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nitewrighter · 1 year

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The Knight of Frost, Part 2

Been playing a lot of Elden Ring and RDR2 and wouldn’t ya know it, it got me really inspired for this AU.

Thinking about the inherent eroticism of running away hysterically screaming from Elden Ring bosses...

CW: For some Horse Body Horror.

Continued from The Knight of Frost

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Mercy grew up as most girls from her time and place grew up--much as the people in her grandmother’s story grew: she knew long, harsh winters and bright, precious summers and springs, and autumns that seemed to cascade all at once in just a few short weeks. She grew taller than most girls, and with an odd grace and delicacy about her, unbowed by the drudgery of her day to day life. But there was a kindness at her core, perhaps fueled by that constant wrestling with the end of the story, the idea that out there was a knight trapped by a curse for no reason other than the strength of his heart and loyalty. She grew up cleverer than most in her village: with an excellent head for memorization that made her an ideal apprentice for the local midwife and apothecary, and steady hands that allowed her to learn to lance buboes and quickly take over the task for her teachers when gout gave a shake to their wrists and unsureness to their fingers.

All this was paired with a no-nonsense personality that prompted little frustration from her teachers--they recalled beating her only three times--once when her daydreaming lead to idleness, another time when she directly contradicted them in front of a client, and a third time when they found she had been advising and examining in back alleys when her training was not yet complete but their clients had no coin for the apothecary’s consultation. The impressiveness of her fury and passion in defending herself in each case was only rivaled by the impressiveness of her stoicism as the birch met her backside. She was strong, and tall, and always just a little bit angry, like a lone evergreen in a dry place: needs that were not quite being met, but doing her best regardless.

All the while as she grew, the winters seemed to get longer and longer, and leaner, as they started biting into what would have been planting time and wiping out seedlings with harsh spring frosts without warning. Mercy was 11 when most of those that farmed only grain and vegetables left their village in hopes of farming warmer climes, and when the grain left, the alehouse quickly went quiet and mean. Still the village stumbled on. For a while Mercy and her grandmother managed--the sheep of their farm still managing to find gorse and dried grass amid the frost, but even they grew leaner, gave less milk, birthed fewer lambs. The village was valuable enough to travelers going through the mountains for them sustain themselves on trade for a bit. They traded cheese and wool for wheat and barley, and Mercy honed her craft healing travelers’ injuries and even acting as midwife for a birth or two. But soon those creeping winters discouraged more and more travelers from their pass, soon, what reserve supplies there were in the village dwindled, and what few people remained were more or less planning out their own timelines of leaving themselves.

Eventually Mercy and her own Grandmother had to plan for their own departure from the village, and Mercy’s grandmother’s plan amounted to “leave me to die here, I don’t care.” which of course Mercy would not accept, and that’s how Mercy ended up furiously pushing her grandmother in a wheelbarrow down the mountainside, her shepherd’s crook strapped to her back, with the entire flock of sheep in tow, bellwether bells clanking. Still determined, still just a little bit angry, and bright as a flame, her scarlet cloak billowing and pale hair whipping in the wind, and their very own snowy cascade thundering and baaaa-ing down the mountain.

They settled in a new town in the valley, sold most of their sheep for a new house, even got their footing by reuniting with some of their old neighbors. Mercy found work bonesetting, boil lancing, pulling teeth, mixing medicines, and midwifing, her grandmother focused on spinning wool from the three sheep that remained and keeping their little garden in her old age, and for a while, they were content. Mercy found even more business as more people settled into the town, driven out of their own remote villages by the cold same as her and her grandmother. She got a few offers of marriage, but her grandmother ended up scaring most of them off demanding a higher dowry, and eventually her own age got people to muttering and the offers quickly died down. She didn’t mind. Mercy was pleased to hone her skill more, and it was all she could do to let the busyness all her new customers lent her keep out the dread of more people pouring into the valley all the time--her apothecary jars and shelves getting barer and barer as she struggled to treat the influx of people. Also, deeply, quietly, Mercy and her Grandmother missed the grand vistas of their mountain village, and this town was decidedly smellier than that wide open mountain air, but it was a good enough life.

Until the winter found them once again. Curling around the mountain peaks that framed their little town and sinking slow and cold into their valley with every sunset. Nervous mutterings rose up around town as frosts wiped out seedlings and travelers spoke of more routes through the mountains closing up and becoming too dangerous to traverse. Whenever the door would open at the ale house a freezing wind would rip through.

“It’s not right. Not natural. Something has to be done,” someone would mutter into their ale.

“How is wind unnatural? And how does one expect to do anything against wind and winter?” another would reply.

“It’s the old empress’s curse,” another would murmur, “The one from the legends.”

“Well how does one expect to do anything against the long-dead and consigned to legend, Bartleby? Answer me that!” said the second. And that would usually be the end of it. But one night, when Mercy was drinking away the memory of a particularly nasty boil-lancing, a new voice spoke up.

“You could investigate,” the new voice drawled, and Mercy’s eyes flicked away from the foam of her own ale, her eyes falling on a tall figure in a wide-brimmed brown hat, “You head into the cold, you might be able to see what’s causing it. I’ve a right mind to gather several men and do just that.”

Mercy rolled her eyes and sipped her ale.

