streaming down your face, or the food that came back up to say hello. Indignifying as it was, you sobbed on the cold bathroom floor as you vomited and continued to dry heave the emptied contents of your stomach. Everything crashed down on you all at once, and yet you felt numb at the same time. Nothing made sense. Why were they still trying to talk to you after all that time, like there was still a chance you would return?
Then, you suddenly thought back to the morning Simon admitted his lie to you. How he had done it so easily and without remorse. How he grabbed at your cunt like he… owned you. You would have thrown up again at that thought if you had more food in your stomach, but you instead rose from the cold tile to rinse your mouth. You didn’t feel like a lover. You didn’t feel cared for. For the first time in months, you felt like a pet.
So you did the only thing you had ever been good at doing: you ran. You ran just like you did back at John’s club, and every other time your emotions conflicted so bad you swore you would die. After you gathered a small bag full of personal items, your phone and wallet included, you rushed out the door and didn’t bother to look back as it closed behind you.
an: this was only ever supposed to be a one shot, but i decided to expand on the story a little more, as i felt the first part wasn't able to fully convey the story i was trying to tell. once the 3rd part is posted though, that'll be it, so please don't harass me about more parts again (: gives me anxiety
#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley smut#ghost smut#f!reader
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jorrāeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 1: Affliction
terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!
Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 (In Progress!)
Synopsis: Daemon guides you on a journey of healing and self-discovery as you learn to raise your children and build a family of your own. You struggle.
Hello! Welcome back, all! This instalment is going to be a journey for Reader. A bunch of bad shit has happened in her life. It's about time she begins facing all that, you know? Not all of it will be heavy, but there will be some psychological fuckery and an opportunity to delve into the layers of the relationship I've spent time developing. My intention is to have this function similar to little slut, in that it's a series of one-shots set chronologically. Each will be a self-contained 'highlight' that is set during the six years Daemon is exiled on Dragonstone. This instalment will cover babies, healing, pregnancy, relationship development, funny hijinks, dragons and smut! Always smut.
EDIT: I am dumb-dumb and forgot to thank @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing and giving this her necessary stamp of approval and being the bestest biffle EVA, as well as @spoolofblack for reassuring me that Daemon is NOT too OOC here and cheering me on through the AO3 tagging journey. Thanks be!
Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of post-partum depression, lite smut, lactation and lactation kink.
“Thus was Prince Daemon banished from his brother the King’s city, and with him his niece and newborn heirs. Exile had long favoured the rogue, and this latest decree brought a period of quiet to the isle of Dragonstone, the years giving rise to further progeny to strengthen his House’s line. Together with the Princess Rhaenyra, Daemon and his wife presided over the Targaryen stronghold for several years before circumstances would take them once more to King’s Landing.”
- ‘Fire & Blood: Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’ by Archmaester Gyldayn
He is staring again.
You do your best to pay it no mind, though the weight of his eyes upon you is heavy, nonetheless. An onlooker may well assume his focus is on the scene in its entirety—upon the babes propped on pillows before you, their grasping fists skating across dragonscale as they grunt and babble, reptilian rumbles filling the void between sounds—but you know better. Your husband has not been the same since… since that night. You cannot blame him, though it vexes you so.
One of the dragons—the creature with scales of amethyst glittering even in low light—hisses in outrage as Aelys takes hold of his tail, curling around himself with teeth bared as if to warn your daughter of the fate that awaits her. No bite comes. Unbothered, she tries to tug her quarry to her face, and you can only presume the intent is to explore this new surface with gnashing gums.
“Let go, my lovely,” you tell her as your fingers work to free the beast of its skin-and-bone shackles. The babe’s grip is surprisingly firm. “Azorion has done naught to deserve such untoward treatment.”
“Did it not shit in the cradle this morning?” comes Daemon’s idle question from the desk.
When you glance over, you find he has made himself busy once more, appearing for all the world as though he is deep in his papers. You suspect otherwise.
“He is only small,” you say by way of response. Aelys’s face flushes with the threat of tears when her clasp is finally released, so you slip your own digits into hers to placate her. The other dragon, the long-limbed and sun-hued Valnissar, presses its snout against her neck as if to soothe her temper. “He cannot help it.”
Azorion scrabbles back to Rhaenar’s side, huffing indignantly even while burrowing into the boy’s side, leaching his body warmth. Rhaenar’s eyelids begin to droop, the comforting mass of his future mount an unwavering reassurance, while the steadiness of Valnissar’s even breaths along her flesh ease Aelys into a state of calm.
“If it can eat unaided, it can shit in a place that is not where my children sleep.”
The creature seems to rouse at the mention of his earlier mishap; you pat him reassuringly. “He will learn.”
Daemon grunts, summarily ending the conversation.
This is how most of your interactions proceed as of late: a vague, uninterested query, an overly polite response, a terse conclusion, and two evidently discontented persons not quite certain how to bridge the divide that has risen between them. And there is a divide, you are sure of it—why else does the man who is never without a word to spare suddenly bereft of speech in your presence?
The only thing that eases your mind is the knowledge that, for all his recalcitrance, there is no love lost. His hands still linger—on your back, your waist, thoughtless touches that settle hot and heavy and remind you of his solidness. He smiles still, amused by the sing-song lilt of your voice as you coo down at the twins, laughs when they babble back in mimicry of true dialogue. At night, his arms are encompassing, almost too tight, the clutch of one upon that which they fear to lose most. His body speaks the words his lips cannot, laying bare the desperate frustration—the fear, the anger, the worry—that he has carried since the night you had fallen under the spell of old magic, the night you had woken your children’s mounts from their eggshell prisons and called them forth with fire and blood.
Daemon is not the only one who ruminates upon it. You yourself remember it in pieces, flashes of memory that you cannot make whole. The heat of the hearth. A glow, orange, red, yellow. Stinging upon your hands, and the iron tang of blood upon the air. It is as though it occurred to another being—like you had watched rather than been part of it all. There is little wonder that the sight must have made him so uneasy.
You startle when your uncle abruptly stands, rolling his neck to dispel any latent discomfort from remaining in a static position for so long. He falters, appears to decide on something unknown to all but his own mind, then moves toward the rug where you have arranged your babes and their dragons.
Crouching down beside you, his hand reaches forth to cup the round softness of Rhaenar’s head as he murmurs, “I’ll be back later.”
“Before supper?” you ask just as quietly.
He makes a vague noise of assent, smiling absently when Aelys jams her fist in her mouth and babbles to herself, drooling all the while. Valnissar perks up at the sight of his second-favourite person in the world, chittering excitedly as he makes a concerted attempt at climbing up Daemon’s leg. Daemon hisses, extricating the spindly creature’s claws and placing him on his shoulder. Valnissar flaps his wings and promptly tries to weave his way into your uncle’s hair. Your nostrils flare in amusement.
Daemon does not look at you, but you do not mind; you understand the draw of the twins and their young mounts all too well.
“Where are you going?” you ask.
At that, he turns further into you, his gaze finally lifting to find your face. From the corner of your eye, you see the looming shadow that forms whenever he allows his thoughts to consume him. It casts his features into darkness, the heavy set of his brow wrinkling inward as disquietude metamorphoses him. But the tale enacted through his expression is mitigated by the press of his other hand against the small of your back, achingly tender even in its firmness.
“To the Dragonmont.”
You nod. “Ah.”
He will not tell you yet, but you suspect he is looking for answers. The last great repository of Old Valyria is bound to provide at least some insight, though part of you—a large part—is too afraid to seek them yourself. You worry what you will find if you should search through the ancient texts of your people, what they might say of those with the power to hold fire in their hands without fear of burning. It is not something you have ever heard of. If House Targaryen could claim such a feat, it would not be a secret. What does it mean? You know not.
And so, you make no protest when his thumb strokes against Aelys’s cheek in parting, when he unceremoniously drops her dragon to the floor beside her and ignores the protesting squawks to lean in and kiss your cheek, muttering his goodbyes as he rises to leave. You do not turn around, but you know his routine well enough by now.
A clatter by the bed, and Dark Sister is retrieved—scabbard and all—to be fastened at his waist. A scrape, the chair at the desk being pushed back in. A pause. He takes one final look at you all, wife and children and dragons laid about by the hearth in seeming bliss. You feel his stare as it rests on you and you hear the sound of the door opening and closing, footsteps echoing, then fading, fading. The imprint of his lips and his touch remains, an unsettling reminder of all that has been left unspoken.
You dispel such thoughts with a sigh. As worrying as Daemon’s behaviour has become, it is by no means your first priority now that you are a mother.
Looking down at them, you wonder if you will ever get used to the idea, to the fact that these two little beings grew in your belly until they were ready to come into the world, and now they are here and they are yours. ‘Mother’ means the woman through whom your very existence came to be, the name Aemma spoken in hushed whispers and always carrying with it the trace of unending grief. ‘Mother’ means Alicent, the girl-turned-Queen who birthed your brothers and sweet Helaena, who gave you little Daeron to love in place of all you had once been without. ‘Mother’ means Rhaenyra, your staunchly devoted sister who had in part raised you, who even now rears kind, intelligent sons who are more than deserving of the legacy she will one day leave them. You find it entirely strange that a word representing these women—such forces in your life, for good or otherwise—is a word that applies to you.
Motherhood is strange, foreign in a way you do not feel you can overcome by consulting dusty tomes in companionship with Ser Lysan, the manner in which you have familiarised yourself with all foreign things in summers past. This feeling has crept into the crevices of your mind in barely perceptible pulses, slow and unassuming with every new thing you learn about these wonderful, terrifying beings your body created, with every new feat they achieve as they grow and adapt to their environment. At times, when you are alone, you worry you will be no good at it. How can you possibly fare well at such a monumental task without a mother to guide you? What if you make a mistake?
What if your babes—who you know you love more than anything in the world, more than you ever thought anyone could ever feel in their beating hearts, so strong it is almost sickening—come to know of your inadequacy and loathe you for it?
“What seems to be the issue, Princess?”
Gerardys’s hands are folded together before him, his expression as kind and reassuring as always. You wish you truly were reassured, or the too-hot, roiling sensation of your gut might not be quite so pronounced.
There are many responses you could give. The fact that your husband is ill at ease with you for reasons you cannot risk explaining, lest the entire Realm learn through whispers and tales of Valyrian blood magic and some concealed devilry that ought to be put to the sword. That your doubts about how suitable you are as a mother are rising with every second of every hour that you are left to tend your children, feelings that must be wholly unnatural to a woman or otherwise, would you not have heard of such a thing spoken in your many years among the ladies at court? Or perhaps that the woman whom you would prefer to speak to of this matter is in King’s Landing to fetch fresh supplies at this very moment, leaving you no alternative but to be in the maester’s solar instead.
No. None of the answers to his question that come immediately to mind are appropriate here, and nor are they the true reason for your visit. Thus, you brush them aside and take a deep breath.
“I… I have some—concerns.” At his encouraging nod, you add, “About my… supply. For the babes.”
“Ah.” You are glad he seems to have interpreted your hedging correctly; he clears his throat. “I am a physician,” he reminds you, though his tone is by no means judgemental. For all Daemon’s dislike of him, such gentility is why you believe him to be one of the best practitioners in his field, and certainly preferable to Mellos. “While I—understand the indelicacy of the subject matter, I am afraid you are going to need to elaborate, your Highness.”
“Oh. Of course.” You glance away, discomfited. “I… wish to feed the twins myself. By myself. But I”—you gesture weakly to your chest—“my milk has not come in as much as I had hoped it would… by now…”
Rhaenyra has never had this problem, you think. You cannot help it. It was not so long ago that the merest mention of a babe had been enough to wet the fabrics of her gown, never mind that Joff had had the luxury of choice in his supply. Your sister had in fact bemoaned the stubbornness of her body in refusing to dry up—she never let her sons latch for longer than a moon’s turn after each birth, preferring to, as she said, “keep her tits from turning to suckling udders”, long-teated and all. Jealousy is the sin of the vain and impious, but your beating heart thrums with it even so.
Gerardys frowns. “Forgive me—but I was certain that a wet nurse had been requisitioned for them?”
“Yes. But I would—I would prefer to feed them on my own.”
It is not as though you dislike Freda. While she is certainly loud and bawdy and oft far too inappropriate for company, she cares a great deal for Rhaenar and Aelys. You see it in the readiness of her smiles at them, how she cradles them as if they are the most delicate beings in the universe, the way she praises them so effusively for the most base and vulgar of actions—“I’ve never seen a shit so splendid, your Highness, never did I once! A talented little fellow is our little prince, he is!”—but it is not the same. You are their mother, not she. Freda’s presence is not just expected, but required to ensure both your babes have full bellies. It does little to ease your lack of surety.
Though you can tell that Gerardys is perplexed by your insistence, he stares past you thoughtfully, his eyes squinting in his concentration.
“It is not uncommon,” he says slowly, “for a woman with two nursing babes to produce an insufficient volume to accommodate them both. ‘Tis why wet nurses are so popular!”
“I know. I would just… I want to do it.” You wonder if you sound as exposed as you feel. “I am their mother. I should feed them.”
Your words seem to matter not, for the maester is already muttering to himself and rifling through the cabinet by the door, low tones interspersed with the soft clinking of glass vials being shifted about.
“If you insist, Princess,” he says absently, humming under his breath as he balances on tiptoe to reach his higher shelving. After a moment of silence, a noise of muted triumph. “Ah—here it is.”
What he presses into your hands is not an ampoule of some sort, but a plain pouch of hemp and string. The contents within shift about readily, though it prickles when you squeeze too firmly, like dried herbs.
“Thistle tea.” Gerardys watches as you inspect his offering. “Steep for half an hour, strain. Consume plain, no milk or honey. One cup a day, no more or less.”
“How long will it take to work?”
“You ought to begin seeing an increase in production within a sennight. If you can encourage the babes to latch more frequently, you’ll have better results.” At your enquiring look, he elaborates. “The more often the breast is drained, the quicker it refills and thus the more milk you will produce.”
You colour at his use of such a word, not entirely accustomed to speaking so plainly of something so long viewed as unseemly with another man. It is scarcely tolerable even with your ladies. “You have my thanks, Maester Gerardys.”
“Of course, Princess. But remember—do not exceed more than a cup a day!”
You take his advice to heart over the next few days, exhorting the serving staff to ensure you are delivered of a cup brewed to the maester’s specifications each morning. It tastes unremarkable, a leafy bitterness so often customary of herbal tinctures and tonics, though you think you might find it more palatable with the addition of such ingredients as the ones expressly forbidden to you. The very worst of the flavour collects at the bottom of the cup, forcing you to steel yourself to stomach the sharp-tasting dregs and cleanse your palate with fresh water. You bear it silently, praying that you will soon see the benefits promised to you.
But, after a sennight passes, there is no change.
At least, you think there is no change. Rhaenar is not one for fuss and fuddle, and the one time Aelys is not so is in the hours following feeding, her belly full and warm and leading to an easy, calm drowse—but after letting them latch for half an hour, neither babe is sufficiently serene to suggest that the tea has done its duty. Rhaenar kicks and grizzles, mouthing vainly at your nipple as though you are concealing some previously stored contents still within your breast, while Aelys progresses to full, drawn-out wails. Freda watches on, wringing her hands as the twins caterwaul. The front of her dress is stained, sympathetic leakage in response to the veracity of their cries.
Perhaps it is this fact that finally breaks you.
All at once, you no longer feel saddened or confused, concerned or unsure. You are angry. Why should she—a woman who had neither carried nor shared blood with them—get to give your boy and your girl the sustenance so essential to them? What does she possess that you do not? Why have the gods forsaken you? If they have built the womanly form to bear and nurse her children, then you ought to be able to carry out your duty as intended. Not Freda. Why are they taunting you with such a poisonous reminder of your own failure?
“Your Highness—”
“No!” Your rebuke is sharp and swift, punctuated further by what you can only assume is a truly withering glare. “Leave us!”
“But the little pr—”
“I said get out!”
The shrillness of your voice only serves to further upset the babes. They both scream, red-faced and baying, and there is a strange sort of harmony to it that might even sound beautiful were it not so devastating. The noise is such that it sets off the panicked shrieking of Azorion and Valnissar, creating a truly chaotic calamity of sound that makes it terribly hard to think rationally. Or think at all.
You bar the room, refusing to allow Jeyne or Bethany entry. You do not need their aid. It is only morning, your thoughts whirl frenetically. Plenty of time to prove that the wet nurse is not necessary.
All manner of people come to your door as the moments—or maybe minutes, or perhaps hours, you cannot tell—pass, no doubt drawn by the crying and the screeching and your stubborn resistance to letting anyone assist you. Ser Lorent raps on the door, earnest calls of “Your Highness? Is everything well?” readily enough ignored and, when that fails, the kindly queries of the maester beseeching you to let him in “for fear there is something wrong, Princess, please let us help you” also dismissed, or rather more truthfully, not quite heard through the thicket of your growing panic. You do your best to disregard anything outside your chambers, your frantic focus centred wholly on giving Rhaenar and Aelys the care they need from their mother—and their mother alone.
But no matter the hymns you sing or the steadiness of your rocking, no matter how perfect your bouncing walk to soothe them or your murmured exhortations to please, please calm down, they will not be assuaged.
You forget what silence is like. Surely you have never been without the sound of bawling infants? The intensity of it reshapes memory, blocks out any sense of rationality or level-headedness. Your own despair rises the longer the babes sob, their sorrowful scrunched-up faces all but proclaiming aloud that you cannot do this.
Your mind rebels. What was I thinking? They hate me. They hate me. I’ve ruined them. I could not give them milk, and now I cannot even stop their tears. I am a terrible mother. A failure.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
The hatchling dragons, emblematic of their future riders’ dispositions as is the norm, only serve to intensify the battle between your spirit and your fear. They feel as Rhaenar and Aelys feel, only they have sharp claws and sharp teeth and the mobility fresh out of the egg to express their feelings in a way the twins cannot. You cannot fend off their snapping jaws and high-pitched snarls and tend to the twins at the same time. The situation quickly becomes untenable, though you have not the presence of mind nor good sense to discern this.
“Daor,” you snap as Valnissar nips at your exposed wrist. No.
At this age, the bite stings only a little, drawing a thin well of blood to the surface of your skin. You push the dragon away, doggedly continuing to try and force Aelys’s mouth to your breast. They feel heavier again, a sure sign that there is milk enough to quell the babes’ despondency. If only they would stop crying.
You sit upright on the bed, the curve of one foot pinning Azorion to the mattress below you. He hisses indignantly but makes no attempt to shift, resigned to being trapped for as long as you deem it necessary. Positioned perfectly against the cushion provided for precisely this purpose are your boy and girl, heads perfectly aligned to take to each breast, reclined so that their tiny bodies extend below each of your arms and your hands are free to cup their heads just right. Exactly how Ūlla taught you. So why—why—are they refusing to latch?
“Please,” you find yourself whimpering, the sound lost beneath the piercing howls. At this point, they have both become as distressed as each other, never looking more identical than they do with the same flushed flesh and misery-streaked cheeks, near to seizing with the force of their sobs. You try to bring their mouths to each nipple again, but all they do is cry and cry and cry, faces turning away. “Please, it’s right here. Mama has your milk right here, please please please…”
Valnissar tries to climb over your arm to sit on Aelys. You shrug the beast off, and he tumbles to the bed in a tangle of wings. He screeches, teeth bared, and you can just tell he is about to strike at you again.
You push him away.
“Leave me be!” you say, louder and steadily more overwhelmed, your attention wavering between creature and child. Pressing the babes to your breasts does nothing to persuade them to take from you, but what else can you do? “Please drink. For me? For Mama?”
More wailing. Their fists clench, their forms shuddering.
Useless. It is useless. I am useless.
“Why won’t you have your milk?” you ask, and you think you are calm and measured but really you are starting to sob yourself, a discordant symphony of despair. “Why won’t you just accept it? Please, please, I promise it’s good enough…”
Still, tears. And the dam breaks.
They hate me. They hate me. They hate me. It is like a metronome pulsing through your veins in time with the wrenching heaves of your chest, your lungs trying and failing to force in air. The babes cry, you cry, the dragons clamour, the room feels too full—of sound, of air, of heat—and you are so terribly close to screaming at everything to shut the fuck up because you cannot do this, you cannot do this, why did you ever think you could do—
The passageway at the opposite end of the chamber bursts open. You hear it, but you cannot see through the film of your own tears.
