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kaiandthestrangespaghetti · 1 year

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You are giving me life! I adore writing these two because they have this intense, kinda dark dynamic but they're so utterly infatuated with each other that it just turns into an endless game of the cutest nonsense you ever did see lol

The Only Home I Know (Part 01/?)

This is a continuation of Wasteland, Baby - all parts of which can be found here: 01/02/03/04/05

Pairing: Miami Man x F!Reader

Wordcount: 3.6k

Warnings: Mentions of violence, brief mention of cannibalism, vaginal sex, anal sex, mouth stuff, size kink/size difference, strength kink, bodily fluids, hide and seek/play fighting, dirty talk, (just all round filth), love and cuteness.

Summary: You, Miami and Miel are holding up in an abandoned town after escaping Miel’s kidnappers.

A/N: Thank you @artsy-trash-panda for coming up with the premise! And @kamcrazy123 for enabling this lol. This is the first one where we start to get plot involving The Dream.

Tags: @artsy-trash-panda @kamcrazy123

The exhaustion of the past few days is so total that you remember tucking back into Cam’s body on the kitchen floor, the song drifting quietly from the radio’s speakers and then nothing. Your eyes open crisply as the very first morning light leaks into the kitchen through the big patio doors.

Cam has turned the other way in the night. He stirs slightly as you sit up but rolls a little further onto his front. The elegant necks of the flamingos tattooed on his back and shoulder blades rise and fall with his slow breathing.

You’re so awake, so full of energy. Getting to your feet you cross the kitchen and quietly reach into a box of supplies you’d brought in from the truck – the stuff you’d taken from Elijah’s compound.

Elijah’s face swims in your memory for a moment. The man who kidnapped Miami’s daughter. He’d kept talking about someone called ‘The Dream’. The shockwave of the grenade you’d stuffed in his clothes punctuates the thought. Whoever The Dream was, he’d lost one of his lapdogs.

The candy bar is delicious after nothing but meat. Sickly sweet but heavenly. Using your knees as a vice, you crack the seal on a Sprite bottle one handed and wake Cam as you twist it open, he rolls with a groan. Flexing his neck as he leans up on one elbow. His hair completely loose, face still bruised from what happened the day before.

Before you can pass him the bottle, he’s on his bare feet, padding quietly down the hall to check Miel’s room. She’s still sound asleep. It must be no later than five am.

He closes the bedroom door silently and comes back into the kitchen, sweeping his hair back from his face with one hand and leaning his forearms on the opposite side of the kitchen island. With a smile, you pass him the bottle and he drains the rest of it.

His bruised cheek is rough with stubble when you cup it in your hand. He leans into you, placing his own much larger palm over yours. It’s so warm. You communicate easily this way now; wordlessly. A soft peace settles in the gloomy kitchen. It feels strange in how normal it all is. Like you could almost be a family who bought a house here, not the outcasts you are.

But you’re not like the people who would have bought these houses. None of you. A thought that no longer causes you any pain, especially when you see that look on Cam’s face – that low lidded hazel gaze and slight smile. So warm but so wicked. He’s the safest place you’ve ever been, and the taste of blood in your mouth simultaneously. A crate of chocolate bars and the brutal means by which you obtained them. Cam is dangerous, but so are you. Perhaps more so.

You’re chewing your lip and you don’t even notice. But you do notice Cam’s cleaver still laying on the counter between you, still clipped in its holster. He sees you glance down at it, but he can’t catch your hand before you unsnap the holster and slide the bare steel of the blade across the counter with a hiss. His tattooed fingers close on your narrow wrist. There’s no moving now. He raises a scarred eyebrow at you, the amusement evident on his face.

“Told you already, m’better at this game…” He leans across as he says it, so close you can feel his hot breath on your cheek and ear. With the morning light at his back, he casts you in the gloom of his huge shadow.

As if by way of explanation he nods over his shoulder to where your small kitchen knife and revolver are still laying on the floor. You’d taken them out of your holster the night before. Your tongue traces the underside of your teeth, and his upper lip hitches up in a half snarl, half smirk. The low rumble of his laugh makes you test his grip, but he lifts your wrist easily, turning the blade from your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm.

“Tell y’what…” He purrs, his eyes raking up and down you. You’re pulling against him but not to escape; just to feel the strength of him. The tension between the two of you in the silent kitchen is almost unbearable. You think about crawling over the counter.

“No weapons, y’get ten seconds, then I come for you.”