“And waste food and supplies on what may very well be a death wish?” the second villager, one of Mercy’s own displaced neighbors, scoffed a chuckle, “You travelers are always mad.”

“Maybe,” the man in the wide-brimmed hat conceded, “But... here’s the way I see it-- We go off on this trip, maybe we find out what’s making the winters the way they are, and we stop it, not promising anything like that, but if such an opportunity arises, you can be damn well sure we’ll take it. But ultimately, the goal here is to break through the old main pass to get to the capital city. From there, we re-supply, and come back here with food, more warm clothes, and, if everything’s gotten too bad... a safe way through the pass to greener pastures.”

Mercy’s mouth quirked at this. She hadn’t really thought of what moving again would look like. She could push her grandmother downhill in a wheelbarrow but finding a way out of the valley? When every path would be uphill? She sipped again, tentatively. If they made it to the capital city, she could re-stock on all the items she couldn’t forage here. Could she really trust such a retrieval to some errand boy?

“All I’d need is a handful of volunteers..” the man in the wide-brimmed hat said slowly, but everyone in the tavern gave him a visible cold shoulder.

Mercy gave a short huff into her mug before turning around to look at him.

“Would you be willing to pay for such a trip yourself?” she asked.

“It is in my interest, just as it is in everyone else’s interests, that those trade routes reopen. I have a bit of coin, I’ll pay for what supplies I can, but I know I can’t do this alone.”

Mercy thoughtfully drained the last of her ale in two gulps and set her mug on the wood of the bar. “I have need of supplies that can only be found out of this cold,” she said, not looking at him, “Is your expedition to be exclusively men?”

“I just figured only men were mad enough to go,” the man in the hat shrugged, “Is this volunteering?”

Mercy pressed her lips together. “Would I be the first?”

“The fourth,” his hat flopped a little with the conceding bob of his head, “But I can’t afford dead weight.”

“Do you have a healer among you?”

“There’s Baptiste, but he’s a sellsword. I fear his knowledge of healing comes from just as much as what kills you.”

“You wound me, my friend!” a dark man with a bright smile called from the other end of the bar.

“Miss Mercy, surely you aren’t considering traveling with this vagrant!” one the tavern patrons touched her sleeve.

“Supplies are dwindling,” was all Mercy could reply. She looked back at the stranger in the wide-brimmed brown hat with a stern determination. “I’m trained in herbalism, midwifing, bonesetting, and several disciplines of barber-surgery. I don’t eat much and I have a strong back. Is that good enough?”

“Eh--” it took a moment for the man in the hat to regain his composure, “Y-yes, It’ll suffice.”

“Then I’m coming with you,” she stuck a hand out, “Mercy Goatsrue, at your service.”

“Cole Caisede, miss,” he clasped her wrist with his opposite hand and shook it, “At your service.”

In truth it took some convincing for her grandmother to let her go. And even then it was like “Go ahead, leave me to die!” and Mercy could only respond with, “You won’t die so long as there’s any opportunity to spite me further,” and her grandmother replied, “So you’d better not die then, you damned foolish girl!” And that was about as warm a goodbye as either of them would get. It was dark and very early in the morning when the party departed up the main path out of the valley. Mercy in her scarlet cloak, Cole Caisede looking every bit the rugged mountaineer in his hat and cloak, smiling, knowing Baptiste donning a veritable hodgepodge of clothes from different lands, and a towheaded man with wind-blistered skin who only tersely introduced himself as Bayless who provided two scrawny mules and a wagon for their supplies. It was far too early in the morning for there to be many people seeing them off, and much of the village thought the expedition was too mad to see them off with fanfare. It was quiet and gray, with slow-drifting flakes peppering the air. The path out of the village lead to an incline that started reasonably, but soon had to split into rocky, tedious switchbacks that took some convincing to move the mules along. It took them a day to reach halfway up the bowl of the valley, and they spent the first night trying to find and point out their houses and farms and the different landmarks below.

Finally, when they crested the lip of the valley, Mercy drew in a breath of the still and sparkling air. It was brighter up here, with the valley so prone to the shadows of its own walls and all the sinking cold and darkness that came with it, but that brightness did not mean warmth. Still, it was heartening for the party to feel such light as they had not known in some time. Baptiste scanned the skies, the seeming endless void of blue, the light itself rendered strange by a dazzling ring of light around the sun.

"...no birds," he said, as they pushed on through the snow.

"No seeds or bugs to eat," Mercy huffed. Her skirts had been kirtled and kilted to just below the knee, covering the tops of her boots and further insulating her wooly leggings, but the weight and wind forced her towards the back of the party. For several days the party trudged on, saying little, putting all physical and mental energy towards the seemingly endless trek forward, making camp and eating thin soups of barley and dried mushrooms by night, with their own exhaustion prompting little conversation. Eventually the gradual lightening of their packs, the long hours together, and their own adjustment to the toil of their journey prompted more words.

"Do you give any credence to those 'curse' whispers?" Cole asked as he poked at their campfire one night.

"My grandmother told me the story all the time when I was small," said Mercy, scraping up the last now-cold dregs of her soup, “It always frustrated me that it... always felt unfinished... but it feels dangerous to walk into a story that isn’t your own.”

"My logic has always been, the more thought one gives to a curse, the more power a curse has," said Baptiste, running his knife along a whetstone.