“What the fuck’s going on here?”
Normally, Daemon’s voice—even panicked as he is currently—is enough to reassure you. But it only makes you weep more. Here is your husband, arrived to see how poor a wife he has chosen, how poor a mama you make. Here is Rhaenar and Aelys’s father, arrived to see how enormous your incompetence is, how completely and utterly you have failed to do even the simplest of things. The shame of it is enough to send you spiralling.
You do not remember what follows very clearly.
Fingers fumbling to lace up the ties loosened on your bodice. Hands laid upon the babes, the span of palm large and rough enough to disturb their vocalisations, to ease them to a slightly duller caterwauling. You clutch them tighter to you, unable to even look up to see the owner of those hands, but you are not strong enough to resist the determined reach of those arms to pluck each infant in turn from you. A part of you is relieved. They are passed off with murmurs, man and woman’s voices exchanging in low tones. You vaguely recognise them through the fog of misery. The person before you stands, another taking their place. The steady touch of someone with skin that carries the scent of medicinal herbs feels your forehead, turns your head from side to side, presses clinically at the fullness of your chest. Then, the mattress rises, the weight dissipating, and you are alone.
It takes several long moments to realise that the noise—the babes and the dragons—has stopped entirely. That they are no longer present, no doubt escorted to safety far, far away from you. It ought to be enough to torment you to madness, the final step in this harrowing reprieve from reason, but your tears have fled too. All that is left is bone deep, heavy exhaustion and a full-bodied dispiritedness that makes you sink into the pillows behind you, slide down enough to turn to your side and ignore whoever is talking, shut your eyes and block everything out.
You let the darkness swallow you whole.
Of course he is here when you awake.
You do not know if you really expected otherwise. He has dragged a chair from the table by the balcony next to the bed, and he ought to appear more comfortable—slouched carelessly as he is, leg slung over the other in the assured manner that all men who are confident in their right to take up such space are—but his expression suggests otherwise. Not angry, no, but certainly serious; a pensiveness that comes from prolonged periods of introspection. His eyes seem far away. In fact, his entire self seems far from where he sits, as though his body has travelled back to the Keep but his mind is still in the Dragonmont.
Where he has been for days and days, you think bitterly. Reading thousand-year-old texts instead of being here.
His hands are clasped and resting under his chin, his elbows on the armrests. He seems tired. You regret the ire of your thoughts. It is not as though he has gone out of his way to avoid you, truly. He is here when you need him.
You do not realise he has become aware of your return to consciousness until you hear your name softly spoken.
“Rūhossa zaldrīzessē mazumbillā ilzi. Pōnta biktomy kisittaksi,” is the first thing he says. The babes and dragons are in the nursery. They were fed by the wet nurse.
The silence, previously unnoticed, registers at the same time as your relief. They are safe. They are far away from you. It is likely for the best, even though your breasts feel uncomfortably full.
Daemon shifts from the seat to the bed, staring down at you with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. His movements are relaxed, almost calculated, as one who is wary of spooking an injured animal. You think that if he had failed to glean some sort of response from whomever followed him into the room earlier, he would not be quite so calm.
For a moment, you are half-convinced he is about to reprimand you—until he strokes your jaw, brushes a stray tendril of hair from your face. Your heart skips a beat. His touch is kind.
After an indeterminate period of silence, the question eventually comes.
“Skorion massitas?” What happened? His tone is low, measured.
You sit up, making room for yourself by wiggling back against the pillows. Really, you are stalling. How does one go about explaining that they had taken leave of their senses?
“Ūī ūndetā, gōntō daor?” you ultimately choose to say. You saw, did you not? It sounds dull and lifeless even to your ears. “Se avy qubykto massinoti biktys ivestretos.” And the wet nurse must have told you of earlier events.
His responding look is unimpressed. Normally, you would expect him to have yelled by this point. Whatever it is that he has been told—whatever it is that you must have looked like here, near to yelling at your own infant children and sobbing with your breasts bared to the room and two small dragons buzzing about like particularly persistent insects—it is enough to stay his temper for the time being. Still, you do not believe his patience will hold for long.
You sigh, shuddering out an unsteady breath.
Even though the spell of hysteria has broken, it takes a moment or two to gather yourself. Daemon grasps your arms, erring on the cusp of too-tight to be solely encouraging, but it grounds you enough to attempt to explain what it is he stumbled upon before.
Your jumbled thoughts stream out unorganised, and you are only really half-aware of what exactly it is you convey through hiccuped breaths and shaking shoulders. Failure. Disgrace. Cannot even feed my own children. Useless. Bit by bit, it comes forth, juddered and broken, and you cannot even tell what language you are speaking in, or if you are dipping in and out of your native tongue and your learned one without a presence of mind to control it. As you speak, Daemon’s face morphs, knitted brows relaxing and mouth easing from its hard line into the gentlest of frowns. And then, you are silent. You wait for the death knell of judgement.
It never comes.
His hands slide lower, capturing your own and lacing fingers with you. He stares down at this joining, turning your wrist over as though he is marvelling at the disparity in size, in smoothness.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” It is low, strangely hurt.
Your heart thuds uneasily. This is not how you expected him to react at all. “I—I don’t know.”
He swallows, and again you are unsure if he is holding back anger or if he genuinely has none. The calloused pad of his finger strokes a line down the centre of your palm, eliciting an instinctive shiver from you.
“Gerardys said you went to see him. That you were in low spirits. Irritable. Fixed on this idea of nursing the babes by yourself.” He glances up, his lips twitching like he is reluctant to voice his next words. “He says… sometimes there is an—affliction—of the mind. It happens to new mothers.”
“You think I’m mad?” You try to pull your hand away, but he holds on.
Scoffing lightly, he says, “Maegor was mad, you silly girl. You are young. Frightened. A great deal has happened to you since we wed.”
His jaw tenses, no doubt recollecting those memories. The wedding night. The fight. Laena. Driftmark. Larys. Alicent. Father.
He sighs. “And I… I have not helped.”
Your mouth parts in protest. “I am happy with you,” you say stubbornly. “If you had not protected me—”
“And where have I been since the eve you hatched the twins’ dragons?” He turns from you, resting his elbows on his knees to rake his hands through his hair. “Hiding in the fucking Dragonmont. Like a coward.”
“You aren’t a coward. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met.”
He laughs, short and sharp. It is an ugly sound. “Yes. So brave am I, I ran away and left my young wife alone to care for my children. I’m such a craven”—he lifts his head to look at you once more—“that I found it easier to let this happen instead of admitting how deeply that night unsettled me.”
An understatement, to be sure. You do not think ‘unsettled’ is sufficient enough to capture how either of you feel.
“It isn’t your fault,” you settle on telling him. “I should have just been able to nurse Rhaenar and Aelys without crying like a child—”
“You were overwhelmed. Worried. Thinking that not having enough milk means you’re somehow not fit to be their mother. What utter shit.”
“I cannot even feed them. How am I supposed to raise them?” Your voice is abnormally high and thready. You hear it, though it does not register as abnormal until Daemon’s expression stops you in your tracks. You shake your head, trying to stave off the tremble in your lower lip. “You don’t understand. I want—I need to be—enough for them.”
I don’t remember my mother, you want to say. I only remember ’Nyra and Alicent and Father. None of them were enough. None of them were able to make me feel less alone.
How am I supposed to stop Rhaenar and Aelys from being broken in the same way I was? Who do I turn to? What do I do? How can I protect them when I could not even protect myself?
When Daemon’s touch returns, it is unimaginably delicate, nearly tentative. He cups your cheek, tilts your head so your eyes can meet.
“You are enough,” he says. “How can you think otherwise? To love them is to be enough.”
A part of you wants to heed his words, to allow him to soothe your worries as he is so often able to do. Your thoughts, self-loathing as they are, continue to press against your will and shake the firmness of your resolve. “But—”
“Ah-ah. Remember our vows, sweetling.” His lip quirks, finding fondness in memory. “Did you not promise to obey me in all things?”
You nod tentatively.
He hums. “Obey me now, then. Cast those foolish notions from your mind and listen to your uncle, hm?”
You do not think you can agree so easily as he expects. This is a war in your head that he cannot help you wage through a simple command. But you want to believe that it could be as uncomplicated as he has made it.
“Alright,” you say. “I’ll try.”
His answering embrace feels like a port in the midst of a harrowing storm. When the world around you is careening wildly, uncontrolled and unstable, you know that he will bring you back to safe shores. He would fight those waves off himself if he could. You press your nose to his neck, breathe in the familiar smell of him—smokeleatherspice—and, for a time, everything feels just a little less terrifying.
“See? They’re fine,” Daemon says. “A night away has done no harm.”
The babes are well-settled in the nursery, placid and rested and bright-eyed. Rhaenar grips onto your thumb in welcome, while Aelys kicks her legs and squeals when she sees you above her. Though you are glad for it—glad that you had not ruined them in your desperate madness—there is a part of you that wishes they had not clearly been so manageable without you.
You eye the sleeping forms of Azorion and Valnissar, coiled faithfully by the sides of each of your children. The Keeper loiters near the window, watching on.
Freda nods hastily. “They have been fed and bathed, Princess, all ready for sleep. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
She clearly thinks this ought to ease your mind. If anything, it only serves to disappoint you. Not only had you missed out—you despise missing anything they do, any part of their life—but now there is no recourse for the ache in your chest. Even thinking of it is enough to make your nipples itch, your breasts throb. You pray that the front of your gown remains dry.
You turn toward the other occupant in the room. “And the dragons?”
The Keeper is here primarily for Tyraxes and Skyfrost, the respective future mounts of little Joff and Corwyn, given that the nurses brought in to care for the babes are not equipped to raise creatures so dangerous as the ones claimed by your House. Today, though, he is responsible for four of them. If the look upon his face and the sweat glistening on his brow is any indication, doubling his responsibilities has caused a great deal of stress, indeed.
“The elder two have been separated from the hatchlings,” he says, stepping forward jerkily. It is as though his limbs are fastened upon strings controlled by some higher being—a human marionette. The effect is startling. “The younger pair have been… spirited, though they are resting for the time being.”
Daemon snorts, shaking his head. “Of course they have. At least they don’t breathe fucking fire yet.”
“Fucky.”
Your husband’s head whips over to the rug by the table, where Corwyn and Joff happily toddle about on unsteady legs. Corwyn is looking straight towards Daemon, smiling and mashing his gums on what seems to be a wooden knight.
Like most of the children in your family, he appears to have developed a liking for the man. Mealtimes now often involve the boy stumbling to Daemon’s side to pass him whatever object he has deemed necessary to be kept in your uncle’s possession, wide amethyst eyes peering expectantly upward until the doll or block or carved figure is taken from his hands. Daemon will roll his eyes, thank him and pat him on his head of dark curls, the act inciting a squeal and babble before the child waddles back to his evening playtime.
At the abrupt cessation of conversation, Corwyn removes the figure from his mouth and speaks once again. “Fucky.”
“Shit,” Daemon murmurs. You strike his arm reflexively, but it is too late.
Corwyn laughs as he wanders back to Joff. “Shit. Shit. Shit-it-it-it-it-it…”
“Daemon!” you hiss, torn between irritation and a bizarre sort of amusement.
He shrugs. “Oh well. Nothing can be done now. It could be worse, sweetling. He could have walked in on us fu—”
“Rhaenyra will want your head on a pike for this,” you say hastily, in part to avoid scandalised stares from the attending staff and also to prevent Corwyn from repeating what his cousin has accidentally taught him. No doubt your little nephew will learn it from his half-brother, too.
“Perhaps we’d best depart for the evening, then”—Daemon’s hand is insistent on your elbow, a leading force that beckons you to follow—“lest you lose your husband to your sister’s temper.”
“That would be your own fault,” you say absent-mindedly.
You are unable to tear yourself away from Rhaenar and Aelys just yet. They are calm, yes, but this is not where they sleep, where they belong. You do not know if you can bear the sight of the empty cradle in your chambers or the absence of the sounds they make together with their dragons.
“Must they remain here?” you ask, more a whisper than a genuine plea.
“They are safe here.” Daemon reaches forth to let Aelys grasp his finger, an involuntary action since the babe had fallen into a doze during your visit, no doubt lulled by the sound of your voices. She is the more difficult of the pair to settle; you know Rhaenar will follow easily enough. “You ought to take respite from each other, if only for a night.”
His words are gentle, but the expression on his face reminds you of earlier. Obey me now. Cast those foolish notions from your mind. Listen to your uncle. You hear it as though it has been spoken aloud once again. Even so, the pulsing discomfort in your breasts stays your obedience.
“If I could just—”
“No. We’re leaving. You need to rest.” It is firmer this time, louder and more decisive. He is not persuading you—he is telling you.
With a sigh of defeat, you lean down and kiss each babe farewell, doing your best to quell the unreasonable instinct to cry at the thought of goodbye. Daemon offers his own departing caresses and steers you determinedly out of the room. The walk is silent, though the heat of his arm against your palm is comforting in its own way.
Your chest begins to truly ache, a sensation beyond simple fullness. The dress you wear feels too tight, too restrictive, and you are forced to concentrate on pushing each breath up and out to avoid friction between skin and fabric. The smallest degree of stimulation is enough to bring your milk forth.
The irony, you think in despair. No milk when the babes need it—and now, when they are full and slumbering, my supply is as bountiful as it ever has been. How cruel, the gods are!
When you are finally back in your chambers, you barely notice Jeyne and Bethany’s attempts at greeting, their offers of assistance, their gentle repositioning and the tugging of the laces at your back. All you are focused on as the gown loosens and spills to the ground is how you will relieve yourself of the weight in your breasts without bringing too much attention to yourself. Daemon is fascinated by the prospect, true, but given the strife you have caused… you know not how any complaint of it would be perceived. Perhaps he would finally be angered by your outburst? Perhaps he would be disappointed that you had been so juvenile that you could not even take control over your own body, decide that you did not need the milk and thus ought to have been able to will it away. You have been lucky thus far. It is not likely that fortune will continue to favour you today.
You resolve to dispose of the excess in the privy. It ought to be relatively simple—your uncle is hardly one to accompany you to such a place. ‘Tis certain that the notion of wasting it, especially when your goal is to increase its yield, is disheartening, but what else can you do?
If only Daemon was less observant.
“You’ve been far too quiet,” he says after your ladies exit, tossing his shirt rather carelessly over the desk and the papers covering it. His eyes trail you assessingly, and for a moment you are worried that he can tell. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” You try to avoid glancing down at your chest. It would not do to give anything away. “I just—I need to use the privy.”
“No, you don’t.” He kicks his boots to the side, fingers working at the ties of his breeches. “It’s not shameful enough to explain the look on your face. Try again.”
“I’m not ashamed!” you say hotly, spine straightening in your affront.
It is the wrong move. Your nipples brush against the weave of your shift, the sensitivity amplified near to pain. You wince, shoulders curling inward and cringing away from the clothing you wear. As a warrior trained to spot the smallest of discrepancies, Daemon’s gaze falls down.
And there—he has it. You know he knows.
“Ah.” His nostrils flare, visage contorting slyly. “Uncomfortable, talītsos?”
Your breath hitches. It would be barely perceptible to any other, but not him. His gaze drifts between your line of sight and the curve of your breasts beneath the thin layer that separates your flesh from the cool air of the room, almost as though he cannot resist the temptation to look.
“I—they did not feed,” you say quietly, resisting the desire to squirm uncomfortably at the intensity directed straight toward you. “If I get rid of it before it overflows, I’ll make even more. That’s what Gerardys says. I should—”
“You should take off that shift.” Daemon’s breeches drop to the floor, discarded easily as he kneels upon the mattress and shuffles into his desired position, reclining like a king against the pillows. He bares himself proudly, arrogantly, the rosy flush of his cock not quite pronounced enough for arousal. His hand extends in invitation, mocking little smirk gracing the line of his lips at the hesitation he can so clearly read. “You’ll not be wasting such a bounty on a hole built to shit in.”
You sway, dubiously convinced. “It’s for the babes, though.”
“The babes are sleeping. Your husband is not—and he is ravenous, sweet girl.” A shiver travels up your spine from the gravelled timbre of his voice, the shadowed fire in his stare. His fingers flex in your direction, beckoning. “Come here.”
The pause you take before you heed his directive to tug open the ties at your neck and shrug the shapeless sleepwear off your form is not borne of any insecurity. You are not unhappy with your body. Naturally, there have been changes: wider hips, softer belly, skin etched with silvery webs across your middle, your thighs, the tops of your breasts. Though you cannot see it, you are sure that the opening from which your children were birthed has been altered irrevocably, too. You are proud of these differences. They mark the finality of your girlhood and the beginning of life as a woman. They are reminders of the lives you have brought into the world. And, like the burns that mottle much of your uncle’s upper body, they proclaim to all who see them that you too are a victor of glorious battle, all the more unique in that the war you had waged was one of life, not death.
No. You pause because you know Daemon, know what he is like. His appetites. His perversions. In any other state—at any other time—you would happily indulge his lusts. But not only is your body not ready to accept him, you do not even think you are capable of experiencing desire at present.
Even so, you step forward, bear the manner in which he leers, take his hand, and allow him to do with you as he will. There is comfort in giving yourself up.
He lays you out next to him, propping himself on his side so that he looms over you. The ends of his hair tickle against your cheek, bringing forth an immediate smile. It is matched by his own answering grin as he dips down to kiss you, and this you have missed. What surprises you is that it is not a kiss of need, but one of softness, fragile as the wings of a butterfly. You exchange breaths as you exchange yourselves in the union of lips.
“Let me help you,” he murmurs against you, the words passed forth to collect on the tip of your tongue. “Let me make it better.”
You nod, tipping your chin back as he presses his mouth to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, sensual in his languorousness. It is like he carries no purpose other than to let you feel your own body again through his touch. The imprints of cooling damp left behind ground you, remind you of how it felt when you had first come alive under him, around him. When he reaches his target, you expect a shift in his demeanour—but he continues just as gently to take your right nipple between his lips and suckle as weakly as any infant might.
One, two, three pulls, and the relief is near instant. Daemon makes a low noise as your milk lets down, melting to your contours as his arms clasp you tightly against him. The sound of him taking sustenance from you is one of the few things you can hear in the relative silence of evening, carrying with it a peace of its own.
He is able to tell when to switch before even you, shifting swiftly and easily to your left to repeat the slow, tender drags that ease the discomfort and loosen the tight, full sensation weighing you down. The only attempt he makes at receiving his own satisfaction is to rut lightly against your thigh, aimless and lethargic, a base urge to self-soothe in moments of calm. You close your eyes, cradling his head to your chest and mindlessly dragging the tangles from his hair.
In seconds, minutes, hours—you know not—his movements come to a gradual halt. His cock remains hard against your skin, though he allows himself to deliver one final, lush glide of tongue along the fount from which he had supped before pillowing his head on the emptied swell of your breast. Together, you indulge in the serenity.
Eventually, you are driven to speak, though you are loath to disturb the mood that has befallen the room.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
His palms are warm pressed to the dip above your rear, tightening there as his ears register your voice. Otherwise, he does not move.
“I should be thanking you, sweetling,” he says, each word spoken with a gravity that conveys more than just the simplicity of the statement itself.
Vulnerability is difficult for your uncle, and you have learned all the ways in which he reveals the parts of himself too damaged by the world to readily expose. It is second nature to understand what he means to tell you, what he means to thank you for. Your children. Your life here. You. It is gratefulness, protection, apology, love all rolled into one.
You smile.
‘Tis true that nothing has been resolved. You have not succeeded in nursing the babes by yourself. You have not banished the sickening feeling that churns in the pit of your stomach, a constant reminder of the doubts that plague you. You have not spoken properly of the fire and blood of Azorion and Valnissar’s hatching.
But you have begun on the necessary paths to each. Every journey, however great or small, must start somewhere, after all. And—perhaps most importantly—there is not a single ailment that cannot be eased, at least for a time, by the strength of Daemon’s devotion to you.
As you crane your neck to proffer a kiss of your own to the top of your husband’s head, you know that whatever future awaits you is one you can face.
I can do this. I can do this. For the first time in days, you believe it.
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Suguru Geto x f!reader. Reader and Suguru are married and have a child (a girl). Said daughter has a habit of waking at inconvenient times. Family dynamics, married (parent) sex is hard. Keeping the flame alive is even harder when there's a tiny person at your bedroom door who needs attention. Part of my series Between Us. Not proofread (oh. oh god.)