Your wrist drops limp on the counter, and a hard sigh exhales out of you. He’s grinning, still not letting you go. Sure, he could just turn your arm and bend you over the counter like a rag doll if he wanted. If you wanted. He could fuck you almost the way the couple who might have lived in this house would have. But you’re not them.

You nod, and you can’t help it – you lean in and smash your lips into his, his beard grazing your face. His tongue presses deep into your mouth for a second and you can feel him melting. He tastes like Sprite. His fingers are clenching hard in the back of your hair and suddenly he’s dragging you from around the side of the island. The shove is playful, but you still need to brace your hand against the glass of the patio doors to stop yourself as you stagger.

Cam swallows, holding himself in position by the counter. You can see the effort he’s exerting. You’re bent forward against the glass, your ass almost visible under your dress, so you decide to make it worse for him; your right hand snares the waistband of your panties, and they drop around your ankles, the tiniest flash of your cunt visible to him as you do it.

His eyelids flutter, thick fingers gripping the side of the countertop till his knuckles are white. His hair spills across his face and his throat bobs.

“Ten…” he rasps harshly.

You turn and slide the glass door, sprinting barefoot as if your life depended on it across the patio, past the empty pool in the back yard, scrambling over the low fence into the next garden of dried-up turf. Even in your frenzy you notice how the whole place is still completely silent, apart from the occasional bird cawing. You’re alone, in your own playground. The moment of peace passes, you burst through the back door of the house you’d scoped out the night before.

This one has no furniture. Your heart is hammering in your chest, but it’s not fear. Not totally. You take the stairs three at a time, stumbling onto your side at the top and swerving into the master bedroom. There’s a walk-in closet with a door. But you regret it the moment it closes behind you – you’ve trapped yourself.

How many seconds is that? Too late to move. You slide down onto your side and press your cheek to the floor, watching under the narrow gap.

What feels like an age passes but is probably less than a few minutes. Your ears strain against the quiet and when you detect slow footfalls on the stairs the hairs on the back of your neck rise. Cam’s bare feet are visible on the landing, he pauses there a second, then turns left down the hall toward the other bedroom. You see the opening. The adrenaline jolts you to your feet, flinging the closet door wide and nearly tumbling down the stairs as you half leap, half stumble most of the way down, clutching the banister with one hand.

The back door slams open on its hinges and before you can think another desolate pool is yawning out in front of you beyond the paving slabs of the patio. You leap. It’s not deep, maybe five feet but you’re not prepared; your knees still crumple as your feet impact the concrete, sending you sprawling forward.

Quiet, deliberate steps follow behind you. Cam isn’t running. Rolling onto your side you see him standing on the edge of the pool with his hands braced on his hips, looking down at you like you’re a wounded animal. The heat of his expression sears you in place, just long enough for him to hop down from the pool’s edge with a climber’s grace that makes no sense for his size. You start crawling, trying to get your knees under you.

He makes no move to grab you, he just laughs. His head canted to one side over his muscled shoulder, wrists flexing in anticipation.

“Keep crawling Princesa…” He goads, and you swing a heel into his shin. It connects hard enough to make him grunt, but he seizes your ankle, pulling you helplessly across the floor of the pool toward him. His other hand locks on your thigh and before you can get your legs underneath you, you’re in his lap, face to face with that smug, hungry smile.

Yet it’s devoid of cruelty, even when his fingers and thumb easily circle your throat. He holds you delicately, without pressure, despite the way his top lip hitches up and he swallows with driven want, eyelids fluttering.

“How’s somethin’ so small got a bite like you do?”

You lean hard into his grip and snap your teeth at him playfully. He catches you with a snort of laughter and you feel his cock twitch against your thigh.

It’s impossible to hold it back; you moan and grope his lap, finding the heat under the white cotton. He doesn’t stop you but his eyes almost completely close, his exhalation through gritted teeth is warm on your face. The grip on your throat flexes, then shifts familiarly to the nape of your neck. The way his forearm braces your whole back makes you unravel.

Eyelids dipped, Cam slips two thick fingers in his mouth then firmly, but delicately splays your cunt to look at you.

The shudder that goes through him makes you grin. He’s so lost in looking at you that he doesn’t notice the balls of your feet gaining purchase. You’ve almost enough strength to dive momentarily out of his grip but his fingers seize your hair. It’s useless.

“Done yet, lil biter?” He lilts. And as he says it his wet fingers spread you exquisitely open before him. It’s so intense your head lolls back a moment, hair dragging on the floor of the pool. You look at him with a single expression that communicates a complex reply:

Never, but yes, yes. Please yes.