"But it ain't natural, we're in agreement there, right?" Cole propped his forearm up on his knee.

"Wasn't this whole expedition your idea?" Mercy set her bowl down and drew up her flannels around herself.

"Well if the curse is real, that doesn't mean I'm just going to sit down and take it," said Cole, "But the quality of the light up here...the stillness, I must say it lends itself to queer thoughts and fancies."

"You are already naturally given to queer thoughts and fancies, my friend," said Baptiste, not looking at him but giving a lazy wave of his knife in Cole's direction.

Cole gave a wry, smiling huff at that, his breath fogging in the firelight.

There was a braying and nickering and the three of them all glanced at Bayless, who was tending to the mules. Bayless was muttering things to them, not audible over the wind and the crackle of the fire.

“Everything all right over there?” Cole called.

“They mislike it here,” was all Bayless said, coming over to the fire.

“Hm...” Cole poked at the fire, then glanced up at Mercy, “Goatsrue. You said you know the story?” he glanced up at Mercy.

“I can’t tell it like my grandmother,” Mercy shrugged.

“Tell it anyway,” said Cole.

“Cole...” Baptiste began warily.

“What? Maybe we oughta know what we’re walking into.”

“And sometimes to know a thing is to call its attention to you,” said Baptiste.

“You know, when you travel, you’re supposed to just nod politely at the local superstitions and move along--not carry them with you,” said Cole.

“It’s just a children’s story,” Mercy waved her hand, “It’s really not so terrible. I mean the giant spiders scared me but--”

“Giant spiders? Well now you can’t not tell it!”

Mercy snorted and glanced at Baptiste, who simply gave a resigned shrug, and then she told the story. The mules fell silent as she spoke, and she told herself it was just that their own tiredness had finally overwhelmed their unease. Mercy scanned the faces of her not-quite companions, then. Bayless had finished his soup and tucked into his own blankets, Baptiste kept sharpening his knife as the fire died down, not heavily indicating that he was listening, but giving her a careful glance here and there. Cole rubbed at his stubble and listened intently, sometimes popping in with the odd question as she had done with her grandmother in her childhood. The fire had settled down to embers and Baptiste and Bayless had tucked into their own sleep rolls by the time she finished.

“There weren’t as many giant spiders as I thought there would be,” said Cole.

“I said it had spiders, I didn’t say the whole thing was giant spiders.”

“...not exactly a happy ending, is it?” Cole was wriggling into his own sleep roll.

“My grandmother said it wasn’t really about having a happy ending,” replied Mercy, watching the embers, “It was about doing your best even when all hope seems lost.”

“Sounds like a cheery lady,” Cole shrugged.

“I like to think the princess grew up and came back to rescue the knight,” Mercy murmured.

“Hmm... But if she had... do you think we’d be having these winters?” Cole waved a finger at her.

Mercy pursed her lips at him a few seconds before muttering, “It’s just a story,” and getting into her own sleep roll. She watched the embers as sleep closed up around her like flower petals she had not seen in well over a year.

Cole was right about the land lending itself to strange thoughts though, as her dreams were troubling and just a little too clear to simply be dreams. She dreamt of a blue-skinned hand with blackened, claw-like fingertips crushing a little corn husk doll in its grip. She dreamt of frost bristling along spider’s webs, of spikes and twisted spires of ice, growing, growing, closing in around her. And the sounds--she could hear those uncanny sounds, the low thundering, the cracks and zips and high-pitched creaks of water freezing over. Of icicle stalactites quivering above, threatening to fall as a distant chant grew louder and louder.

The cold keeps the flesh.

In her dream she was walking through that cave, the spikes and spires moving, as if leading her on through the tunnels. Her eyes fixed on the quivering stalactites above, the chant moving through the ice, echoing off the walls too strangely for her to gauge where it was coming from. They quivered with the chant.

The cold keeps the flesh.

She couldn’t quite bring herself to react when that first icicle fell, much like anyone’s reaction time in a dream. A part of her was thankful that shatter and spray of ice in all directions was a shock enough to spring her back to consciousness, jerking awake in her sleep roll, her breath fogging as her chest rapidly rose and fell. Her eyes flicked around the camp--there was still the faint glow of embers on their fire, and the faint snoring of her compatriots, and just beyond the camp, the white landscape tinged blue by moon and starlight. She scanned the hills surrounding them, the way their crags had been buffed away beneath a blanket of snow, and that snow had been swept into smooth, curving, sometimes spiked looming shapes. She breathed as she looked around, trying to place herself in the moment.

You are on a quest. You have to cross the mountain pass and bring word of this winter to the capital city and plead for help. You need supplies to bring back to the valley. Yarrow and betony and hyssop and--

Her thoughts fell dead silent as her eyes fell on a distant figure on a hill, and she knew, in that moment that the figure was looking at her. She knew her own face as lit up in the dying embers of the fire, her head covered by that hood of scarlet for warmth, and she looked at this figure, distant and cold in all ways. They were in armor, dark and glittering and complex, taking on a bluish tinge in the moonlight much like the snow. Far too tight on them to glance off blows like normal plate. She wondered how they had even managed to get such armor on. In fact, there were ridges on the side that looked almost... skeletal. She could not see their eyes, but she could feel them, and her breath shuddered in her throat.