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"Mommy?"
The tiny voice, accompanied by a tentative knock, comes just as you were about to.
In the darkness of your bedroom, you climb off of Suguru and burrow yourself deep in the blankets of your bed.
"Mommy's sleeping, baby. What do you need?" Suguru asks, altering his voice to make it sound as if he was sleeping, too.
"I got scared," your daughter says, meek and muffled against your door. Your husband switches on the lamp and bends to pick up his boxers and t-shirt off the floor. slipping into them before throwing you a mirthless grin. He tucks his still hard cock into the waistband and pulls his hair back into a bun before padding over to unlock the door.
His brown-eyed little girl stands in the hall, hugging the neck of her favorite stuffed animal– a bunny, floppy-eared, baby blue, and obviously well-loved. Long eyelashes bat away crocodile tears, and Suguru gives her a gentle smile as he scoops her into his arms. "What scared you, hm?" He pulls the door shut and her wobbly little voice fades away as he carries her back to her room.
You heave a sigh and throw the covers off, arms bouncing unceremoniously off the mattress. You stare at the ceiling as your heartbeat returns to normal, your mood (and orgasm) ruined. For weeks now, your daughter has been waking soon after you put her to bed, and you can't figure out why. You have a routine that never falters— after dinner, there's a bath, then some free time, followed by a book, a night time snack if she's hungry, and a secure tucking in, complete with the family of stuffies that she insists on having in bed with her. You say goodnight, and she's asleep within a few minutes.
Of course, you love her. Of course, you knew that your life (sex most definitely included) would be forever altered after her birth. Part of parenting is making sacrifices for your children, big and small. What it doesn't call for is ignoring your most basic human needs and desires.
You've always had a healthy sex life with Suguru. There's mutual desire and a deep physical and emotional connection that both of you work hard to maintain, and it's important to both of you that you're mutually satisfied a few times a week. It doesn't always work out that way, and sometimes you have to get creative (and sneaky) to make it happen.
You consider your options while Suguru consoles your daughter. You could finish yourself off; there's a vibrator that he bought for you on your last birthday tucked away in your underwear drawer, but that would mean having to get out of bed (and it's so warm and soft, and you really don't feel like getting up). You could give yourself a little manual stimulation, but it's not the same as having Suguru between your thighs, and you pout thinking of how close you were just a few minutes ago. The only other option is to wait for him to return to your bedroom and finish what the two of you started before you were interrupted by innocence.
You fluff your pillow and curl into the blankets again, willing yourself not to fall asleep and miss the return of your husband to your side. By the time he comes back, you're barely lucid, breathing deep and even in the soft glow of lamplight. He locks the door and strips off his clothes, spooning himself against your back. His arm circles your waist, fingers working between your thighs while kisses fall soft on your bare shoulder.
"You're not sleeping, are you?" he teases on a quiet lilt, sinking his teeth into your earlobe as his finger finds your clit. You keen into your pillow and grind back against him.
"Someone has to sleep in this house," you quip; you move your leg to accommodate him anyway. He savors the drag of his cock through the softest, warmest part of you, but doesn't mess around in getting back down to business. Time is of the essence, and he wants you satisfied (he wants to be satisfied, too).
You come on a broken cry of his name as he whispers his devotion into the nape of your neck, arms wound tight around you while he grunts in his release.
"Oh, thank god," you pant. "I needed that so bad."
"You lie together for a few moments afterward, basking in the skin to skin contact, the intimacy of shared space, shared breath and shared heart beats. Suguru traces idle patterns across your abdomen until you turn and press your lips to his, honey slow and feather soft. You feel his lips turn up into a grin when your tongue slips into his mouth.
"Again?" he muses, palming at the fat of your hip.
"I just wanna kiss you."
And you do just that for exactly five minutes before there's another meek knock at your door.
Suguru buries his face between your breasts and sighs heavily. "Your turn."
He holds onto you as you clamber out of bed. "Let go," you giggle.
"Mamma?"
"Just a minute, honey!" you call, searching for your pajama bottoms in the tangle of sheets at the foot of the bed.
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𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥
Paring: Daddy!Bucky Barnes x needy!reader
Warnings: dom/sub dynamic, spanking as punishment, smut 18+ ONLY MDNI, thigh riding, reader is not a brat, Bucky is just too perfect to resist hehe!!
Word Count: 1.2k
Synopsis: Bucky only needs ten minutes to finish his work, but you can't seem to wait.
𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐒 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝
𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐌.𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ✴︎ 𝐒. 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍 𝐌.𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ✴︎ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍
"Who is it?" Bucky responds to your meek knocks interrupting the isolated sound of the typing keys of his computer. His eyes remained locked on the screen.
"Daddy?" Your voice is barely audible, afraid to intrude and nervous about being a burden on his work life — and on him in general.
"Is that you?" he tries to confirm your hushed breath. "Come in, angel. Daddy's just working."
You knew that, and he had been for the past three hours. The past three hours, you were overcome with a restlessness that has been brewing in various places inside you for the past couple of days. Trying to contain the hankering yearning for your Daddy's touch and affection.
The mahogany door is heavy as you shakily step into his office with an apprehensive timidness. Your eyes instantaneously draw to Bucky's sulky grimace and nimble fingers furiously typing at his keyboard.
Only a trace of your breath leaves your mouth when you attempt to address Bucky again, but his low sigh that exerts any remaining patience he has been able to hold onto has you crawling back into your withering skin.
"Come." Bucky leans back into his plush leather chair. He smooths out his dress pants with his palms, eyes finally connecting to the helpless pout you can no longer control as the spark in your core spreads like wildfire. "You can sit on Daddy's lap while he's working. Promise it won't be much longer."
That was not true. Well, at least too long for you to wait.
Thirty minutes of using all of your strength to not let out a whimper or plea, you slide your trembling hand between both of your pent-up bodies. “Miss you.”
Bucky coos, pressing his soft lips to your forehead — his hand securing you closer on the small of your back. “I miss you more.” He sighs deeply, finally detaching his gaze from his laptop screen. “Just need to finish this one last thing. Be a good girl and wait ten more minutes for Daddy. Then we can do whatever you want.”
You know the series of events that will unfold if you continue down your path of insistent whines and clingy huffs. You will succumb to the inevitable with every roll of your hips against Bucky's abundant bulge.
The pulse radiating from your neglected sex overpowers your capability to remain patient. Bucky has diligently worked on your capacity for patience — the reward is worth the wait — but you are, without fail, helpless.
"Daddy." A whimper falls from your pouted lips. Every muscle in your body grapples to Bucky. A single second of uncontrollability.
The silence is agonizing.
"Alright," Bucky quickly closes his laptop and pushes his chair away from his busy desk. "That's enough from you." He lets out a deep sigh; frustration casts down on you, and the look displayed across his face is evidence of his instincts to correct your bratty behavior and lack of patience.
"Ten minutes and all my attention would be on you. You know this, been working on it so hard."
Bucky hushes your silent cries as tears flood your waterline. Your brows contort as you shrink into your shell, burrowing your shameful frown in his chest — hips still softly bucking in an erratic pattern.
You grip the crisp fabric straining Bucky's biceps. "'m sorry," you hiccup. "Can't—can't..." Attempts to bypass the thumping of your core tremble your legs.
"I know, I know," he tuts. Bucky's hands engulf your form as he pets the small of your back. "Take a deep breath for me."
You do as you're told. Take slow deep breaths as Bucky instructs and soothes you.
"You know I have to give you a punishment, yeah?" Bucky pecks your forehead as you shyly nod in response, sniffling and rubbing against him. "Now, be a good girl and take your pants off."
Again, you do as you're told, even though your arousal seeps through the fabric of your panties, provoking more squirming as Bucky guides you to lay over his lap. Bucky's calloused hands trail up and down your supple pristine thighs.
Groping the tender skin of your bottom, his unoccupied hand makes his way to the places that caused you to receive an over-the-knee spanking.
Bucky smirks at the wet patch your slick has created as he removes the last garment separating him and your bare backside.
"I'm gonna give you ten, alright, honey? One for every minute Daddy told you to wait. I know you're feeling needy, but you have to count for me, or we'll have to start over. I don't want to make this more difficult than it already is."
You nod, clinging onto Bucky's shin tighter with each firm strike that hits your skin. His bulge grows hard under your docile frame, letting out satisfied grunts harmonizing with your meek whimpers.
You squeak a desperate hiccup, "T-ten."
Bucky's gratifying praise flows past his content smile, his deep whispers fuzzy as you try to form a coherent sentence, but it fuels the fire rising in your abdomen. Shifting in his chair, Bucky bends forward dexterously, situating you back on his lap, juxtaposing your frantic scurrying to reconnect your aching clit to the lush fabric that encases Bucky's brawny thigh.
Leaning back in his seat, your freshly spanked flesh makes contact with Bucky driving your hips to jolt against your Daddy. Heedlessly, your hips begin to rut, sensitive bud gliding against Bucky’s thigh, painting his dress pants with your slick.
Bucky tuts. "There you go. Just needed Daddy, huh?"
You continue to nestle further into the crook of Bucky's neck —helpless mewls from your trembling lips are muffled by Bucky's golden skin. "S-sorry, Daddy."
"You're okay. I got you." Hushing you, Bucky gently bounces his leg, sending gentle jolts of pleasure into your core. "Can you cum for Daddy now, angel?" He strengthens the grasp on your hips, asserting his dominance.
You frantically nod your tucked head, causing Bucky to chuckle. Your feverish whimpers remain steady, along with Bucky's reassuring praise. You subconsciously clutch Bucky's button down as you clench your fluttering sex around nothing, alerting Bucky that you are close.
"You can cum; go on."
Your thighs tremble when your climax hits, rushing down your body and sending goosebumps down your spine.
"That's a good girl," Bucky hums, kissing your head tenderly. "Cum for Daddy."
Pliant and yielding, your chest heaves against Bucky's — he guides you to ride out your orgasm, his palms kneading your lithe hips. Your sensitive folds graze over the apparent wet spot you have left on Bucky's dress pants.
Finally catching your breath, you giggle. "Made Daddy hard."
"Uh-huh?" Bucky grins smugly. "Are you gonna thank Daddy for stopping his work for you?" Alluding to you shimmying off his lap to suckle at his now fully hard erection. "Go on and thank Daddy, angel."
You nod up at Bucky with a sheepish smile as you move down until you're kneeling on the floor. "Thank you, Daddy."
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌
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we need jealous neteyam
say less bestie.
synopsis: When Neteyam sees you talking to a touchy Metkayina man, he feels the need to remind you and the rest of the world who you belong to.
wc: 3k words
warnings: filthy smut (p in v penetration, fingering, oral - f receiving, squirting, edging, creampie, slight praise kink), slightly mean!neteyam, jealous!neteyam, softdom!neteyam, 18+ minors DNI
na'vi words used: Atan - light (also known as my favourite nickname ever - see illicit affairs for more), tewng - loincloth
a/n: thank you anonnie for the request bc fr i've needed jealous!Neteyam in my life and this came at the perfect time. this HAD to be done as part as the cardigan series. i don't make the rules, i just abide by them, but you don't have to have read it to understand any of it, this is just a nod for my OG besties x
Neteyam had impeccable control over his emotions. Everyone thought so. Everyone said so. The best of both Neytiri and Jake, he was a picture-perfect warrior through and through. Calm and collected in the face of danger, able to stop and analyse every move 3 steps in advance, able to gain perspective in every situation, able to think impartially, able to maintain perspective even in the harshest of circumstances.
That was normally. That was normally, but now, as he was watching you smile at the Metkayina Olo’eyktan’s right hand, as he was watching his hand brush the soft lapis skin only he should ever know the feel of, Neteyam felt like a bull in a ring, and the man was tauntingly dangling a red cloth in front of his face.
Neteyam assumed the whole damn clan understood you were his… you came to the reef people together, didn’t you? You were holding on to him when you first met the chieftain and the Tsa’hik. He thought it was pretty fucking obvious. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he needed to work harder to make sure people knew who you belonged to, who owned your heart, your soul. Your body.
His mind was empty as he stalked towards the pair of you, a mission on his mind and a frown on his face. His mouth was tight and his eyes hard as he grabbed you sternly by your arm, and you jumped slightly at the contact, but immediately relaxed as your gaze settled on his beautiful navy body only to again stiffen as you took in his demeanour. He was pissed at you. Neteyam didn’t get pissed often. In fact, you think the last time was almost a year ago, back in your clearing in the forest. Not only was he pissed, there was a darkness about him, so atypical, so different.. so fucking hot.
You smirked, and you feel butterflies burrowing through your stomach and escaping through the rest of your body, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He was jealous. Neteyam was jealous. You haven’t seen Neteyam jealous since he thought you fucked his brother, in a time that felt like a different life ago, and heat was quickly spreading in your womb at the memory of that kiss, your first kiss, so intense, so passionate, so raw. The grip he had on your arm was so tight it was restricting blood flow to your fingers, which prickled painfully, slowly going numb.
Oh, this is going to be fun…
“Atan, who is your new friend? I don’t think we’ve met.” His low voice was serious, deadly, not an ounce of his normal, good-natured tone.
“This is Azao Te Soaspxaì Kuvay'itan. He is chief Tonowari’s right hand man. A mighty warrior.” Strike one. You knew you were pushing your luck, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. In fact, you knew pushing your luck now meant getting fucked dumb later, and that was enough motivation for you to egg him on.
“I feel like you two should talk. You might have a lot more in common than you think.” You couldn’t help the slight amused tone in your voice, couldn’t help the small squeal you had to conceal as a cough as Neteyam’s hand was leaving painful purple marks on your now numb arm. His eyes were boring holes in the side of your face, and you also couldn't help yourself from turning around and raising an eyebrow at him. Strike two. A low rumble emanates from deep in his throat, and both your and Azao’s eyes snap to your mate, who is holding it together with barely concealed wrath.
“That… sounds great." Azao's tone was uncertain as he spoke. "Your dad mentioned you were one of the youngest Omatikaya to pass your Iknimaya and Uniltaron. That’s very impressive. We can definitely talk more, once I am done with your beautiful sister here.”
Strike three.
“Ah, Azao. Neteyam is not my brother. He’s my mate.” You moved subtly, so as to put your body in between the poor man and Neteyam’s, and you felt his chest heaving with each deep breath as it stood flush against your back. Azao’s rude awakening would have been hilarious to witness if it wasn’t for the fact you were genuinely worried for his life. You couldn’t blame him for his mistake. You always referred to the rest of the Sully kids as your siblings, and aside from your obvious human features, that you shared with Lo’ak, Kiri and Jake, you and Neteyam had a distinct resemblance to each other, such as your deeply-contrasted stripes covering your face and your whole body, so much more pronounced than most other Na’vi’s, even your siblings'.
“I -, I- I thought you said the Toruk Makto is your dad.” You pushed a lock of hair that fell in front of your eyes and scratched the top of your head, laughing awkwardly.
“Yeah. It’s… complicated.”
“Azao.” Shit. Neteyam’s tone was a blaring warning sign, and you dug your feet more firmly on the ground, using your body as a shield. His hand travelled down onto your own, that he grabbed forcefully. His other hand went to the nape of your neck, that he caressed with barely-there touches, and you shuddered under him. You needed him. Now.
“If you will excuse us, my mate and I have to talk.” He didn’t wait for the Metkayina man to answer before he ushered you away, and you turned as best as you could, waving your new friend goodbye.
Neteyam didn’t stop until you reached a portion of the island that was uninhibited and covered in trees and shrubbery, and soft green moss. You didn’t manage to get a single word out before Neteyam’s long, beautiful fingers wrap around your throat and squeeze, knocking the air out of you. Without warning, his lips crash into yours feistily, and his tongue pushes past your lips, hungrily exploring your mouth, and you moan into him, desperate for him to do the same to your needy, sopping cunt. He pushes your head back by the throat, and gives you a warning look, one that should deter you, but instead makes you pant with untamed desire.
“You like playing with fire, don’t you, Atan?” he squeezes again, until you whimper and the world starts to slowly fade around you, and the whimpers turn into pathetic moans as he releases his grip and the rush of oxygen makes more slick pool in your now already-damp loincloth.
“I’m your brother now, am I? Is that what people think, is this what this tribe thinks?”
“Neteyam, who cares what they think?”
“I obviously haven’t done a good enough job in making sure people understand who you belong to.” his hand takes hold of your jaw, bringing it up to look in his eyes. “Who this face belongs to.” His other hand moves down to trail over your body, from your neck to your collarbones, to the swell of your breasts, to the curve of your waist until it reaches your tewng, that he skilfully unwraps and lets fall to the floor, and you whimper slightly as the breeze hits your now uncovered core. His slips his hand in between your thighs, tracing your folds, thumb circling your clit lazily, and you jerk slightly, but he holds you in place with a firm grip on your hips. “Who this pussy belongs to.”
He tilts his head slightly and licks his lips, still eyeing you like how a predator eyes his next meal. “Let’s look at all the offences, shall we? First…” he says as he pushes your thighs apart and inserts a slender digit into your drenched core. You gasp at the sudden stretch and try to push your head back, which he prevents with his unrelenting grip on your face. He tsks with a languid shake of his head. “No, Atan. You will look at me.” he starts a slow pace of his finger, continuing to pump in and out of you while his thumb motions draw more insistent, and the pressure in your core builds, enough to make you pant, not enough to feel release, aching for more, more stimulation, more of him in you.
“First, you knowingly let another man flirt with you, and you call him a mighty warrior in front of me, knowing full well what it would do to me.”
“Second…” he inserts a second finger, scissoring you open, and the mewl you release does nothing to deter him, nothing to stop him. “You raise your eyebrow at me. You know what happens when you raise your pretty little eyebrows at me, Atan.”
“Neteyam, ple- ah! Please!”
“No, baby, you don’t get to ask for favours now. I’m not even done yet.”
“Third,” his last digit sinks into you to the knuckle and his three long, slender fingers stretch you out like a fucking dream, filling you in the way you craved and needed, moving at the pace he knew would get you to fall apart around him. “You allowed him to think that we’re brother and sister. You let him think he had a shot at fucking you. You let him touch your skin, run his fingers down your arm.”
Your breaths were shaky and shallow as you shook your head, as you tried to obey him, tried to focus on keeping your gaze on his, on keeping yourself together, but you couldn’t, not when it felt so good, not when the pressure in your abdomen was so tight it was about to explode all around you and all around him. And he didn’t want you to keep it together. He wanted you to suffer, and suffer you did when he pulled out of you as you were on the edge of coming on his fingers.
“Argh - fuck!” You felt frustrated, and tears started to prick at your eyes, the emptiness you felt in your womb taking a toll on you. He knew your body better than you did. He’s had so long to learn it, so long to study it, and much like the any other challenge Neteyam tackled, he aced, he became the leading expert in what buttons to push to get you to come, and what buttons to push to drive you to the edge of insanity.
“Does it feel good? You wanted this, right? Wanted to piss me off? Well, Atan…” he removes his hand from your jaw and moves it to your chest, which he pushes softly until you take the hint and move backwards, and he helps you onto the ground, caressing your body as he does, a gentle reminder that he loves you, that he would never purposefully hurt you, that he knows that there is a fine line between pleasure and pain and that, while he’s walking it, you would give into him like you always did, because in the end, he always made it worth your while.
“Consider me pissed off.”
His hands move from your ankles upwards, massaging your thighs with each stroke, with each inch traversed, and you almost relax under his touch, the feeling soothing and reassuring, like the calm before a storm. You allowed yourself the respite of closing your eyes and melting on the ground, with rushes of need overtaking you once more. You let out an inadvertent squeal when his tongue licks your pussy from your entrance to your clit, that he sucks on eagerly, making you entire body convulse under him, making you grind on his face, and he lets you, allowing you to coat his lips, chin and nose in your arousal. He continues to do it until you’re ready to come, then stops, once, twice, three times. You have tears running down your face and small, pathetic sobs escaping your lips.
“Why’re you crying, baby? Hmm?” You just whine in response, shaking your head spastically. His mouth closes over your hips and abdomen in several spots, leaving marks and hickeys that you knew everyone will be able to see, including his family. “Neteyam… we share a tent with your family, fuck!”
“Atan, I don’t care. It’s obvious I haven’t made it clear to the people of this clan that you’re mine. Mine. It’s time I rectified that. I won’t apologise for marking you up, everyone should know you’re taken.”