The abstract lines tattooed on his middle finger sink into you and your eyes roll, turning totally limp in his grip. Cam adds his index finger and presses slowly into your core, watching your face, his own breathing becoming irregular at the heat, the softness. When he pulls them free, he sucks them clean with that expression he always has when he tastes you; as if you are something rare, delectable.

The strong brace of his arm at your back is lowering you onto the floor of the pool, the concrete, not yet baked hot by the sun, is cool beneath your shoulder blades. Everything feels soft and slow after the rush of adrenaline. Your head rolls to one side and you see Cam push his hair back from his face, palming his cock in his wet hand.

He grins, amused at your limpness, casually lifting one knee with two fingers of his free hand, then letting it fall to the side. He doesn’t even need to say it out loud, it’s written on his face as he leans over you;

Look at you, cock drunk on me already…

The thick pressure of him pushing an exquisite inch into your cunt makes your back arch. You try to roll your hips to take more but he denies you, his palms settling on your knees and pressing them almost all the way to the floor at your sides. Another inch and you’re whimpering.

He’s enjoying this, a little in the way a carnivore toys with its prey. He leans back, chin tilting to his chest to get a look at his cock splitting you and a guttural mutter of something that might have been fuck falls from his lips, broad palms sliding down the outsides of your thighs, grasping your ass and pulling you open with his thumbs while he presses deeper, agonisingly slow.

You give a strangled moan, trying to lift your body to meet him, reaching up to grasp his shoulder, just above the letter ‘N’, but he’s too strong. You’ll have only what he allows.

“More…” The word leaks out of you pitifully, your vision a daze of Cam against the brightening blue sky. At the same moment his cock totally fills you the two fingers that had been inside your cunt slide deep into your begging mouth. Just for a second you choke, and Cam pulls them back – but then you’re pleading with your tongue, tasting yourself on his fingers. His expression steels with want and the rough pads of his fingers slip deep, he’s fucking you so hard your bare shoulders shunt against the concrete, anchored only by his grip on your jaw.

It's like being pulled apart in the most exquisite way you can imagine. Everything but the force of him and the blur of the sky disappears from your perception, you feel a rivulet of saliva stream down your cheek. Cam sheathes into you once more, hard, and then his face comes back into focus. He’s looking down at you, angling your face by the fingers in your mouth. Just a tinge of concern in his expression.

Your eyes unfocused, your cunt soft and fluttering against him.

“Too much, lil biter?” He lulls with a hot breath. His beard and lips brush your cheek.

How he takes such strength, such force and turns it effortlessly into endless gentleness you never know. It reminds you that the same hands that have butchered human beings have also produced the most delicate brushstrokes. But it always, always, breaks you. The shudder goes from the nape of your neck to your tailbone.

It feels involuntary – your teeth clamp down on his fingers, hard enough to hurt. A hiss of pain escapes between his teeth and when the shock passes, he looks down at you with a kind of wonder. What are you? It says, glowing.

His breathing is fast and raspy, sweat shows on his forehead, his hairline damp. Still, you haven’t quite relinquished your grip on his fingers.

“You wan’ more?” He utters and slides from your cunt leaving you achingly empty. For just a moment you protest before his free hand drops to angle the slick head of his cock against the tight, exposed ring of your ass. Teasing you with it, watching your face closely.

You freeze up at the sensation. It’s new. Your jaw drops open and you give up his fingers. He cups your face softly despite the bite marks on the back of his knuckles. The daze of it all still engulfing you. The wet slide of his cock against your ass makes you shiver.

“Ok...” He judges from your reaction and goes to pull away but a look of panic floods your face. Words aren’t easy in the moment.

“Don’t…Please. Yes.” You manage.

You can read the conflict on his face. How he loves your size compared to him. How he almost wants to fuck the tight, soft, breakable form of your body so hard you shatter. And yet he wouldn’t harm you, not for anything.

He remembers the way you’d clutched Elijah’s neck, singlehandedly declawing a threat that was bigger, stronger, and better armed. You’re not easily broken.

Cam’s spit hits your ass and cunt, one hand on the back of your neck, your tight hole resisting the slippery head of his cock for a torturous moment before he palms the shaft and pushes hard. A little cascade of sting runs through you but you’re still pulling him toward you by his shoulder.