They seemed to be on a horse. An unusually large and oddly muscled horse, to be sure. Nothing like the tired but reliable old farm horses she knew in the valley. The eyes of the horse seemed off. She knew of the way animal’s eyes could be lit at night but there was a dullness to their paleness that made her stomach turn. The coloring of the horse seemed off as well--it seemed a piebald at first or perhaps that was the manner of tack in these parts? No, they weren’t so far from the valley for it to look so--

The horse shifted slightly in the moonlight and a sound of horror fell out of her as she clamped her hand over her mouth on instinct. But what was the point? This figure already saw her. And she herself could not break her eyes away from them in turn. But the horse--the horse was not made of all a horse should be made of. She had read enough medical texts and done enough surgeries on suppurated flesh to know it when the horse’s flank caught the moonlight. This was a horse whose flank and back left leg had been reconstructed from the corpses of men. The chant echoed in her head:

The cold keeps the flesh.

Bile burned the back of her throat and tears welled in her eyes but she knew she could not spare either so she kept her hand clamped on her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut and silently begged what gods were watching to wake her up once more.

“Goatsrue?!” Cole had jerked awake at the sound she had made, “What is it? What do you see?!”

Her hand flinched away from her mouth shaking and she moved to point at the hill, but the figure and their horse were already gone.

#I can't TELL you what a goddamn relief it is to be pumping fics out again #Gency #Ice Wraith Genji AU #CW: old-timey use of queer (as in 'unusual') that is also kind of a double entendre but not really #you know that situation where 'strange' just doesn't hit quite the way you want to and 'queer' has a certain intimacy to it? Is that just me #good bye fucked up deer fall it's time for fucked up horse winter

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wowbright · 1 year

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Fic: Prodding

Klaine Advent 2022: recast

Words: ~ 3000 words

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary: Kurt gets surprising news from Mercedes.

I’m back with more vignettes from my Mormon!Klaine universe for Klaine Advent 2022! This vignette takes after Philosophies of Men.

My Mormon!Klaine Masterpost.

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“No!” Kurt shrieked from the kitchen at such an ear-splitting volume, Blaine almost cut himself with the razor. “This is not happening!”

Blaine went into emergency management mode. His heart pounded, but he made himself take deep, steady breaths. If Kurt had hurt himself, it wouldn't help to have both of them panicking.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Blaine asked as he rushed into the kitchen. Kurt sat at the table, staring at the letter from Mercedes. Ah, not a physical wound then, but an emotional one. That might be even worse.

Kurt looked up at Blaine, his cheeks flushing a ruddy pink. “Sorry. I didn't mean to say that out loud.”

Blaine sat next to him. “It's OK. Is it something you want to talk about?”

“You still have shaving cream …” Kurt pointed vaguely to Blaine’s neck.

“That's OK. I was almost done. If it's uneven, I can touch it up later.” Blaine grabbed the face towel that was draped over his shoulder and dabbed at his skin. “Presentable?”

“I'm not the right person to ask, Blaine. I always think you're presentable.”

Blaine felt the edges of his ears go hot. This felt like flirting. Was this flirting? No, of course not. Kurt was in the middle of having strong emotions. That's why Blaine was here. “Um, so I'm guessing Mercedes said something that upset you?”

Kurt set the letter down and buried his face in his hands. “It shouldn't. I don't know why it does.”

Blaine tried to think of situations in which that phrase could apply. He wondered if Mercedes was having a once-in-a-lifetime event—a wedding, a Broadway premiere—that Kurt couldn't be there for because he was here in Germany. Kurt would deny himself the right to feel sad about it, because missionaries were supposed to be happy to make sacrifices. “So, good for Mercedes, but bad for you?”

“No.” Kurt muttered through his fingers. “Good for me, and bad for Mercedes.”

Blaine drew a blank. "How so?"

“It’s … I swear, if I had any other mission companion than you, I wouldn't be able to share my disappointment with this. And maybe you won't get it, but ... I'll give it a shot.” Kurt had uncovered his face by now, but was looking away from Blaine, his gaze set on the kitchen window. His voice was full of foreboding. “She's meeting with the missionaries.”

Blaine didn't understand the sentence at first, it was so far removed from any of the terrible-type news he might have expected. He had to play it over in his head a couple of times before he processed it. “Wait. That's good, isn't it?”

“She's black, Blaine.”

“Right.” Blaine still wasn’t following.

“You're the one who woke me up to the church's problems with racism. How can I, in good conscience, support her investigating a church that sees her as less?”

Oh. Blaine knew the things he had told Kurt about Brigham Young had shaken him, but he hadn't realized how much. For Blaine, the racism of the second prophet of the restoration was disturbing, but it was part of a larger picture. Because Blaine didn't have blind faith in the leadership, even their worst actions couldn't harm his faith in the goodness of the church or its ability to bring people closer to the truth.

Blaine suddenly understood that, for someone like Kurt, who had spent his whole life thinking Brigham Young was as perfect as Joseph Smith or Jesus Christ, learning he wasn’t would make him question all his beliefs.

It was like those looms Kurt had shown him at the Deutsches Museum. There were ones that made fabric by weaving many different strands together, and others that did so by knitting a single strand into a sweater or an enormous piece of cloth. Blaine’s faith was like woven fabric—if you pulled out a single thread, the worst that could happen was a small gap in the fabric. And this wasn’t always a bad thing—sometimes clothmakers did this intentionally, to create texture and beauty in an otherwise monotonous design.