He continued his endless, slow, torturous onslaught throughout your whole body, until you had bruises everywhere, until they were as prominent as the little bioluminescent stars adorning your body, until they were battle scars that you would wear proudly, that you would show off enthusiastically, because fuck, you were his. You have been his since the moment you were both born just a couple months apart and you’ll be his your whole lives. You loved nothing more than being his.
When he reaches you neck, the sucking turns into soft, peppering kisses, and you melt into his touch, cooing slightly as your hands reach over to stroke his hair and push it back behind his ears, that twitch backwards in response.
“You’re mean. But I love you anyway.”
“You were mean first, Atan. And I love you more. Don’t forget that.” You let out a breathy scream as his canines sink into your neck, and you can almost taste the metallic tang of the blood as it makes its way out of your body, as it coats your mate’s tongue when he laps at it like a starved man.
“You’re mine.” He kisses you, roughly and you moan into his mouth as the mixture of your slick and blood on his tongue, in your mouth, makes you dizzy, tightens the coil in your womb once more.
“I’m yours. All yours.”
“Every curve, every moan, and every quiver belong to me, and only me.”
He makes quick work of his loincloth that he tosses carelessly by your side, and you can’t help the breathless moans that escape you once his tip prods at your soaked entrance, your cunt throbbing in anticipation, praying that this time, he’ll let you finish. Once. At least once. You push into him impatiently, making his length slip into you more and he growls lowly at your mishap.
“Move another inch and you won’t be coming tonight.”
Incoherent whimpers are all you are able to contribute in response, and he starts slowly sinking into your needy cunt, the stretch almost unbearable, but oh, so necessary. You can feel his tip grazing your cervix as he bottoms out and his breath hitches in his throat, a frown on his beautiful face as the pleasure takes over him. It takes a while, but eventually his eyes open and you are overwhelmed at their beauty, at the glimmers of light and forest green in the expressive, golden orbs, the one you knew by heart, the one that you dreamt of at night, that were the lights that guided your life, just like you were the light that guided his.
“You drive me crazy, Atan. I can already feel you squeezing me. You always take me so well, don’t you, baby? This pretty pussy was made for my cock. Mine.”
You nod enthusiastically, hoping that by doing so he’ll forgive you and fuck you until you passed out, the way he always did back in the forest. You missed falling asleep with him still deep in you, his cum dripping down your ass, hidden from view in your favourite cave or your clearing, where no one else could find you, where it was just you and him, forever and for always.
“Do you want it, baby? Want me to give it to you?”
“Yes! Yes please, oh my God, please!”
He smirks and tilts his head, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“Yeah?”
You whimper, frustration taking over you once more. His smirk widens into a full devilish smile and he pulls out slowly, only to ram back into you so hard you get knocked back from the sheer force.
“Beg.”
“Please, Neteyam. Fucking hell, please, I’m begging you, move! I need you to fuck me, I need your cock so badly, please!”
You felt his groan deep in your soul, electricity running down your spine, pooling in your abdomen, sending sparks everywhere in your body and when he started a rough pace, slamming into you ruthlessly while his balls continued to slap against your folds, while his pelvis put pressure on your clit, it didn’t take long for the pleasure to become overwhelming, didn’t take long for all the orgasms you were denied to catch up with you. He didn’t stop once you came all over his cock, but maintained the same pace until you were shaking and feeling the desire build up yet again, even stronger than the first time.
“Remember whose dick you’re about to squirt on the next time you think of pulling this shit. Let go, Atan. Come for me.”
Another testament to how well he knew you, his words immediately drove you to your release, gushes of liquid spilling out of you as you squirted on him, dripping down his balls and your ass and making a mess out of the ground beneath you.
“Let’s see Azao get near you again when you spend the next week with my cum dripping down your thighs. With my smell all over your perfect body.”
And with that, he comes in you, thick ropes of cum painting your walls, that he fucks back into you, using his cock like a plug to make certain you’re marked, certain it’s not going anywhere for the time being.
Neteyam had impeccable control over his emotions. But just like with everything else in his life, you would always be the exception to his every rule, the one that had absolute power over him, the one that owned his heart, body and soul. The only one.
“So… do you like getting fucked by your brother, Atan?”
taglist: @samiiistarss @fanboyluvr
#༊*·˚ andra's works#neteyam#neteyam x human!reader#neteyam x reader#neteyam fanfic#neteyam reader#neteyam sully#avatar#avatar twow#avatar fanfic#neteyam x avatar!reader#neteyam sully fanfiction#neteyam angst#awow#awow neteyam#neteyam smut#neteyam x y/n#avatar way of water#neteyam x reader smut#neteyam x you#neteyam drabble#avatar drabble#avatar x reader#illicit affairs#the cardigan series#the archer
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"demure"
best friends dad! james potter x reader
masterlist
requests are open!
MDNI
word count: 1.2k
warnings: age gap, smut, cheating, ovb everyone is of age!
i know this is starting off a bit similar to my show you series for sirius but its gonna go in a diff direction in the next parts <3
i cant stop thinking about dilf james potter
You were struggling to sleep as your boyfriend, Ron, lay unconscious next to you snoring loudly. You had been staying at the Potters for the past few days as it was summer break and everyone seemed to circle between there and the Burrow for the past few weeks.
You'd expect Ron to be filled with glee at the fact you can share a bed at the Potters, where as at his family home they are made to sleep in separate beds. However, it seemed he couldn't be less bothered.
Desperation began to overtake you as despite your best efforts, he barely wanted to sleep with you. Of course you did, occasionally, but even then it didn't satisfy you.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, you crawled out of bed to grab a glass of water as it didn't seem like you were sleeping anytime soon. Standing to your feet, you caught yourself in the mirror. A short black lacy night dress clung to your hips causing you to cringe at yourself. An attempt to spice things up with Ron only to go unnoticed as he simply poked fun at your pyjama choice.
You quietly made your way to the bathroom to grab some water, not too worried about your choice in clothes as you doubted anyone would be up at this hour.
The only noise in the hallway was your bare-feet padding down the stairs. Once you reached the dim-lit kitchen, you realised you were not alone.
James Potter was resting against the kitchen counter with a glass of red wine in has hand, wearing only a white vest and his boxer shorts.
"Y/N." He smirked, it seemed like this wasn't his first drink.
"Mr Potter," You stumbled. "I was just grabbing a glass of water."
"Can't sleep?" He chuckled. "You don't want a real drink?"
Before letting you answer, he grabbed another glass from the cupboard and poured a hefty amount of red wine into it.
"Plus, it's James." He added, passing you the glass. As he did so, you felt his eyes wander down your body causing your cheeks to grow red.
"Thank you, James."
"Sit with me." He strolled over to the lounge, placing himself down on the sofa.
You wandered over towards him, sitting down on the sofa but as far away as possible. You had never been alone with him before.
"So what's got you up at this hour?"
"I- um, I'm not sure." You mumbled. You were unsure why you were so nervous, you had known James since you and Harry became friends, but you could feel like eyes on your body.
"Ron not help you get to sleep?"
You were speechless - he was clearly intoxicated but every word he spoke shocked you more and more.
"Oh come on." He took out a box of cigarettes and lit one. You knew he smoked but had witnessed how angry Lily gets when he lights one inside. "Pretty girl like you, surely he can't keep his hands off of you."
"Not quite." You chuckled, taking a big sip.
"What do you mean?" He pushed, taking a drag of his cigarette.
"I- You know what I mean." The wine was making you feel more relaxed.
"He doesn't satisfy you?"
There was a pause as you struggled with how to reply, this was such a strange situation and you didn't want to tell him everything that you had never even spoken about to your closest friends.
"Of course he does." You responded, but it came out a bit too defensive.
James laughed as your cheeks grew red again.
You didn't want anyone to know about your sex life - it was embarrassing. But now you'd somehow given it away to your best friends dad.
"You don't sound too convincing, darling." James smirked. "Has he made you cum?"
You looked at him, confused. Made you cum? Of course you'd made him cum time and time again but you didn't think it was possible the other way round.
"He hasn't?" James raised his eyebrows. "Fuck, he's wasting you."
"What do you mean?" You almost groaned, this whole conversation was both confusing and frustrating.
"I mean look at you." He put out his cigarette and took a big swig from his glass. "Such a sexy little princess and he can't even make you cum."
Heat grew between your legs as you locked eyes. You had never seen this side of James before, and although guilt was desperately trying to come to the forefront of your emotions, you pushed at back.
"Come here." He spread his legs and patted in between them.
You obliged, moving shakily towards him.
As you sat down in his lap, back facing his chest, goosebumps covered your skin as you made contact with him.
"Want me to show you how it's supposed to be, pretty girl?"
You nodded.
"Use your words."
"Yes, James." You almost choked.
He placed a soft kiss on the back of your neck causing you to stifle a soft moan.
James' hand travelled down to your thigh, using his thumb to brush circled edging closer and closer to you.
You wanted to scream, you had never felt this intense neediness before and you could feel yourself growing wetter and wetter.
"Tell me what you want." He whispered in your ear.
"You." You let out desperately.
"Tell me."
"I want you to make me cum." You moaned out.
At your demand, his fingers moved towards your lace panties, rubbing circles through them.
"Fuck, princess, you're already wet for me?"
You couldn't let out anything other than a moan. He continued to rub circles, his pace growing quicker and quicker. You were already close to your high and he hadn't even removed your underwear yet.
The combination of his wet kisses on your neck and his big hands circling your clit caused you to reach your high, legs shaking at the sheer ecstacy.
"You came already, baby?" James chuckled. "I haven't even started yet."
Before you had the chance to catch your breath, he ripped your underwear off of you and pushed a finger inside you.
You couldn't stop moaning, he were worried at the amount of noise you were making but that thought quickly passed once James gripped your throat, restricted both noise and your breathing.
Somehow this turned you on even more, worried you would cum for a second time in only a few minutes.
He pushed two more fingers inside you, fucking you with force at an unnatural pace.
"Your pussy is so tight, sweet girl." He groaned. "I wanna feel you cum around my fingers this time"
You couldn't believe how good he made you feel, giving you just the right amount of pleasure and pain as he continued to choke you.
Your head flew back, resting on his chest as you reached your high for a second time. Your pussy clenched around his fingers as you continued to moan.
Once you'd finished your climax, he pulled his fingers from you and brought them up to his mouth, sucking your cum from them.
Your brain was still hazy and you wanted him more than anything you'd ever wanted in your life.
Sliding off of him onto the floor in front, you turned to him. You tried to pull down his boxers but he gently grabbed your wrists.
"As much as I'd like to fuck you until we both can't walk, Y/N." James chuckled. "I fear we might wake my wife."
---
part two
there will be many parts to this !!! aiming to do part two tomorrow
let me know if you liked it and remember my requests are open :)
#james potter x reader#james potter smut#james potter#mauraders smut#marauders x reader#sirius black#sirius black x reader#marauders#sirius black smut#wolfstar#remus lupin x reader#remus lupin smut#sirius black x reader smut#sirius x reader#post azkaban sirius
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MILLER'S GIRL ✎ SERIES MASTERLIST
Chapter Three: Forbidden Fruit
Chapter Summary: Mr. Miller receives your assignment in it's full detailed exposé and despite his reaction, doesn't seem as pleased as you anticipated. It leads to a tense interaction that lands you in his office with more questions and confusion. [4k]
[student/teacher relationship, age gap, no outbreak, power dynamic]
Chapter Warnings: fem!reader, professor!joel miller (his teacher persona is v different from outside of the classroom, so if he seems slightly ooc....close your eyes), dom!joel, sub!reader, reader is a little obsessed with joel (and delusional), background tess x joel, inappropriate relationships/actions, masturbation (m), confrontations, joel manhandling reader (kinda roughly), panty ripping, one (1) forbidden kiss
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Joel takes the plunge into the assignments the following night—it was a small class so he knew it wouldn’t take a large chunk of time, a couple hours at the end of his day and he’d have it out of the way and grades posted before the following morning. It was always easier to do things this way, hidden away in his office to force his focus and block out the rest of what was going on.
He flies through the assignments with a detailed precision, giving proper and full notes on things he thinks the students could work on or tweak, give some personal thoughts on creativity, and allow some encouragement where it was needed.
But, your name sits in the bottom of his inbox, bold lettered and unread—he saved it for last.
He could lie and say he didn’t do it on purpose, but he’s come to thoroughly enjoy your writing, so he pushes it off until it’s the final thing he has to grade that night. He knows Tess should be arriving home soon, so despite his want to give you his full, undivided attention—he intends to give it a quick skim.
Joel knows there’s no real notes he can give you. You always had a clear idea on your work, so meticulously planned out that it reminded him of himself in a way.
He takes a sip of the quickly dissipating bourbon in the cup sitting on his desk, ice clinking against the glass as he clicks on your essay and watches it expand onto the screen.
He likes to jot down his thoughts on paper as he goes, making it easier to format and type as he replies—he grips the pencil tight, reading the title of your essay.
ill-suited innocence
In a crowd she finds herself searching, looking for him. Days and days of tense glances and inappropriate thoughts—he must share them too? While she can’t be bothered by the fantasy of mythical creatures and things that only made sense in fiction, she did believe in the fantasy of wanting what she couldn’t have. Him.
Much older, wiser—grim around the eyes and a deep sorrow that burrowed its way into his chest and made home. He couldn’t fix himself, but she could. At least, she thinks she could.
Joel straightened his back, leaning into the screen to assure himself he wasn’t misreading. It was…an interesting take on the assignment he gave you, but he’ll bite. He’s used to your stuff being a little more unorthodox.
Something along the lines of forbidden fantasy? A tale of love? It wasn’t his particular choice of fiction but he wasn’t opposed to it. He squints, reading more.
He drops the pencil for a moment
Their lives mundane and unassuming, they traverse through life with little enjoyment. Two sides of the same coin and he was too oblivious to realize. He offered smiles and kind words, guidance that seemed from a good place but only allowed her to feel more misdirection. He was an enigma, difficult to decipher and she craved him.
And though he tries to fight whatever attraction he may feel, she can see it in his tense gaze. The lingering touches he leaves on her body. Secret meetings, talks that allowed themselves to be more deep than should be allowed. He was allowing her in little by little but she needed more.
She just had to ask, so she did.
Joel feels a tightening deep in his gut that wasn’t there before, reading between the lines of text and allowing faint glimpses of memories with you to match themselves with the words—his brow furrowing under the guise of…anger? No, frustration. He shouldn’t be equating his perfectly…appropriate relationship with you to this. In fact, it shouldn’t cross his mind. But, it does.
All of this from a dream? He could lie and say he wasn't intrigued, but that wasn't the case.
Joel doesn’t expect the full 180 turn as he glances down at the chunk of text that follows.
“You’re my student,” He whispers to her, “I can’t allow this.”
She bites at her lip, noticing the subtle click of his heels as they hit the floor, back them against his desk as she takes a seat, plastic cup full of pencils falling to the floor but neither of their eyes leaving each other.
“You can,” She encourages, “I’m hardly a student anymore. I’m a friend. We’re friends, right?”
And given his ability to let her in so easily, he also considered her a friend. Naively. He’s gotten himself into this position and he can’t find a reason to not give her what she wants—what he wants.
He captures her lips in a searing kiss, much less polite than a friend would, her fingers quickly undoing his belt—
Joel feels his cock hardening under the confines of his slacks, clearing his throat slightly. He should stop reading—he knows he should. The glaringly obvious lines being crossed are blurred for a moment. He shouldn’t have led you on like this, allowed you to cook up some depraved illusion of what you thought things could be.
Because they couldn’t. That wasn’t what this was. Joel had told himself over and over—he was helping. He didn’t think you’d take advantage of the scenario like this. Still, he finds himself loosening the buckle of his belt as well, unzipping his pants enough that he can stuff his hand into the tight space between his bare cock and briefs, palming himself impatiently.
And he skims—words sticking and fading in his mind. It starts of with a slow, sensual make out and a messily described handjob that has his cocking throbbing with every tight stroke he pulls at his shaft, eventually tired of fighting the tight space he’s allowed with his slacks making it impossible to move, he leans back and pulls his cock out far enough that he has free, unrestrained range. The bourbon glass leaves a sweat ring on the oak of his desk but Joel can’t be bothered, he scrolls down further, taking in the last few scenes that allowed him a full idea of just what exactly you thought was going on between the both of you. Or, what you wanted to happen.
He allows himself a moment to slip out of his headspace and imagine, selfishly.
Bent over the desk, items scattered to the floor he pulled at her skirt, something she wore necessarily—easy access, she whispered against his lips before he bent her fully over the desk, chest pressed against the solid wood.
Joel imagines it vividly, his breath quickening as he tugs at his cock in rough, fast strokes and pictures it—you, bent over his desk and your ass presented to him like a prize and how good it would feel to squeeze the flesh between his hands. He knows your sounds would be sweet, divine, and it drives him wild.
He’s thought about you before like this, hand wrapped around his cock, but never in full detail as you’d written out.
And then he slips his cock inside of her, a small gasp of, “Just like that, professor.” falling from her lips and it only spurs Joel deeper into his despair, tugging himself until he feels his orgasm creeping up on him, a churning in his gut that feels too good to quit and he reads out the last few lines, as he comes deep inside of, recklessly and without much decision making.
He thought you were smarter than this. Expected more out of you.
There’s a creak of a floorboard down the hall that sends his world crashing down on him, dampening his orgasm almost immediately as he scrambles to shove himself back inside of his slacks, buttoning and buckling his belt hastily as he clicks out of his browsers and feigns exhaustion, Tess’s fingers curling around the doorknob as she peeks her head in, watching as Joel’s fingers circled the glass of liquor.
God, he hates her.
Not you. Tess.
He figured his reasoning was valid, but truthfully—he just couldn’t stand her any longer. He's been battling the decision to go through with his divorce, but this seemed like as big a sign as ever. It's the unbridled rage he was tired of harboring around her, trying to act like things were fine.
Nothing was fine and his life was imploding.
He was lusting after a student and worse, he know you were after him—actively, clear in the boldness you showed through your assignment.
He thinks back briefly on the video call that he shouldn’t have allowed, your question that seemed…vague but unassuming. Had you planned this the entire time?
Was he just that stupid to not see it?
“Coming to bed tonight?” Tess asks hesitantly.
Joel offers a clear and concise, “No.”
He wasn’t sure if he could even sleep, contemplating over how to handle this…situation.
He couldn’t allow it to stray further.
It would damage his career and ruin his life.
But truthfully, he felt like he’d already reached that point, so what did he have to lose?
-
You wake up on Monday with a deep pit in your chest, knowing that grades were posted that morning. You knew it was a risk, being so open with him—but he couldn’t fail you. You followed the parameters of the assignment and made sure to clear the few questions you had with him.
Part of you is expecting another email from his private account, wondering his thoughts beyond what he would address appropriately. But, the moment your eyes drag along the screen, still blurry from sleep, you feel your heart stop.
0/100. A complete failure.
No comment besides—Rewrite and resend immediately. No extension. Due by the end of the day.
Your jaw clenches in frustration.
Oh, you were not being ignored that easily.
You storm into his room later that day during your free hour for lunch, knowing he’d be saddled up at his desk eating his own lunch.
You couldn’t even think about eating, full of anger and annoyance that kept you full and ready to strike. He can hear your footsteps before you approach and is wiping at his mouth with a napkin when you stop at his desk.
He holds a hand up, face steely and emotionless.
For a moment, you think he might break. Crack a smile and say it was an excuse to get you here.
Instead, he has your essay printed out and ready to shove at you, your fingers curling around the stack and crinkling the edges.
“You can’t fail me,” You start tensely, “I did your stupid assignment and I followed the steps you asked for.”
“I expect a new one by the end of the day. Appropriate to the topic. End of discussion.”
You scoff, not daring to look at the glaring zero he drew out on the paper just to prove a point. It lands in the trash as you throw it down, “No.”
Joel’s chair squeaks as he rises and it startles you slightly, and suddenly he’s invading your space, the muscles in his neck tightening as he pointed an accusatory finger at the trashed papers.
“In what situation did you think any of that was appropriate to write and send to your professor?” Joel asks, noting the way you blink quickly, backing away slightly.
He almost…feels bad? No. He quickly wipes the thought away as more anger crosses your face, eyes dilating in rage.
You lean in slightly, thankful that the halls were quiet around this time of day and that you had closed the door behind you.