It’s slow, different to how he normally fucks you; when he finally slides the whole of his cock into your ass he gives an unguarded moan of broken pleasure, and as if to distract himself pushes his fingers back into your mouth.

Cam’s forehead is pressed to yours, no longer restraining you at all. You’re boneless, mind gone with him – and he isn’t much better. The muscles of his neck and shoulder are taught ropes where your hand lays on them, he trembles with tension. The thick twitch of him stretches your body totally and you know he won’t last another minute.

So does he; frozen still, eyes shut, trying to breathe slowly.

“Hurts?” He husks, and you can see the mental effort it takes him to even form the single word. The back of your head rolls back and forth on the hard floor of the pool. No.

Still keeping two fingers in your mouth his free hand teases your fucked cunt, pausing a long moment before pushing his index finger all the way into your wetness. When he feels his own cock filling your ass through the inner wall of your body his eyes go wide, mouth open.

He’s staring down at you, tiny repetitive gasps pulling air into his lungs. The pads of his fingers pumping your cunt, teasing that exquisitely sensitive spot, feeling his own cock seated so deep in your body. His hips piston short, brutal thrusts in your ass and you come suddenly, all sense going from you in the nerve whiteout.

He feels it and he’s muttering in your ear, a harsh, filthy-sweet rush of want, need;

“You like that Princesa? Lil biter? You want more? Gon’ make you so full of me…fuck, so…tight, how? Fuck…”

The words tumble from English into Spanish. You’ve learned that he almost always says ‘I love you’ in Spanish, and you recognise the phrase as he utters it over and over.

Cam lets out a snarl that curls into a vulnerable whine, his fingers slip wetly from your mouth and his arm wraps you crushingly tight. The whole of him spills deep into you with a shudder, until he can’t thrust anymore. You’re both panting. The weight of his body on you holds the world still, pressing you flat on the floor of the pool, everything makes sense. Sweat beads on his back. You both lay that way, feeling your breathing slow.

For a long and beautiful moment there is nothing else in the world. Past the point of language your body becomes a mantra of Cam, his weight and presence. The way he smells. Burying his face into the crook of your neck below your jaw he inhales you deeply; it’s mutual.

A bird caws in the morning sky and your unfocused eyes settle on something upside down, where your head is rolled back; there’s a hosepipe dangling into one corner of the pool. When you’d arrived at the little ghost town you’d checked every faucet, Cam had checked the stop valves and opened them but no water had come out.

But there is a small, damp patch of concrete right below that hose. It’s dripping. You start laughing giddily, still half addled. Cam leans up and looks down at you with a bemused smile, his big hand cupping the back of your head.

“What?” He laughs, and then he sees your eyeline, and looks up.

Running water has become such a strange luxury that you still use it sparingly as you both clean yourselves up in the pool. Tenderly, but like much in the desert, shaped by utility.

Miel gets the first proper bath in the house next door while you sit out on the sun-baked patio.

The dripping hosepipe keeps grabbing your attention.

Dragging it over the fence you toss it into the empty pool in your own little backyard and start the faucet running. Fuck it. You always wanted a pool as a kid. You watch the bottom fill up and realise it wouldn’t have mattered if you’d had one – nothing will ever be as good as this perfect, love bruised, dusty oasis.

About a hundred miles of desert away, a man with dark hair is sitting next to an indoor pool that glimmers with a chlorine scented luxury absent from the derelict concrete bowls in the ghost town.

But all the same, it smells artificial. The bleach tang gives the air an unpleasant taste. He takes a sip from his cocktail and watches a pregnant woman climb out of the water and start towelling herself off. A man with a rifle is at his elbow.

“Sir?”

“Yes? David, is it? Why are you troubling me?” His voice is a low, Texan drawl. He doesn’t look up.

“I apologise sir, but it’s Elijah.”

“What exactly about Elijah?”

“He’s dead sir.”

The Dream freezes with the cocktail half way to his mouth and looks up to pin the other man with a searching look.

“And tell me, how exactly did that happen?”

The man with the rifle looks uncomfortable. “They took Miami and his kid, and some girl with one arm. The girl was due to be transported with the supplies yesterday but…She put a live grenade down Elijah’s shirt. They escaped, all three of them.”

The dream sets the colourful glass down on a side table.

“Well that just wont do. You best be finding out where they went.”

“And then, sir?”

The Dream looks pensively over the blue undulation of the water.

“There’s only one thing to be done with rabid dogs David, but bring me the girl. Maybe she can be convinced of civilisation.”

#comment reblog #xxxxxxx

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