But Kurt’s faith was like a knitted fabric—if you pulled too hard on a thread, the entire thing would eventually unravel. There was no upside.

Blaine have never meant to damage Kurt’s faith like that. He'd meant to enrich it.

“I'm sorry, Kurt. I didn't realize how much that affected you. But Brigham Young's been dead for more than a hundred and thirty years. He said and taught horrible things and, yes, a lot of our members believed them far after they should have known better. But that doesn't mean the church is inherently racist—just that it’s made mistakes. Our leaders have flaws. That’s why we have the guidance of the Holy Ghost—to confirm or disaffirm the things they’ve told us.”

Kurt looked skeptical. He broke a cookie into quarters, but didn't put any of the pieces into his mouth. “It’s not just Brigham Young. Black members were kept out of the temple until 1978. The temple, Blaine. The place we need to go to be with our families forever.”

“And that's awful. But I think of those leaders before 1978 the same way I think of Brigham Young. They were wrong. And the thing I hold onto is that they eventually came to understand they were wrong, and they repented. Do you know about Bruce R. McConkie? As an apostle, he taught that black people were spiritually inferior to everyone else on earth. But when the revelation came ending the priesthood ban, he said, ‘Forget everything that I have said, or what President Brigham Young … or whomsoever has said in days past that is contrary to the present revelation. … We have … a new flood of intelligence and light on this particular subject, and it erases all the darkness and all the views and all the thoughts of the past. They don’t matter anymore.’”

“But they do matter, Blaine. Because those policies hurt real people. And racism is still a problem in the church. All these pasty missionaries from the Mormon Corridor who want to pretend they can't see color, the fact that we can't sing gospel music in sacrament meeting because it’s too ‘ethnic’—”

“Yes. And that’s bad. Of course it’s bad. But it’s a problem everywhere, Kurt, inside the church and out of it.” Blaine spoke from experience. He'd been made to feel inferior for not being one-hundred percent white by some church members, but he'd also been made fun of for it at school and in playgrounds, too.

Kurt scoffed. “Not in Mercedes’ church! Everyone there is black. At least, almost everyone. The first time I went there with Mercedes, after I got over feeling out of place, I started noticing how comfortable she felt there. Just—safe, you know? In a way I hadn’t seen anywhere else. She wouldn't get that at one of our wards. She'd be surrounded by white people, just like she is everywhere else.”

Blaine was struck with a sense of longing. He wondered what it would be like, to be in a place like that. He often passed as white, but that still didn't mean he felt one-hundred percent safe in groups of white people. There was always the risk, even among the seemingly nicest folks, that someone would start making ethnic jokes or ranting about immigrants. And while he didn't have to worry about that as much when he visited the Philippines, there were so many cultural nuances he didn't understand, besides the fact that his Tagalog was terrible and his English was so obviously American-accented. It left him feeling like he did much of the time in his early days in Germany, on constant alert.

If a sense of belonging was so hard to come by, it couldn't be the only thing you considered in choosing a church. “Look. If she feels a pull toward the gospel, then she feels a pull toward the gospel. I've been a minority in every ward I’ve ever attended. But the church still works for me. What did she say in her letter about it, anyway?”

Kurt looked down at the letter and huffed. “Not much. Just ‘In Chicago for an entire month! Met a pair of female missionaries on the L train and have talked a couple times. They gave me a Book of Mormon—sorry, Kurt I didn't bring the one you gave me in high school on tour with me.’ Then she put in a smiley face. ‘It’s interesting. I like the story about the tree of life. We should talk about it when you get back! We’ll be in Columbus…’ et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

“OK. Well, that doesn't sound like she's on the verge of converting. Maybe she's just bored. I understand those national theater tours can be grueling.”

Kurt scowled at his scuffed CTR ring, twisting it back and forth over his finger. “I don't even know if that's what I'm upset about. Maybe I'm just angry at myself. You know how much time I spent trying to convert her in high school? Because I thought this church was the best option for everyone. And because she was the only girl I could remotely see myself marrying, and if that was the case, she had to convert. I wasn't going to go through the sacrifice of marrying a woman unless it was a temple marriage. Which, honestly … how many lectures did we get in priesthood quorums about not objectifying the sisters? But isn't looking at a woman as a ticket into heaven objectifying, too? I never considered her feelings about it. If it was good for me, it was good for her. But now, thinking about her reading the Book of Mormon and reading some of the stuff in there—It makes me feel queasy, Blaine.”

Blaine thought he knew what “stuff” Kurt was alluding to. “You mean about the Lamanites been cursed with the skin of blackness? If she's talking to the missionaries, they'll explain it to her the same way we explain it to investigators. That it’s a metaphor, like when we say someone is having ‘dark thoughts.’”

“Do you really believe that, though? Because if Brigham Young was a racist, then maybe Joseph Smith was, too. Maybe he put some of his own opinions into the Book of Mormon.”

“No. First of all, Joseph Smith wasn't a racist. He ordained black men. Second of all, God’s not a racist, so the Book of Mormon can’t be racist, either. It’s the one that tells us God ‘denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male female.’ Even the Bible doesn’t say that.”