“You started this,” You argue, “You crossed that line when you messaged me on a private email. Telling me that you liked the time we spent together. I’m your student—maybe you should’ve taken that into account first.”
His fist clenched at his side, almost to restrain himself, knowing he’d rather shove that finger into your chest and blame you. But, you were both to blame. And he even more so. Still, he doubles down.
“Rewrite it or I’ll fail you for the entire semester.”
Your mouth gapes open, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“That’s…completely unfair.” You settle, voice softer as you drop the act. “I just—”
“Rewrite it.” Joel responds firmly.
“Mr. Miller—” You begin, trying to find a feasible way to get him to listen.
“Or I fail you.” He says with finality. “You’re lucky I don’t take this to the board.”
Which, he never would. He’s just as much at fault. But, he’s taking his frustration out on you. An easy target, slim pickings.
You weren’t playing into that though, not now.
“You won’t,” You challenge him, “because if you do—I can assure you, you won’t appreciate the results.”
It was a threat. Cold and plain.
“Rewrite it,” He reiterates again, his voice softer now. “I have to submit these assignments at the end of the semester and if—that cannot be in there. I need a real essay. Real. Not some fucking delusion.”
It’s the first time he’s talked so…out of term. It feels like him, the real Mr. Miller.
Fine—you’ll write the goddamn essay as he intended. You roll your eyes and Joel relaxes slightly, seeing your defeat as you settle your shoulders back.
“I want it on my desk by the end of day.”
Sure, you could manage that.
If anything, it gave you more of an excuse to drag out his torture a little longer.
-
You spend the entirety of his class working out a new essay, bullshitting your way through an hour of class and typing up something feasible enough to get you a decent grade, knowing that his views of you were already tainted. But, that didn’t matter.
You had plans.
When evening rolls around and classes are finally done for the day, you make the long trek across campus to his class, finding it empty but spotting the light in his private office is still on, a low and muted orange that shined through the window. You approach slowly and knock on the door, hearing his muffled greeting on the other side.
You peek inside, noting his position as he rests with his fist pressed against the side of his face, seemingly nursing a headache as he rubs the fingers of his free hand over his forehead and sighs, closing his laptop as you hold out the small stack of papers for him to grab. He does, skimming through it briefly. You toss your bag off your shoulder and rest it in a nearby chair, standing quietly.
“Something bothering you?” You ask politely, hands crossed over your front as fiddled idly with your fingers, “Mr. Miller?”
He looks up tensely, eyes darkened and foreboding.
“What did you mean earlier?” He asks suddenly, reading your essay with a careful eye. Scribbling something down before he pushes it away, fingers clasped together under his chin as he gives you his full attention. “That I wouldn’t…appreciate the results?”
“Oh, that was—”
A threat. He knows it. You know it.
And he voices it.
“It was a threat, wasn’t it?” He asks coarsely, his voice sounding rough.
He seemed worse for wear, with good reason.
The dignified squeak of his chair is like deja-vu but you don’t back away this time, turning to him as he rounds his desk—his tie is gone, starch pressed shirt unbuttoned to a dangerous degree and his belt is missing, your eyes tracking it in a nearby corner where it’s slung over an empty chair.
He allowed you in here, the small glimpse of his relaxed state. He wasn’t shutting you out necessarily, which was good. But, you still felt unwanted. It was almost like he was dangling a myriad of fruit in front of you, ripe for the taking, but riddled with poison. Forbidden.
“No—”
He grabs your wrist suddenly, tight and gasp-inducing as he pulls it up until it’s level between you both, right at chest level and you’re waiting for him to let go, but he doesn’t.
“Tell. The. Truth.” He says pointedly, a small jerk of your arm with every syllable as he pulls you undoubtedly closer, “I want to hear it.”
Instead of admitting that you did openly threaten him, you switch gears.
“What? That I want you to fuck me?” You ask innocently, pulling your wrist away harshly. “Joel, come on—don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.”
His name is like a gut-punch, a reminder that he gave you that information under the idea that you would keep it safe, but now you were using it against him.
“Don’t—” He warns and your hands press into his crisp button-up, scrunching the fabric in an effort to wrinkle it, feeling the solid press of muscle under your hands that makes your mouth water, eyes widening slightly at the touch and for a split second, he allows it.
He had to escape the situation before he acted on something he would regret.
“Get out.” Joel responds through gritted teeth, shoving your hands away harshly and in turn, forcing you back a few steps with the urgency of it. “Now.”
Still, you step closer, chest against chest as you can feel the distinct bulge in his slacks against your front, tongue clicking in your mouth as you cocked your head to the side mockingly, a finger tracing along the buttons of his shirt until you can curl the tip of it around the hem of his pants.
“You can do it, you know,” You offer, “You could fuck me right now and I wouldn’t tell a soul, not even your wife—or…ex-wife? I’m not sure since you never wear your ring.”
Fuck this and her smart ass mouth, Joel thinks.
Joel’s nostrils flare and he snaps, backing you into the wall by his hand pressed against your chest, the bookshelf beside you shaking with the force. His hands creep up your neck, pressing rigid against the skin and he keeps you there, trapped.
“I can feel it,” You tease through strained vocal cords, his finger squeezing against your neck–not quite cutting off air flow, but the pressure is there and you feel it. It makes your head swim, squirming against his hold as he shifts closer, body pressed against your own firmly, “is that why you asked me to turn the paper in by the end of the day? You wanted me here, didn’t you? I guess my essay did strike a nerve after all.”
The laugh that follows is sickening, a grin appearing under his sneer. His fingers move up a few inches to grip your face. Hard. Squeezing until he feels the solid press of your cheekbones under his thumb and he speaks, so quietly into the space you can barely hear him, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Your eyes drift to his, his head tilting up slightly away from your ear that he had whispered into and there’s glint in your eye. It’s exactly what you wanted. You wanted to burrow yourself under his skin so he couldn't get rid of you.
He feels your fingers continue to trace along the seam of his shirt, tracing over the bumps of the material until you meet his slacks, pressing your palm flat over his cock, hardened under the material and straining–and he can’t help the way his breath intakes sharply, the full body restraint it takes to not rut into your hand. He knows he has the upper hand here, but with the small amount of effort it takes to break his revere for himself, he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up.
“I would,” You nod slowly, eyebrows furrowing as he tightens his grip with your admittance and in turn, you squeeze him just a little harder. He hisses and leans in, letting go of your face to return to your neck–he isn’t squeezing this time, but his hand is a solid presence. You move, he moves. And if he doesn’t like how you move, you would end up exactly where he wants you to, “Come on, Joel. You read all about it. I can do so much more than whatever your wife is doing—isn’t that why you reached out to me?”
“Don’t—stop saying my name.” He warns, trying to keep what little line of professionalism he had between you there, unblurred. “I reached out to help. As your mentor.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s a few things you could teach me.” You say sweetly, the deft sound of his zipper being undone by your hand, popping the button on his pants, “Joel, please.”
He stops your hand in it’s decent, fingers tracing along the hem of his underwear before he’s gripping your arm and turning you with little resistance on your end, front pressed harshly against the stucco wall, a sharp gasp emitting from your throat as he crowds you in again, whispering harshly into your ear, “Mr. Miller. Not Joel. You don’t get that privilege. And stop talking about my fucking wife.”
You moan brokenly at the feeling of his cock pressed against your ass, skirt riding up your thighs and you were sure—positive that Joel could see the fabric of your underwear clinging to your hips from how high up and mused your skirt was now, but he can’t take his eyes of your face, anger emitting from his own and suffocating you like a blanket.
You were pressing his buttons just right and he hated it.
“So, no marital troubles then?” You pester him and he shuts you up immediately, palm covering your mouth tightly as his free hand grips at the hem of your underwear at your hip and tugs—yep, he saw them. Some soft color, all lacy, meant to be attention-grabbing. And if Joel couldn’t have you the way he truly desires, he’d make you wish you could have it even worse than he wanted it. “You—huh, you can’t even wear your wedding ring, Mr. Miller—don’t lie to me.”
He pulls at the material of your panties until they’re riding up your ass slightly, pulled tighter against your cunt and the drag of the material against your clit is almost unexpected. He’s pointedly avoiding touching you so intimately, teetering on the edge of not enough and too much.
“You thought it would be that easy?” Joel asks testingly, jerking your head slightly when you don’t answer. You figured it was redundant but clearly not. You mumble against his hand, overwhelmed by his touch that all you can do is nod, forehead pressed against the wall as he breathes down your neck. “You’re mistaken.”
There’s a distinct rip of fabric as he removes his hand from your mouth quickly using his hands to grip your panties in tight fists, tearing it apart as it falls from your body and you think he might just do it—shove his slacks just far enough down his thighs and slip inside of you, bring an end to all of your suffering.
And his own.
Instead his fingers tighten around your forearm, spinning you in his hold and shoving the ripped fabric into your hand, leaving you bare under your skirt and exposed and Joel doesn’t mistake the wetness on the material. His fingers linger over your palm and you scoff, adjusting your skirt and slightly skewed shirt.
“Keep them,” You challenge, shoving the material into his chest before he allows them to drop to the floor, eyes trailing your departing figure as you reach for your discarded bag, “a gift for your wife—you know, the one who you avoided to spend time with me. Right?”
You want the words to linger and sting, bag slung lazily around your shoulder as you depart for the door, ignoring the quickly approaching footsteps. Joel, unbeknownst to you, had already pocketed your panties, torn to shreds in the pocket of his slacks. But, the words cut deep and he can’t leave things like this and allow you the final word.
Joel yanks the strap of your bag and backs you against the office door, the wood rattling against your conjoined weight as his lips press against yours in haste, messy and uncoordinated but your brain quickly assess what’s happening and joins, your lips parting to allow his eager tongue into your mouth. His kiss is biting and furious, mean and full of nothing but tense emotion. It’s months of suffocated lust pouring into you, out of him, and you swallow it down eagerly. His hand holds your chin forcefully, sloppy exchanges of spit and forceful bites, a battle for dominance that Joel quickly won out on.
And you think that maybe that comment was the final straw, that he might just give you what you want, but your delicate moan that slips into his mouth as chase him, his head pulling back slightly at the noise—it had him falling back to reality, right on his ass.
There wasn’t any line left to cross anymore. He’d obliterated it.
“Don’t threaten me again,” He warns, “ever.”
There’s one solid shove against the door as your head hits the surface gently, his touch quickly dissipating and his disheveled appearance a tell-tale sign in your mind. He was fighting his own battle and losing terribly.
“Of course,” You agree sardonically, “Mr. Miller.”
The silent click of the door is deafening and Joel retreats to his desk, punching a fist into the solid wood, the papers of your assignment flying to the floor. He can't be bothered to pick them up or even allow them the proper glance they deserve.
Because you—in his mind, don't deserve it.
And he's not going to give you that satisfaction.
It's unprofessional, but he'll allow it this once. It only takes a few quick clicks and he's adjusting the assignment out for your new one.
Poof. Gone. Like it never existed.
But, the grade is unchanging and he knows that will make things tremendously worse, but he can't be bothered to care anymore.
You'd be back and that's exactly what he wants.
#joel miller#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller x y/n#joel miller smut#professor!joel miller#tlou fanfic#the last of us#the last of us fanfiction#joel miller fanfiction#my writing#pedro pascal characters
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Burrow's End is an absolute masterpiece.
In the span of ten episodes Aabria and Co. weave an exciting and emotional adventure story about a family of sentient stoats. It delivers huge laughs, interesting societal criticism, remarkably emotional and well-acted scenes and concludes with a series of epilogue scenes that feel appropriate for each character, some heartfelt and subdued and others bigger than life and all the funnier for it.
Siobhan and Izzy play the perfect pair of siblings. They fight and argue but they also love each other. Jaysohn (Siobhan) looks up to Lila (Izzy) and believes she's the smartest stoat in the world (and by the end she probably is) and Lila hypes up her little brother's athletic skills. They both fully embodied these kids and I could watch them do fun stuff for more episodes. Give me a version of Saved by the Bell with them. Stoat by the Bell.
Brennan and Rashawn, playing sisters, also knock it outta the park, showing a more mature sibling dynamic. Brennan portrays Tula as the quintessential overtired single mother of excitable kids, and Rashawn as younger sister Viola straddles a very interesting line of being intimidating to outsiders but very much more naive and looking to her older sister when she starts a family.
Jasper as Thorn, a guy everyone just lets be a cult leader because he really wanted to, is fantastic. His is a difficult role as the only non-blood relative. Jasper plays Thorn with such real humanity of a guy in over his head and letting his ambition wife call the shots, but also one who agrees with her goal, really loves her and has moments of real menace. He has some very funny scenes, his big speech is perfect, and I just enjoy him.
Erika is wonderful. They play the epitome of generational trauma as many have said but as much trauma as Ava has, she is also loving and willing to learn. The fact Erika took this adversarial role is incredible. The tense dramatic scene primarily between Ava, Tula and Viola is amazing. They act their asses off and make hard choices that I imagine are difficult even for such an experienced player.
Aabria's DMing always feels fun. She doesn't get bogged down in the rules. She knows them. She plays by them. But as a master, she knows how and when to break them too. Her seasons on Dimension 20 have all had a tenseness, a particular edge to them that can give me anxiety during dramatic scenes between two characters. It always feel like one of her NPCs may say something devastating and the tension between characters reaches really thrilling heights. This is present in other seasons, but I don't think anyone does it as well as she does. The first season of hers to have battle maps, Aabria really swung for the fences and gave us some of the wildest maps to date.
Shout out to Carlos Luna's voice acting. He did an incredible job. And shout out to the whole crew who have put together one of the best seasons of D20. They keep finding ways to build on what's come before and they should be commended for it.
Dimension 20 is most successful when the concept is very streamlined. They don't do huge 100 episode campaigns capable of handling huge winding complex narrative, but short focused D&D stories, which is why many of the Side Quests have been so fantastic. They embody this philosophy most clearly, but it's apparent in the most beloved Intrepid Heroes seasons as well—John Hughes/High Fantasy, Game of Thrones/Candyland, Retrofuturism, Film Noir but in a Brain... Burrow's End fits this perfectly. It's streamlined concept paired with great storytellers and great chemistry sets it up to be a smash hit before it begins. And goddamn does it deliver.
Thanks Stupendous Stoats!
#dimension 20#d20#burrow's end#aabria iyengar#brennan lee mulligan#izzy roland#isabella roland#erika ishii#siobhan thompson#jasper william cartwright#rashawn scott#rashawn nadine scott#carlos luna#dropout.tv#hey there centaurs
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SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)
CHAPTER EIGHT: LOML
AND I'LL STILL SEE IT, UNTIL I DIE - YOU'RE THE LOSS OF MY LIFE.
☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader
☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, consumption of alcohol, (overly poetic) smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, technically unprotected sex even after the idiots discussed protection, minors dni
☆ WC: 3.9K+
☆ A/N: extremely sorry for the shortest chapter in this series yet. also, out of all the songs referenced for the title of chapters, this one might be the most on the nose. i kid you not, i cannot explain how perfectly loml encapsulates reader/sugar's emotions during this chapter. if you'd like the extra hurt, 10/10 recommends listening as you read. :)
thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!
masterlist
“Can I kiss you, Sugar?”
You’ve made your fair share of dumb decisions in your life. Plenty of moments have slipped right between your fingers due to hesitation that you’d later regret, you have a catalog of embarrassing encounters to serve you a lifetime. You’ve said yes when your answer should have been a resounding no, you’ve made promises you knew were impossible to keep, and you’ve always had an unexplainable habit of digging yourself into graves that will surely bury you alive.
This moment is no different.
The correct reaction is to tell him no, to push him away and end the night here. You should leave before either of you make any mistakes and ruin whatever fragile thing resides between the two of you any further. There’s a million other options you should be taking, but at the end of the day, you still nod your head.
Not even a second later, Eddie’s lips are on yours, and it’s hard to call it a mistake when it’s the first time you’ve felt like you could properly breathe in two years.
He tastes like bourbon, and mistakes, and regret, and a youthful type of love impossible to grasp onto. A vague memory you never get to hold, but always learn to miss. When his hands travel slowly to your hips, you’re only pressing closer, deepening the kiss with the desperation of someone starved. Someone stained.
You were an idiot to think it wouldn’t end this way. You were in his apartment, and you were drunk. You were brimming with bad decisions. It was always going to end up this way.
Your knees somehow end up digging into the sofa cushions on either side of his hips, your recollection of how you climbed into his lap nonexistent. Had it been his doing, his own needy hands guiding you here? Or had it been you? You, with an ache that rang throughout your entire body, soothed only by sharing each of his breaths with him when he finally pulls back from the kiss.
“Are you sure you want thi-”
“Don’t ruin it,” you beg, silencing him as you look into those deep autumn eyes, memorizing rivets of soft auburn that never really changed. An ever changing kaleidoscope, but there were simply parts of Eddie he’d never be able to hide from you,to change, “Not yet. Please.”
You don’t know if you’ll want it come morning. You can’t estimate just how deeply the regret will burrow once it’s all said and done; you’re not in the mood to think sensibly. No hypotheticals, no curiosity for the future.
You just want him. Right here, right now. Far beyond just sex, and far beyond casual touches. But it’s the only way you can have him, the only way he can have you, for now.
His fingers are more skilled these days. More deft and nimble as they race up and down your sides, quickly undoing the button of your jeans and easily sneaking beneath your shirt. Two years could be two seconds with the way he still knows you and your body, knowing exactly where to apply more pressure as he plucks on every string beneath your skin that makes you sing out for him. Hums, gasps, moans – they all sort of blend together at some point, don’t they?
“I’ve missed you,” you swear you hear him mumble against the skin of your neck when his mouth begins to wander, “I’ve missed this.”
You convince yourself he didn’t say it just to avoid ripping yourself apart any further.
Instead, you busy your mouth with kissing him harder, faster, more desperately. You’re all but burying yourself in him. Your hips grinding against his, your lips swallowed in his, your hands finding themselves tangled in his hair.
You’re drunk enough that you convince yourself that this is it – this is home.
It feels natural to let him run you down this way. It’s instinctual as he takes his shirt off and your hands roam over bare skin that whispers with the ridges of paths you’ve traced before. You know that scar on his right hip from when he got his appendix removed as a child, you know that lightened patch of skin on his left thumb from when he’d managed to burn himself with a lighter while cutting class one day with you. You know him – so much better than you’d let yourself believe these last few weeks.
“Do you have a condom?” you pant, and you both pretend like your words are choked up from gasping to recover the air you’d offered to the kiss, and not the emotions rearing their ugly heads.
He does. Of course he does. He’s a rockstar now – he has women throwing themselves at him constantly. Of course he’s prepared.
It happens somewhere between him pulling the condom out of his wallet, and managing to pull his own shirt off. At some point in which you’re left in nothing but your undergarments, hips grinding down on his in sloppy circles, he lets out a low and drawn out moan. All your movements stutter, nearly halting, as that sound rings out around you. You swear, it echoes off the walls of your own head and not the eerily empty apartment.
You break as you gasp out, “Fuck, Eddie.”
Another dumb decision for the books. All it takes is you sighing his name for him to flip the entire script. Suddenly, you’re no longer straddling his lap, no longer biting his lip and gripping onto the back of the sofa for balance.
Your back collides with the cushions below and he hovers over you, kissing with more intent and purpose this time. Each press of his lips is followed by the nipping of teeth, desperately trying to mark you up along your chest, completely oblivious to the way he’s already left his stain.
You’re convinced if he presses his lips just hard enough, if he bares his teeth just sharp enough, he’ll see right through you. Your skin will become all but cellophane and he’ll see all those blooming violets and deep maroons still left behind in the shape of his mouth. He’ll see the way another has never followed these paths, not after him.
All the failed rebounds, all the failed distractions. There’s never been another person capable of taking your mind off of Eddie Munson. No one’s kiss ever made you bleed the way he’s capable, no one’s touch could ever erase the mark of his.
The wine still makes your head swim as your chin tilts to the roof, giving him all the room possible to paint whatever picture he’s vying for on your skin. You let him leave his physical mark; you let him leave a physical reminder of something to regret.
“Do you know how many times I played this moment back over in my head?” his voice is a murmur that vibrates against your sternum, words not quite slurring, “Do you know how many times I swore-”
You don’t know – and you never find out what exactly he had sworn time and time again as the trill ringing of a cell phone shatters the entire atmosphere.
One moment, Eddie’s lips are painting portraits along your chest and neck, the acceptance of making a mistake settling deep into your bones. And the next, he’s lifting up, looking wildly towards his kitchen, where you’re sure that it’s his phone buzzing erratically on the counter.
“I-” he looks wildly between you and the distant phone, pupils blown out and lips swollen, “Fuck, I-”
All the air leaves your lungs.
There will be no mistakes tonight.
“Go answer it,” you whisper, deflating as you accept the interruption. The moment’s over, fading in between the lipstick marks on your wine glass and the glow of the lamps scattered throughout his living room, “It’s fine.”
It’s not fine. It’s written plainly across his face that this is the furthest thing from fine at this moment. But duty calls; his phone is ringing, your mind is buzzing, and the moment is simply gone.
It has to be fine. You have to be fine with it.
“I’ll be right back,” he swears as he lifts himself up off the couch, but you know he won’t be.
Your shirt is already back by the time he’s reached the counter, laptop already tucked safely back into your bag as he answers the call.
“Hello?” he asks, eyes flitting over to you as he watches you gather your things, picking up the wine glass that had been yours the entire night in order to carry it over to the sink he leans against the counter next to. A bit of chatter comes from over the line, and Eddie’s entire face twists, “Am I busy? Yeah, yeah – as a matter of fact, I am.”
Just as you sit the glass into the sink, you bring a hand to his bicep, letting it rest there selfishly. Feeling his bare skin one final time, drinking in the heat he radiates through your palm, giving yourself one last chance to memorize it.
You’re not busy, you mouth to him with a sad smile.
He’s not. Because there will be no mistakes tonight.
You go to pull your hand away, prepared to somehow call an Uber or taxi, but he’s quick to wrap his fingers around your wrist just as your skin slides from his. It’s not forceful, but simply firm. Clinging with a desperation you can’t recognize.
Stay, he mouths back, the person over the line clearly continuing to speak without Eddie paying them any mind.
You almost do. You falter and consider dropping your bag then and there. You nearly stay, wait out the phone call, sit pretty and patient until he returns to you just as he had promised.
But he had left you with a promise of later once before, and he hadn’t kept his promise then.
“Oh,” you whispered, disappointment gripping your lungs, “Oh, that’s fine! Go, they need you.”
“Yeah,” he chuckled. You missed hearing that in person, that soft laughter in the shell of your ear over inside jokes and one too many glasses of wine. “Rockstar duties and all. We’ll talk more later?”
Later had never found its way back to the two of you all those years ago – why would it now?
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Eds,” you whisper, soft enough to guarantee whoever was on the other side of the phone call wouldn’t hear you. The fall of his face is almost enough to make you take back the words and swallow them back down.
“Wait-” he’s not whispering, almost as though he’s forgotten about the call entirely. You can hear the silence over the line, probably in confusion, as you walk away, “Wait- No- I-”
You motion to the phone still pressed to his ear and cheek, trying to remind him that someone else can hear.
He removes it and ends the call before you can protest.
“Eddie-” you start to scold, but he refuses to hear any of it.
“No, no,” he sounds as though he might be begging. And you can’t tell if he’s begging you to not reprimand him, or if he’s begging you to not leave, “I don’t care. It was just Matt, he can wait till morning.”
It doesn’t answer the question of what he wanted from you.
“It’s getting late, anyways,” you’re still trying to detect your escape route, the longer you spend in the aftermath making your chest tighten more and more.
You can’t do this.
You can’t stand in this room with him and pretend that it’s all okay. You can’t act as though the wine’s effects are slipping away from you and you can’t brush off the feeling of his lips across your chest. You have no patience left to act as though your lungs aren’t shriveling up in your chest, unable to get enough air when he’s too close all while being all too far away.
It would have been a mistake, and you’re both better for the interruption.
Eddie shakes his head, letting out a dry laugh, “We aren’t doing this again, Sugar. We aren’t going to just pretend that didn’t happen-”
“Why not?” you challenge him, “This… it’s better this way, Eddie. If we kept it up, we both would have regretted it, and it’d just be another mistake-”
“Who’s we?” he cuts you off.
We. You, me, both of us. We’d both regret it, wouldn’t we?
But you still didn’t regret kissing him. You still didn’t regret sitting in his lap and drinking him in, you still wouldn’t take back whatever moment was shared prior to the phone’s interruption.
All your regrets are spoken in future tense. All the mistakes are somewhere ahead of you, your mind running to things that haven’t happened yet.
How do you know if you’d regret it? How do you know if he’d regret it?
Your hold on your bag begins to loosen, “I- Both of us. We’d both regret it.”
“I wouldn’t regret it. I don’t think I could ever regret you.”
This is the part you walk away. You sling your bag onto your shoulder, you tell him to have a goodnight, and you leave. You’ll see him tomorrow, and you’ll pretend this conversation never happened.
Except you don’t.
Your bag falls to the ground, a muted crash that probably pisses off his downstairs neighbors. The toes of your shoes knock into the worn bag, kicking it to the side with more gentleness than you should be capable of right now. When he reaches out a hand to hold you, you take it.
You let him get his hot palms back on your body. You let his lips find their way back to yours.
You finally just let the mistake happen and take the chance on finding out if the regret is nothing more than shadows in the closet, make-believe once you turn the light back on.
The couch isn’t the destination this time. You’re almost sad that you don’t get to admire any of his decor as he drags you down the hallway, but you also doubt there’s even a sliver of the ghost of the man holding onto you in any of it. He’s not on the walls, he’s not in the pictures; he’s right in front of you, kissing you heavily and desperately, letting his feet stumble right over yours as he finally reaches blindly for the knob of the door behind you. He’s in the rings pressing into the skin of your hips and he’s in the wavering cologne that bursts from his sheets as he carefully drops you back on a bed far too large for one man.
He’s in the shadow hovering over you, he’s in the slide of his leg as he spreads your thighs to find home between them. He may not haunt this apartment, but he haunts you. Your body, your mind, your senses.
Always have, always will.
Alcohol isn’t clouding the moment anymore as each kiss is gentler, retracing the bruises already forming across your collar bones. He’s taking his time, enjoying himself, no longer rushing through the process of getting to know you again. The loss of your shirt and the unbuttoning of your jeans is done with shaking hands this time. Less sure, but far more determined.
Your own hands are steady, though, as you undress him. You’re sure. This is your mistake to make, your mistake to regret. And maybe he had a point – maybe it is impossible for either of you to regret each other. For all the tears shed and all the nights spent cursing his name, it’s never once crossed your tongue that you wanted to erase him. You think if someone were to try and take him, take all that you two had shared together from you, that they’d be met with white knuckles and deathly screams. A rancid animal foaming at the mouth, refusing to let go of the one thing it had ever managed to sink its claws into.
You’d forgotten just how well you know him.
It was beyond superficial scars and childhood stories. You still remember the exact pulse point that makes him moan out with just a brush of your mouth against it. You can still find that spot above his hips that spasm when your hands grip them, encouraging him to grind down onto you. You know his body, you know his past, you know his mind.
Words are no longer necessary as it finally happens.
Prayers of each other’s name, ignorance in the way this entire moment was becoming too gentle for two fools rekindling. A practiced dance you once only ever dreamt of swaying to with him.
You would have given him everything. You did give him everything. Your youth, your future, your aspirations, your daydreams of a glittering gem on your sacred finger and a list of baby names the two of you had argued over endlessly. All those things still belong to him, even now. Even as this new version of him hovers over you, lips trailing with purpose over your abdomen, making his way down to your core.
You can’t tell if he’s a stranger when he places a hot kiss over the cotton of your underwear. You can’t tell if you ever spent two years away from him as his hands hold down your hips when they buck in response.
“Eddie,” you beg, fingers lacing into his curls just as they had earlier, gripping onto him for dear life. You’re looking down at him between your thighs, refusing to blink on the off chance that he’ll simply vanish when you do, “Please.”
“Please what, Sugar?”
“Touch me,” you gasp out as his fingers toy with the waistband of your underwear, colossus course against soft skin, “Kiss me, fuck me- I just-”
No further explanation is needed. Your wish is his command.
Your panties are tossed to the hardwood floor at the edge of the bed as if they always belonged there. His mouth ravishes you as if this was just a nightly routine between the two of you. As if he didn’t have to second think what pace you might prefer, or when to add the first finger. Or the second. He plays you beautifully, crooking his fingers and nipping at sensitive skins and nerves alike, listening to the way you only seem to remember his name. Like you don’t remember the sound of a dial tone instead of declarations of adoration, like you don’t remember the excuses for him denying you all his attention.
You wish you could just stay in this moment forever. Him, buried between your thighs. All hurt and all stains forgotten when he builds you up to the edge, when he murmurs against your clit about how pretty you look for him right now.
Cheap wine soaking Halloween costumes. Hazy rooms, smokey with youthful desires and incense. Dancing in an apartment filled with boxes not yet unpacked. Whispers of something being real. Late night trips to the gas station and all the pride in your eyes as you heard his song played on public radio for the first time. The terrible waiting, the messy kisses of more teeth than lips. A simple necklace adorned with a simple ring, burning with more promises than either can comprehend, still gathering dust at the bottom of your jewelry box to this day.
Just in case. Just in case he ever came back; just in case you ever returned.
By the time he’s climbing back up your body, you have one foot in the past, cleaving yourself in two as you cling to him like water.
“Look at you,” he whispers when his face is back above yours, lips still slick with you, “You’re fucking beautiful, you know that?”
You swear, for just a moment, his eyes are mirrors. And you can see that dazed look you wear, the face of a woman still trapped by her past. The face of someone who can’t let the dead stay buried. Someone you wouldn’t describe as beautiful, but Eddie would.
You should have left. You should be regretting this. You only pull him closer.
His boxers bunch at his ankles, your fingernails dig into his back. When you feel him press against you, the tip of his dick just barely tapping against your clit, your entire body tenses. This was it. This was the mistake you had taken responsibility for, this was the choice you’d decided was worth damnation. A simple slip up, a quick fall backwards, and you’ll be right back where you started two years ago.
“You still want this?” he sighs into your ear, clearly feeling the way you’d froze up.
Your breath catches for just a second. More memories, more images that cut straight through you. Every careless afternoon, every serene morning. Every haunted night.
“Yeah,” your entire body relaxes, muscle by muscle, “Yeah, I still want this.”
You mean more than just the sex.
The press of your heels into his lower back is all the encouragement he needs to finally push into you. The stretch burns, but it’s welcome all the same. Just an aftereffect of years of emptiness, of failing to ever find something that could make you feel as whole as he does.
The moan he lets out as he’s wrapped in your warmth sends shivers down your spine. You swear, laced in it, there lies a gasp of relief. A sigh of coming home after a long tour, the huff of an exhale just before he crosses the threshold of a front door and has you in his arms again.
You don’t know when the tears started.
But between his thrusts, between all his wanton groans and your own quivers of excitement, your cheeks turn wet.
“Then I say let it burn.”
You can’t tell if it’s sweat or his own tears seeping into your skin as your bodies press together harder, your head thrown back in ecstasy.
“I love you so goddamn much, it hurts. I can’t believe this is real.”
You find your hands tugging on the roots of his curls even harder as you try to tether yourself back to him, but it’s no use.
“When I get back, all I care about is you.”
It all comes crashing down on both of you as his face is buried in the crook of your neck and your thighs squeeze around his hips – all the love that was there, all the love that was lost. All the love that still remains.
“Something for you to always have as a reminder that I’ll come back to you. You’re it for me, sweetheart.”
He’d always warned you this would happen. That one day he’d come back to you. That he’d only ever come back for you.
It doesn’t matter how deep of scratches you leave across his back, or how many hickies he paints your skin with. There will never be enough bloodshed between the two of you to wash away the truth. It’s not a mistake, it’s not something to regret. You wish it was; you wish it were so simple. No, this moment was one thing and one thing only – inevitable.
They always did say that your life would flash before your eyes right before you die.
And flash it does – a lifetime of love that was had and love that will never come back to you – as Eddie brings you both to your graves from the most cursed of little deaths.
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#ghost's stories#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson angst#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson smut#maroon#this is not edited please don't come for me PLEASE#that phone call in the middle of it all is important btw <3#truth be told i think this had also been my least favorite chapter to write#it gave me fucking hell
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Fun Fact: Hognose snakes are dramatic lil guys!
I am particularly fond of the snakes known as hognose snakes, and my reasons are both understandable and correct.
This is a hognose snake:
(They received their name by having the sweetest lil snoot to ever require a boop – image source)
They use these adorable snoots to burrow under sandy soil using a sort of nuzzle-y motion. They then use these burrows as a place to sleep at night, hibernate in the winter, and lay their eggs.
(you could say they’re into... the Underground Scene! ...ok yeah i’ll show myself out – image source)
Plus, they come in a variety of delightful colours!
We've got brown! Beige! Yellow! Black! Red! Orange! Tan! Kinda greenish! Orange again!
(pretty sneks! – Here’s all the image sources: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9)
And, to be clear, the snakes pictured above are wild snakes. No selective breeding by humans in these noodly bois! At least, not in these specific individuals. probably. I guess a few of them could be escapees...
But most importantly: These snakes know the true meaning of DRAMA
Hognose snakes are actors, first and foremost. When they feel threatened, the first thing they do is puff out their neck into a hood.
(like cobras, this hood is made by FLEXING THEIR NECK RIBS. which: gross – image source x)
This superficially makes them look like a cobra, but what they’re actually trying to do is make themselves seem bigger, and therefore scarier. Possibly those dark spots on their neck helps with that!
Any resemblance to real-life Eurasian cobras, real or fictional, is purely coincidental
Also, it makes its mouth do this:
(Snakes that SCREAAAAAAAM. – image source)
honestly, if I didn’t already know that hognose snakes were harmless, this would ABSOLUTELY make me leave it the hell alone
But if all of that^ is unsuccessful at scaring away the predator, the hognose snake pulls its signature move: playing dead
If you think that is a lame signature move, then you are wrong, because hognose snakes put EVERYTHING into their performance and I love them for it.
(they’re serious, they’ll do it! – image source)
((I’m actually going to stick the rest of this under a read-more, bc the pictures of the alive-and-physically-fine hognose snakes do kind of look like a legitimately-dead hognose snake, if you don’t know what to look for.
So, uh: cw for a snake being too good at pretending to be dead))
Behold: a series of completely healthy, unharmed snakes!!!
(to help with their self-esteem, we ask that you at least pretend to believe that they are dead – image sources 1, 2, 3, 4)
Honestly, the photos don’t do it justice. Here’s my favourite video of the whole wonderous performance:
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But to review:
There's writhing! There's dramatic noises! There's flipping onto their back and opening their mouth wide and letting their tongue hang out! There's excreting a combination of intentionally smelly substances!!! Truly a master of the art of being left the hell alone (*^▽^*)
(yep. deeeeefinitely dead. not just faking it. nothing worth eating here! – image source)
Personally, my favourite part of this is how they insist on rolling onto their back, even when they are rolled back onto their stomach.
Seriously, if you try to roll them right-side-up, they will flip back over. It's as though they believe that a good, proper dead snek MUST be on its back, obviously.
(truly fearsome – image source)
Sadly, the hognose snake may have made itself too scary, according to humans.
Out of fear, these snakes are commonly killed on sight 😔. I once heard someone proudly brag about how they’d killed a dozen cobras! In southern Ontario! Where cobras do not live! This is both extremely frustrating and deeply sad.
(safe enough to hold! although maybe don’t, just because this snake IS probably experiencing mortal fear, which is not a good feeling – image source © Dean Stavrides)
So just to highlight: hognose snakes are completely harmless. They’re just pretending to be fearsome!
(not that people should be killing venomous snakes either, imo. Let the danger noodles LIVE THEIR LIVES)
(i is baybee, pls do not hurt me – image source)
And now some bonus facts to help raise us out of that downer:
Hognose snakes are toad specialists! Their favourite food is toads, which is unusual, because toads are poisonous. Hognose snakes deal with this by force of will and also, at least two amino acid substitutions, maybe (Mohammadi et al. 2016). Possibly a few other things help with this, also (Feldman et al. 2016).
(is snek eat toad? or does toad wearing cape of snek? impossible to tell, really – image source)
Also, I have a confession: hognose snakes... are venomous. Technically.
(itty bitty little fangs at the veeeeery back of their mouth! – image source)
They are known as rear-fanged snakes, which means they have fangs aaaall the way at the back of their mouth. The venom they produce seems to be toad-specific, and is considered to be harmless to humans unless you happen to have an allergy but that's the exception rather than the rule
(the two hognose species. They are both baybee, but in different ways actually there might be more than two species but these are the two i’ve actually learned about so ALL WELL – image source)
Also, hognose snakes are big cowards NOT aggressive and I've never even heard of anyone getting bit by a one (outside of one feeding mishap, which we can all agree was an ACCIDENT).
The series of events that would need to occur for you to be envenomated are so unlikely and bizarre that I assume you would have to be TRYING to get bit.
This has been Fun Fact Friday, bringing you the forbidden noodly boys to try and keep them a little more safe!
.....................................................................
Sources, because I know me and SO DO YOU:
Averill-Murray, R. C. (2006). Natural history of the western hog-nosed snake (Heterodon nasicus) with notes on envenomation. Sonoran Herpetologist, 19(9), 98-101.
Buchanan, Scott W.; Timm, Brad C.; Cook, Robert P.; Couse, Richard; Hazard, Lisa C. (2017). Spatial ecology and habitat selection of eastern hognose snakes. The Journal of Wildlife Management, 81(3), 509–520. doi:10.1002/jwmg.21218
CHS: Canadian Herpetological Society https://canadianherpetology.ca/species/species_page.html?cname=Eastern%20Hog-nosed%20Snake
COSEWIC. 2021. COSEWIC assessment and status report on the Eastern Hog-nosed Snake Heterodon platirhinos in Canada. Committee on the Status of Endangered Wildlife in Canada. Ottawa. xi + 45 pp. https://www.canada.ca/en/environment-climate-change/services/species-risk-public-registry/cosewic-assessments-status-reports/eastern-hog-nosed-snake-2021.html
Cunnington, G. M., & Cebek, J. E. (2005). Mating and nesting behavior of the eastern hognose snake (Heterodon platirhinos) in the northern portion of its range. The American midland naturalist, 154(2), 474-478.
Feldman, C. R., Durso, A. M., Hanifin, C. T., Pfrender, M. E., Ducey, P. K., Stokes, A. N., ... & Brodie Jr, E. D. (2016). Is there more than one way to skin a newt? Convergent toxin resistance in snakes is not due to a common genetic mechanism. Heredity, 116(1), 84-91.
Jared, C., Luiz Mailho‐Fontana, P., & Maria Antoniazzi, M. (2021). Differences between poison and venom: An attempt at an integrative biological approach. Acta Zoologica, 102(4), 337-350.
Liu, C., Chen, Y., Zheng, Y., Bo, J., Yang, C., Xu, S., & Zhang, S. (2022). Wear Resistance Improvement of Keeled Structure and Overlapped Distribution of Snake Scales. Journal of Bionic Engineering, 1-11. Citing abstract.
Mohammadi, S., Gompert, Z., Gonzalez, J., Takeuchi, H., Mori, A., & Savitzky, A. H. (2016). Toxin-resistant isoforms of Na+/K+-ATPase in snakes do not closely track dietary specialization on toads. Proceedings of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences, 283(1842), 20162111.
Nature Conservancy of Canada: https://www.natureconservancy.ca/en/what-we-do/resource-centre/featured-species/reptiles-and-amphibians/eastern-hog-nosed-snake.html
Plummer, M. V., & Mills, N. E. (1996). Observations on trailing and mating behaviors in hognose snakes (Heterodon platirhinos). Journal of Herpetology, 30(1), 80-82.
Rouse, Jeremy D.; Willson, Robert J.; Black, Ron; Brooks, Ronald J. (2011). Movement and Spatial Dispersion of Sistrurus catenatus and Heterodon platirhinos: Implications for Interactions with Roads. Copeia, 2011(3), 443–456. doi:10.1643/ce-09-036
Seburn, D. 2008. Recovery Strategy for the Eastern Hog-nosed Snake (Heterodon platirhinos) in Canada. Species at Risk Act Recovery Strategy Series. Parks Canada Agency, Ottawa. vi + 24pp.