Kurt studied Blaine dubiously, then picked up one of the long-abandoned pieces of cookie he'd left on his plate and popped it into his mouth. He chewed it completely before speaking. “I just can't stop thinking about when Elder St. James told me about the doubts Elder Thompson was having. It wasn’t just vague, generic doubts. Elder St. James went through this whole list of specific passages in the Book of Mormon and the Pearl of Great Price that Elder Thompson said were racist. And I've been reading over them since and … Blaine. If I take my believer goggles off, if I really look at the passages and take what they say at face value, without trying to find a reason they can't be as bad as they sound—they really do sound racist. I mean, the ‘skin of blackness’ passage sounds even more literal in German. In English, it says ‘because of their iniquity … the Lord God did cause a skin of blackness to come upon them,’ which—I mean, now when I read it? Interpreting that as dark thoughts seems like a real stretch. I've heard the theory that ‘come upon’ means the same as ‘drape upon, and so ‘skin’ actually refers to ‘clothing’, and it all means that they were no longer allowed to wear the white temple clothes and were forced to dress in black once instead. But in German, it says ‘their skin became black.’ There's none of that idea of being clothed in something. And the German translation is approved by the brethren. So the whole idea of ‘skin of blackness’ being about clothes goes out the window.”

Blaine felt a little queasy. He grabbed one of the German Books of Mormon from the bookshelf and flipped open to 2 Nephi 5. “No, Kurt, that's wrong. It says ‘their skin became blackish.’”

Kurt sat back in his chair, his arms crossed. His mouth was closed, but Blaine could see his tongue moving under his cheeks and lips, probing his teeth. “And how is that any better?”

“Well, schwärzlich could also mean darkish instead of blackish, so maybe it just means their skin got dirty or … OK, it doesn't sound better. But it could still be a metaphor. Joseph Smith was translating from Reformed Hebrew. All languages have idioms that don't translate well. Maybe this is one of them.”

"Sure, maybe. Except that it keeps getting repeated over and over in the book of Mormon. Not just Nephi, but Jacob in Alma talk about good people’s skin being white and bad people’s skin being dark, and if skin means clothes in Reformed Hebrew, then why didn't Joseph Smith translate it that way? Or if it means countenance or spirit, then why doesn't Joseph Smith translate it like that?”

Kurt stood up from the table and began pacing, fidgeting with his CTR ring the whole time. Blaine hoped the jeweler would be done with his new ring soon. It would be much easier to fidget with. “When you or I translate the word ‘in’ from English into German," Kurt continued, "we pick a different word depending on the context. Sometimes it’s in, and sometimes it's im, an, auf, hinein, or unter. Der Hahn can be a rooster or a faucet, but if you're talking about a sink, you should translate it is faucet, not rooster. If Joseph Smith had the gift of translation, then he should have been able to translate things correctly. So either what was written on the golden plates was racist, or Joseph Smith translated it badly and in a way he knew would be interpreted as racist, because he was an American living in the 1830s. Which means he wasn't using his gift of translation to its full extent. Because I'm not gifted, Blaine, but I know that if a German says, ‘My grandparents live where the fox and hare say goodnight to one another,’ I can't translate it that way into English or nobody will understand what I'm saying. I have to say that their grandparents live in the middle of nowhere.”

It was a lot to take in. Blaine was all for Kurt questioning things. He'd been trying to get Kurt to do that for most of their time together, prodding Kurt to recast the beliefs that constrained him into ones that would lead to his liberation. But now, instead of Blaine being the one doing the prodding, it was Kurt. Blaine wasn't so comfortable being poked.

Maybe he could chide Kurt for spending his personal scripture study time scrutinizing passages that gave him doubts, instead of focusing on things that would help them with investigators. But that would be hypocritical, since Blaine had been spending his personal study time fawning over Song of Solomon and anything in scripture vaguely resembling a gay love story—not particularly useful for helping with investigators, either.

“Fine,” Blaine said defensively. “Maybe those passages really are racist. But that would still be a matter of men inserting their beliefs in place of God's teaching. Joseph Smith said that the Book of Mormon was the most correct book of any book on earth, not that it was perfect. And yes, Brigham Young was a racist and tons of our leaders have been racists. It was racism that kept the church from letting black members into the temple until 1978. And there are still people in the church like my granddad who lean on those false teachings, and people in the church who are well-meaning but insensitive, and maybe the leaders could do more to denounce teachings of the past.”

Blaine took a deep breath, gathering up the courage to prod back. “But I still don't understand why you think all these things make the church an unacceptable place for Mercedes. Because you’ve found a home here, despite all the terrible things the leaders have said about gay people, despite the cruel expectations they put on you. And I'm not saying you shouldn't be concerned about racism. What I don't understand is why the church’s racism is so bad that Mercedes shouldn't even be taking lessons with the missionaries, but the homophobia is so hunky-dory you can give your whole life to the church, no questions asked.”

Kurt stopped pacing. He looked like a deer caught in headlights. “That's different. Being gay is …” Kurt drifted off.

“A sin?” Blaine asked, even though it raised his bile just to speak the words. He didn't know if he was gay, but he knew what it was like to love another man. And it was the opposite of sin.

“No. Being gay isn't a sin.”

“But thinking gay thoughts is?”

Kurt shook his head. “I don't know. I don't think so.”

“Doing gay things?”

Kurt sank back into his chair and contemplated the surface of the table. “Maybe? I'm not sure. If you asked me a few weeks ago, I would've said ‘definitely.’ But if the church can be wrong about other things ... I don't know.”

“So,” Blaine said gently, “is it different at all?”

#klaine advent 2022 #klaine advent: recast #wowbright writes fic #mormon!klaine #klaine fanfiction #racism #homophobia #Long discussions about scriptural minutiae #And probably some typos #I still need to do the last valentines one #Also yes I know you can take prodding as a double entendre but I'm using it as the title anyway #Blaine may not like to be poked in this way but he sure like to be poked in some other ways

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anxiouslyfred · 6 months

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trick or treat!

The thing about Remus is that he's genuinely unpredictable to anyone who hasn't spent ages around him and he knows how to use that.

Virgil and Janus had both groaned at the idea of the six of them going for a walk together, but the rest had all insisted, with Roman even pointing out that it wasn't like Remus seemed energetic enough to cause trouble at all.

Then Patton was stood staring in despair at the groans of everyone else while Remus declared Logan had gone closer to a display because he "Wants to see the monster coming through the trees." The double meaning not quite emphasised but definitely intended.

#sanders sides #remus sanders #double entendre #3 sentence fic #lance

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jovenshires · 5 months

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i have been taken down by illness but domo day tomorrow will in fact fix me <3

i am sorry i passed the baton of illness onto you my friend <33333 i hope you feel better and enjoy your read! ^.^

#i might have gotten you sick if it was a...... VIRAL infection #(do you get it. the double entendre there. hehehe.)#ask #asks #anon #anonymous #domo #fic

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the-cat-at-the-theatre-door · 1 year

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A memory is a funny thing to lose, isn't it?

(TW for mental and emotional manipulation, and suggestions of domestic abuse)

(A rather serious/angsty one-shot based on a rather silly drawing of mine)

Of all the things Demeter had begun losing during her time in Macavity's well cultivated, rotted-boards-beneath-the-ivy, poorly painted rose garden, the most surprising, perhaps, was the sure and steady fading of the memories she had carried of her past life. Or what was left of them, anyway.

It sounded….strange, but she had only started noticing it recently, when periods being left to her own devices had stretched longer and longer, allowing the odd quiet in her quarters to permeate between her ears. It felt as though she was being held underwater, unable to think of then or when as she gazed up to the sun peering through the muddy surface; only here and now. There was only the present - there had been nothing else before Him.

Some days, left alone a touch too long, or tangled too deeply in one of Macavity's more philosophical tilts at turn-of-phrased intercourse, it felt like a chore to wade through even her basic short-term memories. What had happened in the morning, the evening before, last week - to say nothing of the long term. That had never happened before. The more time passed under his roof, the more things seemed to…muddle. As though every edge of every thought was runny, sliding through the cracks of her mind like the membrane of a damaged egg, too slippery to scoop back into its broken shell.

All she knew was this place. All she knew was…was him, she supposed.

Some evenings, when left with her ears ringing in her gilded bird cage, when everything seemed particularly bad, she would climb to her favourite window, broken only in so many thousands of webs from the outside, and press her paws to her eyes until she saw paisley touched circles and stars swim in the depths of her darkness, just to see something again.

This usually sufficed for a moment, small pleasures, until it did not, and she would press harder and harder, desperate to clear the blurriness from her mind and coax something forward from the snapped seams of her subconscious that was not this place and the hungry cats who roamed it. Anything clearer than a wisp or a fragment.

That night was a very, very bad night indeed. But with it, she managed. Broken and aching, she finally managed it.

Nights were dreadful and muggy and near rotten smelling in the summertime of her memories; most cats who did not have other, far off places to return to, and lived within the confines of the chain-link fence (not a cage - her mind is quick to remind her - not a prison) would often venture from the confines of their winter suited dens to sleep outside. Sometimes, the clearing would be filled with cats strewn about, seeking some sort of refuge from the stuffy confinement of their awnings, a general grumble of discontent in the air.

Other times, like this particular one, the threat of a summer shower, having weighed heavily in the mist for days now, kept them begrudgingly hidden, shadows occupying every other nook and crack in the wall; that was hardly better, but it was better than nothing. At least air was circulating, then.

Demeter can feel herself there, peering out from eyes that could not possibly be hers now, down at paws that were still too big for her body.

She wanders through the fog, hopping from perch to perch slowly and deliberately to buy herself more time…for something. The more she wanders, the clearer the layout of the yard before her becomes, even if she can barely see it; this place is familiar.

This place…is not home. She is already home, isn't she.

The humidity brings out a copper tasting smell of metal to the forefront of her nose, which means she's getting closer to where she wants to be. She climbs up the wilting boxes, gripping canvas bags between her claws when she slips, until she reaches the top of the drainpipe's mouth. Her favourite spot to hide.

Demeter jumps down, expecting the gaping mouth of darkness ready to swallow her whole, only to find it already occupied. She freezes, feeling angry and disappointed and…relieved.

The other cat in the pipe visibly startles at her vertical entrance, nearly hitting its head on the solid lead above it, but pointedly bites off the hiss of surprise that very narrowly escaped…him. Him, yes, that's right.