Schwartz, V. & D. Golden (2002). Field Guide to Reptiles and Amphibians of New Jersey. New Jersey Division of Fish and Wildlife
VHS: Virginia herpetological society http://www.virginiaherpetologicalsociety.com/reptiles/snakes/eastern-hog-nosed-snake/eastern_hognose_snake.php#:~:text=Heterodon%20is%20derived%20from%20the%20Greek%20words%20heteros,meaning%20%22broad%20or%20flat%22%20and%20rhinos%20meaning%20%22snout%22
Young, R. A. (1992). Effects of Duvernoy's gland secretions from the eastern hognose snake, Heterodon platirhinos, on smooth muscle and neuromuscular junction. Toxicon, 30(7), 775-779. https://doi.org/10.1016/0041-0101(92)90013-U
Young, B. A., & Morain, M. (2003). Vertical burrowing in the Saharan sand vipers (Cerastes). Copeia, 2003(1), 131-137.
SARA: threatened https://www.canada.ca/en/environment-climate-change/services/species-risk-public-registry.html
#hognose snake#snakes#biology#fun facts#fun fact friday#science#sciblr#science side of tumblr#STEM#adhd in STEM#zoology#ecology#Herpetology#snake#i love these guys so so much#there's more but its late#also this is late#i wrote it last week but then stuff happened#well#i wrote most of it last week#some of it was written in 5 minutes of frenzied keyboard slamming#depression is STILL HERE#but im doing my best#also yes i know it's saturday but LET ME LIVE#Youtube
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Step into my parlour, said the spider
Stepbro! Simon x reader
Warnings: this one’s kind of deranged. Simon is a fucked up little freak. I mean it when I say this is dark, read with discretion. Implications of murder, and non-con
Word count: 1.5k
Once again 141 server bringing out the worst in me, @chxrryghost @cooliofango see you guys in hell 🫡
Before you, life was a series of dull greys and monochromes, there was no warmth, just cold never-ending darkness that persisted in the form of his father's abuse. That didn’t matter now though, because nothing before you mattered.
Simon is nine years old when the angel (you) starts to live with them, he’s got no clue how his deadbeat of a father managed to finagle another woman into marrying him but he pays little mind to his new step-mum when he has you.
You’re five years older than him, but you’re not like Tommy or dad at all. You’re kind and you tuck him into bed and give him cuddles and kisses that make him feel all fuzzy inside. You take him to the park and protect him from his dad. You try to hide the dark bruises that litter your skin, a consequence of shielding him, but Simon’s not so naive.
He grows up hiding in your shadow, falling deeper and deeper into an obsessively deranged love for his saviour, the only person who loves him and treats him kindly. He seethes silently, waiting for the moment he’s big enough to protect you instead.
By the time you’re sixteen, your mother has split, leaving you behind though you reassure Simon that you’d never have left him anyway. His father’s been out of a job for a while and you’ve been running yourself ragged to support Simon and Tommy. Tommy the bastard that he is doesn't appreciate the work you do and Simon is once again forced to grit his teeth and seethe as he watches you come home every evening like a zombie. Some mornings you don’t even make it to the bed to fall asleep, though Simon’s always waiting, dragging you under the covers before burrowing his way into your side.
You let yourself get degraded by filthy men that slap your ass and call you names just for a measly tip. You’re one of the prettiest people on the planet which, unfortunately, attracts a lot of attention from the disgusting dregs of society. Boys your age and older, far too old to even consider glancing your way. The few brave enough to hover are always quickly scared off by Simon’s intense glares, and he preens when you pat his hair in thanks.
His dad notices too and Simon comes home from school one afternoon to find the man on top of you, hands wrapped around your neck as you struggle beneath him. A plate shatters over his dad's head and it’s not until Simon is on the floor and his old man is red in face, screaming at him that Simon realises what he’s done.
You’re screaming and you shove his dad from behind, scooping Simon into your arms with adrenaline-fuelled strength you wouldn’t normally possess and are locking you and him in your shared room. Barricading the door and squishing Simon against you as your breath rattles.
You fall asleep with Simon nestled against your chest, none the wiser to how his blood chants with the fervour of a thousand men, mine, mine, mine.
The universe finally seems to give you a break after that, his dad leaves the both of you alone and not long after your 18th birthday you get a cushy, well-paying job as a secretary for some hot-shot lawyer. Though Simon gets a little upset when you spend all your money on him, new clothes, new books for school, a GameBoy, whatever he wants.
Best of all, his dad dies. The alcohol and drugs finally taking their toll on his body. (It’s not until a few years later that he’ll realise you were entirely too calm when the police came knocking. Serving them tea as you pretended to be shocked about the news.)
You get custody of him and Tommy and you move them into a much nicer neighbourhood. Though Simon’s not happy at having his own room and often sneaks back into your bed, knowing that you’ll simply sigh and open your arms for him, letting him snuggle against your chest.
Simon should’ve known better, should’ve known that his happiness wouldn’t last. It’s not even a year into what you called the start of his new life that he comes home one afternoon from school to find you sobbing into your hands, hair and outfit dishevelled. Though you refuse to give him the details of what happened he manages to put two and two together from the state of your being and the knowledge that you’ve been fired.
You take up waitressing again but it’s not enough. He’s not sure who ends up reporting it but a few days before his 14th birthday Simon gets taken away from you, no matter how much he kicks and screams. He tries to run away a few times but he’s always found and dragged away from you again.
You move away not long after, having been offered a once-in-a-lifetime scholarship. Simon tries to understand as you explain through tears, kissing his forehead for the last time. He knows it’s selfish of him to feel betrayed but he can’t help it. Can’t accept that you’re leaving him. He doesn’t cry, instead, he immediately starts plotting. This is just a minor bump in the road, he’ll spend every waking moment until he’s eighteen perfecting his skills and plans and then nothing will keep you apart ever again.
Time passes by excruciatingly slow, the only positive is that he’d finally grown even further, and had sprouted in height and musculature so much that he fears you might not recognise him. It takes him another extra year to find you, but when he’s twenty-three, with military resources at his disposal he finally, finally sees you again in person.
You’re still the picture of perfection, clothes hugging your form so tantalisingly that Simon feels his cock throb in the confines of his pants just from seeing you. He steps forward, weaving through the crowd of the market only to stop in his tracks when a man wraps his arms around your midsection. Instead of rebuffing the touch you lean back and smile against him and Simon feels as if the Earth has been pulled from his feet.
How could you do this to him?
He’s waited so faithfully for you all these years and you’ve replaced him? He watches as you kiss the interloper with a smile and Simon clenches his fists in fury so harshly his palms bleed. How many men had you let into your bed? How long did it take for you to forget him?
The plan’s changed. You’ve forced him into this. It’s not his fault that he’s had to plant cameras throughout your house. It’s not his fault that you’re so tantalising it forces him to break into your house, stealing your used panties to help get himself off. It’s not his fault you force him to learn you and your boyfriend’s schedule and it’s not his fault your scumbag partner doesn’t take his carefully worded hint to leave you.
Your boyfriend is dead. Unfortunate, but needs must. Simon watches you sob into your pillow, hard as a rock as he imagines licking the tears from your cheeks and decides he can’t wait any longer.
You’re so distraught that you don’t even notice Simon is in your house, you don’t notice until he swings the bedroom door open and you look up with a scream. He supposes he must make something of a terrifying sight, he’s a large man, and his face is covered by his trademark skull balaclava.
Simon allows you a few seconds to scramble around in panic before he crosses the distance, trapping your back to his chest and groaning as he humps into your ass. You scream, hitting at his arms as the tears start to flow anew and Simon throws you down on the mattress, weighing you down with his bulk.
“Please, you don’t have to do this” you beg with teary eyes that do nothing but fuel his arousal. He does take pity on you though, restraining your wrists with his right hand and using his left to tug off his mask. He watches as your eyes gradually widen, elation filling his chest as recognition fills them.
“Simon?” your voice wobbles and his name has never sounded better. Groaning, he rests his forehead against your collarbone, taking calming breaths to stop from cumming then and there. It’s okay though, he’s got all the time in the world now. You’ll spend the rest of your lives together, you’ll never be apart again.
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Trust
Joe Burrow x Female Reader
Series Summary: You, one of the top actresses in the world find yourself falling for the unbelievably attractive quarterback, Joe Burrow. But as Joe falls faster he finds that everything isn’t so golden about the world’s golden girl.
Acts: 5/?
Status: Ongoing
Please read the warning careful for this chapter. Proceed with caution; some content could be triggering!
Warnings: female!reader, smut, swearing, oral (m&f receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, taking plan b, mentions of toxic past relationship, age gap between ex and reader, mentions of past abusive relationship,
Act 5 Summary: You and Joe come to an abrupt end. With no more fight left in you, you decide to march to your own beat.
Word Count: 6.4k
Series Masterlist
You sit nervously, biting your lip, waiting for the doorbell to ring. Joe is away at training; you encouraged him to go and give you some space to collect your thoughts, but right now, you could use his strength. You stand up and start pacing, unsure how to bring it up. You told your father to come over for the weekend to catch up and only explained briefly in the conversation. You figured it would be easier to tell your father first, plus you wanted to speak to him about your mother. Yeah, you decided to lay it all all in one go. The sound of your doorbell snaps you back. It's now or never. This is your first step towards freedom from Jackson. You make your way to the door and swing it open, greeted by your giant of a father. He scoops you up and squeezes you.
"You never invite me over. Am I going to be a grandfather?" He jokes, putting you down. Your heart cracks a bit more at the thought of telling him you can't have children.
"Where's Joe? Am I going to have a little footballer grandson who plays for the Bills? Me and your brother already-Sweetie, hey hey, why are you crying?" Your father calms himself, taking your hand in his. You try to wipe your tears, but they flow endlessly. Your father follows you to the living room, where you try to gather your thoughts, but the tears won't stop. You're hyperventilating, and your father is quick to be by your side, holding you.
"Did Joe do something to you? Where is he?" Your father is quick to his feet, and you grab his hand.
"Joe is fine. It's nothing with him. It's-" You touch your throat, unable to say his name. Your father sits down and gently holds your hand.
"Talk to me, sweetheart. What's going on?"
"Mom lives out here. I ran into her, " you whisper, deciding to take the lesser blow for now. Your father sighs and rubs his head.
"I know."
Your head shoots up at your father's confession.
"What do you mean?"
"Your mother contacted me a few months ago. I knew she lived here but didn't know you ran into her."
"Did she ask about me?"
"She did. She said she was so proud of you. She has been watching you from the start of your career."
"She has two other daughters now. She's a terrible person, and I don't want her in my life." You stand up, wipe your face, and begin pacing. Your father sits with his hands clasped together, staring at the floor.
"Dad, why aren't you saying anything? Don't tell me you forgave her! " you shout.
"We have talked over things, and we are moving forward."
"What does that even mean? You forgive her. Now, you guys will hold hands and run off together?"
Your dad's silence is loud. You're shocked at this revelation and unable to process a thing.
"You're together again?"
"We're talking. She's divorcing her husband and-"
"She abandoned you! She left us like we were nothing!" You shout, throwing your hands up.
"She was my first love. If you had a chance to be with your first love again, wouldn't you?" Your father asks calmly. You chuckle darkly, throwing your head back.
"My first love has ruined my life for the last ten years." You storm out of the room just as Joe enters the living room. He sets his bag down and chases after you.
"Honey-"
"How can he talk to my mother right now? What she did to us is unforgivable!" You scream and cry. Joe embraces you, trying to calm you down. There's a knock at the door, and you pull away from Joe, allowing your father to enter.
"I have nothing to say to you right now. Joe will show you to the guest room. Thank you." You walk away, slamming the bathroom door behind you. Your father follows Joe out of the room and back downstairs.
"I thought I knew my daughter pretty well. Who is her ex?" Your father asks Joe. Joe lifts your father's bags and sighs. It isn't his place to tell your father everything about Jackson.
"It's up to her to tell you, sir," Joe replies respectfully. Your dad nods his head.
"Was it someone famous? Can you at least tell me that?"
Joe looks over to the steps where you're standing now. You're upset about your mother, but you have to tell your dad.
"Jackson. After Karen moved me to LA for my career, I started seeing Jackson shortly after." You whisper. Your father turns around to face you. You do your best to read his face, but he reveals many different facial expressions in those few seconds.
"I'm sorry, daddy." You whisper. Your father is in front of you, holding you in his arms as you break down.
"What are you sorry about? It's me, I'm the fool." Your dad walks you to the sofa, where you sit down and prepare yourself to tell your father everything. Joe gives the two of you space and decides to go take a shower.
"I started dating him after I turned 18. He was everything to me. It didn't take long for him to show his true colors. He started being controlling, and I blamed it on being my mentor and the stress with the business. I found out that after my 19th birthday, I was pregnant, but my career had just started, so I had an abortion. I thought it was only an abortion until a few days ago; I found out Jackson paid my doctor to tie my tubes." You can't bring yourself to look at your father. Your father tried his best to process all the information silently.
"I-I'm stunned." Your dad finally replies.
"I thought I could be free of him. I did my best to hold on to hope for these last few years because of the stupid contracts, but Jackson won't stop. He won't leave me alone. I spent seven years locked in fear of Jackson; through all the mental, emotional, and physical abuse, I stayed because I thought that was my life, but finally, I'm stronger now. I'm telling you this now because I'm going public about Jackson's abuse, and I'm taking him to court. I thought it would be best to say it to you first rather than hear it on the news."
"I wish you would have told me sooner. I didn't know any of this was happening to you. I should've put two and two together. I should have been smarter. I should have known when you stopped coming to visit. He took you away from us. No, I practically gift-wrapped you to him. It's my fault for being so fucking naive. I trusted this guy and-"
"Daddy, it's not your fault. I made my decisions. I-"
"He put his fucking hands on you! I sent you to LA, and I knew the culture of Hollywood. I read stories about things like this, but I never….I never thought for once you could fall victim. It's my fault. You suffered all this time, and it's my fault. I wondered why Jackson was contacting me these last few months. I'm a fool. He knew…Oh god."
"Daddy, it wasn't-"
"The business was failing. I was in debt and didn't want to ask you for money. Jackson offered, and I accepted it. He owns half the business now."
Your breath is caught in your throat. You're unable to move from your sitting position as your father starts rambling and pacing. This is why you never went public. This right here. Jackson threatened your family over and over and over again. He promised he would ruin their lives if you left him, and now it's started. Jackson got to your father before you could. It's all your fault. You stopped being close to your family. You lost all contact with them all those years. You just started to build things up again, but Jackson was one step ahead of you as always.
"Dad…I-"
"I'm so sorry. What kind of fucking father lets his 17-year-old daughter move to Hollywood alone and for the last ten years be-"
"Dad! I'll handle it so-"
"No. I'll handle it." Your father cuts you off.
"Mom is working for Jackson. Her firm is representing him." You finally say. Your father freezes up. This time, you make eye contact with him.
"She-She wouldn't do that if you tell her he-"
"They met me together. She knows what is happening, and she chose her side."
"She only knows his side because he is her client. Honey, if we tell her she will-"
"What? Protect me? She hasn't done that since the day I was born."
Your father shakes his head at all this news. You don't even know where to start. Jackson owns part of your father's business. Your father built his construction business from the bottom up, and now, with Jackson involved, this will only further go to Hell for you.
"I'm sorry. This is my fault for being gullible. I can't imagine what you've been through, sweetheart, but I promise I will make it right."
"You can't dad. I have to do this alone. If you get involved, Jackson will ruin your business and-"
"The business doesn't matter. You are my daughter. I failed at protecting you before, and I won't fail again." Your father pulls you into a hug as Joe appears. You break apart and let your father settle in his room while you and Joe talk in the kitchen. You tell Joe the news your father shared with you about the company.
"I'll buy Jackson's half. Let's ask Janet and Alex to put that in the agreement." You state, holding onto Joe. Joe calls Janet, Alex, and Eliza over.
"Before we can do anything, I want to talk to Jackson. Alone."
"I don't think that is a good idea." Eliza steps in, looking at Joe for backup. Joe takes your hand.
"We have to let her make her own choices. I'm going to support her no matter what. Let her do it." Joe replies. You give him a soft smile. After a few more talk-throughs, you end the night by checking on your father. He states that he wants you to speak to your mother so that she can hear your side. You tell him that isn't an option yet. You return to your bedroom and cuddle next to your boyfriend. You both know the road ahead will be challenging, but as long as you have Joe, you know you can do it.
You sit across Jackson and take a deep breath.
"I want to buy back your half of my father's company, " you say flat out. Jackson throws his head back, laughing.
"And why would I do that?"
"Because I'm pressing charges against you, Jackson. Everything that you have done to me will be brought to light. I am giving you the chance to fix things."
"You're not going to win. Get that through your head. Come back to me, and all of this can stop. It's your word against mine. I need you to think this through. You have no proof." Jackson chuckles.
"I-"
"I will ruin your brother's life. Aaron? Is it? Your youngest brother, right? Just getting his name out in the entertainment world, right? I will have him fucking blacklisted." Jackson threatens.
"Why are you doing this to me, Jackson? What did I do to you?"
"Come back to me, and this can be over. Your father…the rest of your family. I will leave them alone. Joe included."
You bite your lip and look around the room. A few feet away, Karen is urging you to agree to the terms.
"I want to be happy." You whisper, holding back tears. Jackson reaches over and touches your hand.
"I can make you happy like I did before. I'm different. I've changed. Let me show you." Jackson rubs the back of your hand. You shake your head.
"Joe…I love him." You finally let the words come out of your mouth. You love Joe, and it's taken you forever to say the words in fear of what your future would look like with him. But you know now that your future with Joe is as bright as the stars. Jackson starts laughing.
"No. You have no idea what you're saying right now. I have given you everything I have. I have loved you from the moment we met. You promised your life to me. Marriage kids…All of that is our future."
"I can't have kids anymore! You made sure of that! I will never come back to you. My family is stronger than you think. I've told them what you've done to me and what to expect moving forward. I gave you this meeting for a chance to change your ways, but you refused. My lawyers will be in touch." You grab your purse and exit the room. Karen chases after you and grabs your wrist.
"Think about what you're doing. Jackson is giving you the chance to make things right. Go back to him and protect your family. He can and will make everyone's life worse." Karen states, shaking your shoulders. You remove her grip and stare at her.
"You're such a sad woman. You continue to live in his spotlight, not seeing the good you could do by standing by my side. Jackson only cares for himself. The quicker you learn, the faster you will live a much better life, Karen. Testify against him. Win and be out from under his shadow. I'm doing this as a courtesy. You were supposed to protect me, and you didn't. You continue to let that man get away with everything. You're just as guilty as him in my eyes…But I'm giving you the chance to make up for your mistakes." You don't break eye contact and do your best to read over Karen's facial expression. You give her shoulder a few taps and walk away. Karen turns and walks back into the room to find Jackson pacing. You go to the lobby, where you find your boyfriend in disguise, just people-watching. You walk over and bend down, scaring him.
"I said I could do this alone." You whisper, pulling down his sunglasses. Joe shrugs.
"Just in case he tried anything. I wanted you to know you're not alone."
You kiss his lips and pull him up. The both of you exit the hotel. The ride back home sends your mind racing. You're sure your father has told your brothers, but you're not ready to face them yet, so you've been ignoring their calls. At home, Eliza, Janet, and Alex wait for the update. You tell them what everyone already knows. Jackson won't let you repurchase your dad's company; he refuses to settle. You give Janet and Alex the okay to file charges in California. With things in motion, you take the time to go to LA and finish some business for a week.
You giggle as you read over the text from Joe. Everyone in the room can see how much you glow at the mention of the football player. You can't wipe the smile off your face when you get called Joe Burrow's girlfriend. You're finally free to enjoy Joe in front of the world. It was a crazy mix of reactions, but for the most part, everyone is obsessed with the both of you.
"Yeah, she is finished up for the magazine spread. We will do a quick Q&A and then wrap it up." Eliza shouts on set. You text Joe a goodbye followed by a kissy face emoji. You miss him, but with his training for the upcoming season, you had to fly out and get some photoshoots done for your upcoming movie. You sit on the white sofa as your makeup artist comes and touches you up.
"So we have a special person here to help us out with this interview." The photographer announces. Your body freezes up, and you look at Eliza with horror written on your face. Jackson. It has to be Jackson. But as your special guest appears, your horror-struck eyes become filled with admiration. Joe smiles and takes a seat on the couch. Your mouth is wide open as you stare at him in complete shock. You launch yourself onto his lap as he laughs.
"Suprise, baby," Joe whispers in your ear. You lean back, and he kisses your lips.
"What's this?" You ask as Eliza hands you cards. You read over the cards.
"GQ couples quiz," Joe replies, fixing his shirt and licking your chocolate Fenty lipgloss off his lips. You cannot wipe the smile off your face as you read over the cards.
"You guys ready?" Eliza asks. You nod eagerly and sit back, wiggling in your seat. You start by introducing yourself and Joe.
"What's my favorite color?" You ask. Joe scratches his head, laughing.
"That's easy, yellow. Not too bright, like a nice mellow yellow. Not the drink." Joe laughs, replying. You nod and ding him for the point.
"What food do I love, and what food do I hate?" You ask next. Joe laughs and leans back. He takes a moment to think, and you give him a look.
"She loves lasagna, and she hates soups. Any soup she complains, but she also hates onion, but she will tear French Onion soup up, so it's like weird." Joe sits up, staring at you. You hide behind your cards, giggling.
"French onion is just too good! Okay, what's my favorite fast food, and what is my go to order?"
"You don't even eat out like that, umm, Chick-fil-A, and she always gets the Cool Wrap with extra ranch packet, a lemonade, and fries." He replies. You clap for him and tell them to give him extra points.
"He's so attentive like I barely eat out. I think I had that when we first started dating. Speaking of, how did you ask me out?"
"This is embarrassing. When we first started talking, we would send each other songs. So, I sent her Girlfriend by Charlie Puth. She messaged me and asked, What does this mean? And I replied precisely what the song says."
"What did you respond?" A guy asks off camera. You giggle behind the cards.
"Yes. I didn't send a song back because I was so shy and too busy giggling." You reply, flipping to the next card.
"What did you do for the first date?" The guy asks. You look at Joe, letting him take the lead.
"We did ABC dates for the first 26 dates; we did something corresponding to the alphabet. So, date one was an aquarium date." Joe smiles at you, shooting you a wink.
"Who said I love you first?" You ask, reading the next card. Joe leans back, laughing.
"I did. I knew I was in love with her from the first date. Without reading the little cards next to each animal, she would start this long rant about information on them. I was fascinated and had to stand back and stare at her. Although when I first said I love you, it threw her off, and she ghosted me for weeks."
"Joseph!" You giggle playfully, shoving him. Joe whispers that he loves you, and your heart flutters. You blow him a kiss and read the next card.
"How did we meet?"
"At her cousin's wedding. I knew the groom, and they introduced us, so I owe Matty a big thank you.
"Were you a fan of hers before meeting her?" The director asks. Joe nods his head.
"I was. Who isn't a fan? After we started hanging out, I did a deep dive for sure, but haha, I was always a fan. My family members are huge fans of her, so it worked out." Joe replies, licking his lips. You hide behind your cards.
"What's my favorite movie."
"Titanic."
"Ding! What's a pet peeve you have about me."
"None. I'm too in love with you. Next question."
"There has to be one. I won't get upset." You reply, waiting for an answer.
"Hmmm. She falls asleep with the TV on. I like silence. But I would do anything to keep her happy, so I don't care." Joe states, grinning.
"What's the first thing I made you to eat?"
"Man…I think it was spaghetti or something."
"Ding. That's correct." You give your boyfriend a few claps.
"What was my favorite subject in school?"
"I think English? No history. She's a history buff!" Joe replies you give him another ding for his correction.
"What's my phone number?"
"I can't say that. Are they going to beep it out?" Joe asks. The producers give him a thumbs up, and Joe gives out your phone number.
"She doesn't know my number."
"To be fair, I don't remember anyone's number." You laugh and go to the next card.
"What is your favorite thing about me?" This time, when you ask, you stare straight into those blue orbs across from you. Joe leans forward and takes your hand.
"I love everything about you. I love that our humor is the same. I love how you protect those you love. I love the way your mind works. I love your strength. I never thought I would be able to fall more in love with you, but every day, you show me that's possible." Joe rubs the back of your hand, and you look away, holding back tears.
"Give him all the points, " you jokingly state, wiping your eyes. You toss the cards and throw yourself at your boyfriend, causing the set to laugh. After you guys wrap up on set, Joe follows you back to the hotel. You guys find yourselves in bed kissing each other endlessly. Your mouth detaches from Joe's, only to breathe in and return to his lips. Joe moans into the kiss, causing you to squeeze your thighs together involuntarily.
"Take this off," Joe whispers, pulling at your t-shirt. You sit up and toss it to the floor. Joe pulls you back on top of his lap and takes your nipple into his mouth. You look down at him with glossy eyes. Joe grips your hips tightly. You hiss as he pulls back slowly on your nipple between his teeth. Joe sucks on it gently, and you rake your fingers through his hair. While Joe is busy sucking on your nipple, you move your hand down to the waistband of his briefs, releasing his cock. Joe releases your nipple and stares up at you as you start pumping him in your hand. Joe lifts you and sheaths himself entirely in you. You both sigh while you clench around his shaft.
"Fuck baby, don't do that. I'm going to cum." Joe whispers, pulling you back down for a messy kiss.
"Missed this so so much," You pull away from the kiss and lean back as Joe starts bouncing you up and down on his cock. You lean forward so that your forehead touches his.
"Yeah, you miss this. Such a good girl." Joe groans, feeling you clench around him again. He slaps your thigh, and you giggle. You bend down and capture his lips. Joe's kisses are lazy because he is too focused on bouncing you up and down his cock chasing his release. It's only been a week of separation, but your dear boyfriend desperately wanted you. Joe groans when you pull his head back by his hair. You start leaving open mouth kisses on his neck.
"I'm cumming." Joe groans as you suck on his neck. You giggle and pull back to see your handy work. Joe sighs, holding you down as you continue to milk everything he gives you. You pick yourself up and plop down on the bed beside him. Joe rolls over and stares at you. Before you got here, Joe had spent at least 15 minutes devouring you, so it was only fair he got his ending, too. You can feel his semen dripping down your legs, which makes you giggle at the sensation.
"What?" Joe asks.
"The strike started, so I won't be promoting anything. I can give all my time to you." You whisper. Joe closes his eyes.
"Do you trust me, Joseph?"
"With my whole heart."
You close your eyes and join your boyfriend in a deep sleep. The next day, you and Joe find yourselves eating out. A few fans ask for photos and autographs which you both have no problem doing. When you return to your hotel, you and Joe take a hot shower, not missing a moment to touch each other. After the shower, you take a much-needed nap. You and Joe fly back home and bury yourself in the case you are building against Jackson. You have not spoken to your father since he shared about your mother. Your brothers have tried to reach out to you, but you're not ready for that talk.
"Can you go into more detail about the Oscar night?" Janet asks,
bringing you back to the present. You ignore your oldest brother's text and place your phone on the table.
"Like what?"
"Did he assault you?… Physically?" She clarifies. You take a deep breath and nod your head.
"How long do we need to do this? I have surgery today." You state changing the subject. Janet looks at Alex.
"We can end here. Are you nervous about the surgery?"
"Yes, I want it to work out. I want to be a mother, " you reply.
Alex drives you to the hospital, where Joe meets you. He kisses your lips and tells you how brave you are then you are and that he will be waiting for you when you wake up. And just like he promised, Joe was at your side when you woke up and through recovery. Before you knew it, the season started. As always, you went to the games with his family and cheered him on. You ran into Jackson once and were surprised by the outcome.
"You win. Have your team contact mine. I'll follow whatever rules you set." Jackson stated. You stared at him in disbelief.
"First, let me buy back my father's company."
"You wanted a legit deal, have your team contact mine."
"Fine." You say, turning to walk away, but JAckson's next word surprises you.
"I'm sorry."
You can't find it in yourself to turn back and face him, but hearing those exact words you heard so many times from him seems haunting. You get the courage to turn around and face him with tears in your eyes; you take a deep breath.
"This could have all been avoided. What you have done to me, I'll never be able to forgive you, so keep your apology. Your words mean absolutely nothing to me." You state sternly. Jackson chuckles and wipes his face.
"For what it's worth, I loved you. I truly loved you."
"Well, you had a fucked up way of showing it."
"Get away from her." You hear Joe's mother shout. She quickly steps in between you. Jackson nods his head and walks away. She turns around and pulls you into a hug. You and Joe had sat down with his parents and broke the news a few weeks ago. Her actions shocked you but warmed your heart.
"Are you okay? Did he say anything to you-"
"Mrs.Burrow, I'm-"
"Mom. I told you to call me mom…if that's okay." She whispers, cupping your face to wipe the tears. You smile and nod.
"Mom, I'm okay." You sniffle, and she hugs you again. You guys make your way to the game. It has been a stressful few weeks for Joe, from your surgery to losing a few games. Joe always took it so hard and blamed himself. But you were there to comfort him always. After the team won, you guys went out to celebrate. Joe's hand never left yours through the night. You sipped your drink and leaned over.
"It's been four weeks, and I got the okay from my doctor. So-"
"Check this out." Andrei holds up his phone to Joe. Joe reads the headline, and you watch his face twist. You lean over to read it yourself, your hand moving faster than you can process as you rip the phone from Joe's hand.
"Jackson and longtime girlfriend are expecting their first child…. longtime girlfriend?"
Andrei looks at Joe, confused. You hand the phone back and storm out of the party. This is why he was so uncaring. You call Janet, and she already knows. It's a complete wrench thrown in your plan.
"We should still meet him and go over the contract. He doesn't want it to get out so-"
You hang up and lean over, feeling sick. Joe comes to comfort you. You don't know if it's the news or the drinks, but you're dizzy. Joe holds your waist and steadies you on your feet. You guys leave the celebration as paparazzi snap away, screaming questions at you. You get into the vehicle and break down. Joe pulls you into his arms. In times like this, he feels so hopeless; the only thing he can give you is comfort. You cry well into the morning, and when you wake up, you suffer from puffy eyes and sore throat.
"We can reschedule this meeting if you're not up to this today," Joe states. You ignore him and continue fixing your makeup.
"Honey-"
"Just stop! I don't need to be babied. You're suffocating me!" You shout, slamming the door in his face. You didn't mean to lash out, but you're stressed. Jackson is always steps ahead of you. After you finish getting ready, you look for Joe to apologize. You find him on the phone in the kitchen. LA is not a good place for you; you want to run back to Ohio with Joe as soon as possible. Joe hangs up the phone and turns to you with a half smile.
"I'm sorry." You whisper. Joe shrugs.
"We should get going. Janet just called and said Jackson is there already…with your mother."
The bad news keeps rolling in. You guys meet at Jackson's local law firm. Janet and Alex are already there. You look over at Jackson's "girlfriend" and roll your eyes. You know her. It's someone you trained with in the past, but she never broke out as a star. You tell the ladies you will meet them inside the conference room.
"How long have you been with Jackson?" You ask her. She rubs her belly.
"Going on eight years."
You laugh and throw your head back. Courtney stares at you, not amused.
"How much is he paying you to say that? You know he was with me-"
"You're delusional. You and Jackson had a strictly professional relationship. He told me how obsessed you were."
"Court, we trained together. You saw me and Jackson together all the time. He-"
"He said you guys messed around once, and you just wouldn't back off."
"You can't honestly think he is going to treat you better? He is not sane. He will crush you until there is nothing left."
"Look, he helped your career. Be fucking grateful. I want that, too. Unlike you, I won't let him break me because we both need something from each other." Courtney says with a smile. She bumps into you and walks into the room. Jackson makes his way over.
"Courtney. Longtime girlfriend? What is wrong with you?"
"I'm sorry. What we had was fun, but you can't honestly think you were the only one. Right?" Jackson chuckles and brushes the hair from your face. He kisses your forehead.
"You made me an enemy, and I told you it wouldn't be pretty. Listen to me next time." He says before backing off and walking away. You get yourself composed before walking into the room and spotting your mother. Janet and Alex start going over your demands. Jackson agrees with them all, but you have zoned out.
"No deal." You interrupt. Everyone stops talking and looks at you.
"What?"
"You can't buy my silence. You took my voice a long time ago, but it's back. I won't let you get away with anything you did. I'll see you in court." You stand up and walk out as Jackson calls after you. Janet and Alex will follow you out. Joe waited in the care for you. You shock him when you climb into the car.
"What happened?-"
"Please just drive." You say. Joe nods and pulls out. Once you guys reach the parking garage, climb onto his lap and kiss him. Joe tries to talk between kisses but can't catch a break. He finally lightly grabs your hair and pulls you back.
"Baby? Talk to me."
"You're right. I need to speak up so other women know what kind of person he is…I'm taking him to court." You lean back and look into his blue eyes. Joe nods his head.
"I'm proud of you."
And when Janet and Alex reach your hotel, you have everything drawn up and the story released. Your comment section on IG becomes too much that you deactivate them. Joe suffers an injury, and life seems to be slapping you both down. The world was calling you a liar, and though they didn't say it to your face, some co-stars sided with Jackson. Jackson was thriving, just as you expected, until some lip reader on TikTok posted just the evidence needed. Eliza handed you her phone.
"Do you remember that day?" She asks
"Here he is telling her, fix your face before I fix it for you. And then you see her smile." The girl states, pointing out Jackson's words. Of course, you remember that night. It was Emmy night, and Jackson had screamed at you the whole way over about the dress you wore being too revealing even though he controlled every aspect of you. He chose that dress. Another tiktoker who is known for body language analyzes the same clip.
"Look how tight he grabs her wrist when she tries to walk away. Jackson Taylor is an abusive man. Hashtag, we believe you." The guy states. You continue to look through the hashtag and see that you have gained support. People believe you.
"I have to see this through. I have to be open about everything." You whisper. Your eyes drift to Joe, who is on the phone in the kitchen. Eliza follows your gaze. Once Joe is off the phone, he finds you alone in the living room, staring at the blank TV.
"Hey."
You pat the seat next to you.
"What's up?" He asks, taking a seat.
"This is going to be a long process for me. I need the space to see this through."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm moving back to LA."
"I can come to stay with you and-"
"You need to focus on healing…and in a way, so do I."
"I don't get what you're saying?" Joe nervously chuckles.
"Joe, don't make this harder than it needs to be. I can't give you all of me because he still has it. It's not fair to you or me. I have to fight him and this alone. I need my focus to be on this."
Joe stands up abruptly, scaring you for a second.
"I have been supportive. I have been the supportive boyfriend this whole time! And you're going to leave me just like that. When I'm at my weakest?"
"Stop yelling, please. I know this is frustrating, but-"
"But nothing!"
"Joe, this is hard for me too!"
"Then fight for us too? I love you. I have shown you time and time again. After everything we've been through, you can drop us like that?"
"Joe, I can't love you like you love me. I'm broken. I told you from the start. I told you. Nothing can fix me." You cry. Eliza comes from her bedroom, shocked about all the noise.
"I'm begging you to fight for us."
"I don't have any more fights left. I'm sorry, Joe." You whisper. Joe stands still, letting the silence fill the room. It's selfish. He knows it, but if he has to be selfish to keep you near him, he will become the most selfish person on the planet. But you're walking away from him. Joe can hear you saying words, but he can't understand them. It's as if you're speaking another language. Finally, Eliza brings him back.
"She's gone. She asked me to pack up her things and have it shipped to LA. I'm sorry, Joe. I'm shocked as you."
"I have to let her go. I can't be another guy that forces her to be in a relationship." Joe whispers and walks away. Eliza finds you in the car crying. She is confused by your actions, but she trusts that the both of you will find your way back to each other.
When you return to LA, rumors spread about you and Joe breaking up. People speculate that he broke up with you for obvious reasons. You keep yourself busy with Janet and Alex. Sometimes, you find yourself asking Janet about Joe. She tells you he's doing better, which is all you wanted. The hardest part about the case was getting people to speak up against Jackson. Everyone you emailed denied any involvement, even your old manager. Finally, one day, you get a visit from your old makeup artist.
"I'll testify." She states flat out. Janet smiles and nods.
"What can you bring to the table?" Alex asks.
"I was her makeup artist for two years. I can't tell you how many bruises I was paid to cover in those two years. I confronted Jackson, and he fired me. He threatened my family….when she found out she had paid me in secret for years. I've been running some of her clinics for women who are running from DV situations. I will tell them everything." Viola squeezes your hand, and you pull her into a hug.
"You helped so many women; they don't even know it. Thank you." Viola states. You are pulled into a hug and smile. Viola leaves you with Janet.
"Why didn't you tell me about the clinics? This-"
"Because they are all under Viola's name. I didn't want to have my name attached because of Jackson." You reply.
"This is huge. With her testimony, we really have something." Janet leans over the rail, looking out at the city.
"I miss him." You say, staring at the pool.
"He misses you too," Janet replies.
"He's never going to forgive me."
"He's upset, but I'm sure he would fall on his hands and knees if you walked into his door. I have never seen little Joseph so in love."
The thought makes you smile, but you know, deep down inside, Joe deserves someone with less baggage and Less damage. Because that's what you were… damaged goods. Some other guys ruined artwork. Joe could never put back the pieces.
"Your mom is here." Eliza interrupts. You take a deep breath. You were the one who called her to visit, so it's time to face the woman who gave birth to you.
it has been so longggg. I am sorry! But I am back. I am doing much better. I had a grippy sock vacation in the fall but I am feeling much better haha. This chapter sucks but we MOVE! I am getting back into the groove of writing again lol
#joe burrow fan fic#joe burrow x you#joe burrow x reader#joe burrow#joe burrow fic#joe burrow x y/n#joe burrow bengals#joe burrow smut#joe burrow imagine#joe burrow imagines#joey b#nfl imagine
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Congrats & happy 2nd birthday! For the bday x Seams sleepover 💬
Joel back home…after seeing Pin in the jeans. Spicy/crack pls!
Buck
Seams sleepover micro drabble request | 490 words | warnings: explicit masturbation (m) and cumshot | immediately follows Part III: Edgestitch, but can be read independently of the series
Joel stares at the ceiling, which is nothing new. He’s spent many sleepless nights in the exact same position.
What is new is the raging hard on rudely jutting out between his thighs.
It’s hours after the party, hours after he had his first taste of you in his brother’s house. His erection bobs against his stomach when he recalls the soft give of your lips on his, the way his damn breath caught in his throat. He’d wanted to do so much more, with his hands, with his mouth -
A scratchy groan grates in his windpipe, and Joel swipes a hand over his tired eyes, but it doesn’t erase you from his mind. Your wide eyes, the cream cheese on your neck, fuck, why didn’t he just lick it clean off your skin? Suck it right off your throat?
He wants to hear you gasp when his lips land on the side of your neck. Wants to lave your racing pulse point with his tongue. Wants to feel you shudder when he kisses his way down to your collarbone and lower. Much, much lower.
He thinks about the jeans you wore for him. Your playful retort that it was the only thing you didn’t have in the wash, which turned him on probably more than anything else. He lets his mind linger over how the denim clung to your hips, how they felt between his palms when he held you in place. How he wanted to reach down and squeeze the swell of your ass, wanted you to rub against him and feel how hard he was for you -
Joel arches off the bed at the thought, his cock leaking needily into his boxers.
Shoving them down his hips, he groans when his hand wraps around his throbbing length, hissing at the unfamiliar contact - fuck how long has it been since he’s touched himself - eyes screwed shut at the bursts of sensation that threaten to knock him out. It’s been too long, he’s too wound up. He’s barely touching himself, it’s too much, but still his hips buck upwards, erratically, chasing friction.
Seared on the back of his eyelids is you, looking up at him through hooded eyes, lips swollen and breath short, wanting him - him! - so openly and honestly -
If he had the presence of mind, he’d be embarrassed that he’s already cumming, a painful whimper caught in his throat as he bites down hard on his bottom lip, needing to be quiet in the dead of night.
It feels like his stomach is caving in, ribs collapsing, as he spurts thick and white all over himself. Sticky tendrils web between his fingers, sweat on his sternum quickly cooling in the midnight air and soaking the mattress under his back, the smell of his cum thick with every panting breath.
Turning his face into the pillow, he burrows into the softness - wishing it was you he was curling into.
Notes: Thank you @thatesqcrush for this request, I'm sorry it took so long to get to, life got in the way, as usual! I think this is my first time writing a scene like this, and I had a blast ❤️
#seams sleepover#fuckyeahseams#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller smut#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x fem!reader#joel miller imagine
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