This particular tom has always been jumpy and skittish, Demeter thinks - kindred - but it had gotten worse around the time she was remembering. She cannot recall exactly why.

She stares at him, slowly lowering her irritated tail to the ground, and he stares back. She feels as though caught red handed doing something she shouldn't - but she wasn't doing anything wrong, was she?

“It’s late,” a voice says at last, disconnected from the body before her, as though coming from another memory entirely. Demeter is nearly positive it's his; it’s comforting and familiar even as it echoes with a scolding, but Demeter cannot remember this tom. At least not by name. Not anymore. “You should be home.”

“I…don’t want to go home,” she finds herself answering, digging her overgrown claws in the near-mud below, watching as it wells between her paw pads. Everything is hazy - even the ground is melting.

The tom's face pinches ever so slightly like they all seem to when she says things like that, but he does not tell her to run along as she expects. He squints at her instead, his features muddling in the middle of his face, thoughtful, making a noise that sounds…neutral. Calm. Resigned. Hmm.

"I take it then you didn't come along just to pay me a visit, did you?"

Demeter rocks to her hind legs, holding onto the reflexive "no" that sits heavy in her mouth. She licks absentmindedly at the moisture beads on the ends of her whiskers, tastes the salt there, hoping for…she wasn't sure what she was hoping for, exactly. No anger? Mercy? No; this tom was not one to deal punishment for nothing wrong done. Something else?

"Very well," he sighs at last into the resounding silence. Demeter feels her chest unwind. He shifts, an unspoken invitation coaxing her out of the heavy fog and humidity before it becomes rain. Demeter - still caught - sees no reason to reject it. "At least stay with us until the morning."

Us. Yes. A moment of visual clarity sparks through Demeter's subconscious. There was more than one cat in that pipe that evening.

A smaller body shifts in the tom's arms, blinking open sleepy eyes to stare at the intrusion while she squeezes past to sit beside them. It does not have any discernible features in her memory, but she sees it there, clear glass eyes shining in the low light.

Wait…Him, too. She sees him there.

This kitten is a newer one, but she's seen him 'round before; he smells mostly of his parent and milk, just a few hairs bigger than a teacup. He is wholly unbothered by the startle that still prickles along his father's back (the smells echo one another, she thinks distantly, like a call-and-response; they are family), but he does not seem particularly thrilled by her presence, either. If anything, he looks mostly grumpy from being woken up, watching critically as the older tom licks her head to wick the wet away. So she won't be feverish the next morning; she vaguely recalls somecat saying that. She tolerates this, focusing her attention on blinking back at him so he knows she's not a threat.

Demeter always liked the kittens, even when they were loud and messy and troublesome. Even when they cried and bit and wiped their noses on her. They were funny things, and lots of work, but Demeter liked them just the same. Her aunt has kittens she was allowed to help with, and she'd spent many Sundays kitten-minding there; maybe that's where she'd seen this one before.

The kittens make her feel…purposeful. Useful, even. Someday, she will have kittens all for herself, and she will take care of them all on her own instead of just minding them. A whole, happy family. That is what Demeter wants.

She watches as the kit yawns and whines his discomfort, brow furrowed, uncertain whether he would prefer to be away and cooler or held closer and warmer. He sticks his tongue out at her; she returns it.

Seemingly satisfied with her impromptu bath, the other tom draws back and notes her pinpointed interest. She feels the warmth of a smile just beside her temple.

“Perhaps I can trust you to mind him tomorrow?" he asks lightly. "I'm sure he'll appreciate it." He certainly would not, though she appreciates the white lie. "And you're very responsible, aren't you, Demeter?"

Demeter winces, as though struck. Her name aloud sounds like broken glass in her memories. The ringing threatens its return on the horizon. She covers her ears with her paws.

Tomorrow, he said. It is always like that with him when they play this…Demeter is too old for games. Next week, we’ll be reading a new book - you'll enjoy it, it's one of my favourites. Next month, the mice will come out of their hiding, and you’re just about old enough to join the hunting party, aren’t you? Next year it will be time for your first Ball proper, you must be excited! And on and on and on. The conversation seems the same every time they speak. It’s as though he knows what she is thinking of doing; offering small trinkets of fancy as incentives for her to stay a while longer. But that was silly; he couldn't possibly know what she is thinking. Only Macavity knows what she's thinking.

"We were having a bit of trouble, weren't we?" he breezes on past the ringing, softer now, as though he hadn't said anything at all prior. He speaks gently to the baby, who turns a considerably less cranky expression up towards him, nudging insistently at his jaw until he is licked as well. "It's too warm out to be sleeping indoors, but too wet to be sleeping outdoors. Poor thing. We've had to compromise."

Demeter considers this, the air in her lungs heavy and damp. She will drown soon, she thinks. Here…there. When he turns to look at her again, Demeter sees his face in startling clarity for just a moment, eyes bright and colorless like a windowpane. Like the baby, she thinks. Just like the baby. "And that's why you were out and about too, isn't it? Good thing you found us then. I'd say this is about as tolerable as it will be until morning."

Until morning.

Afternoon.

Evening.

Morning again.

Over and over.

Demeter feels herself nod, suddenly grateful for…the excuse, and as she does, the clarity begins to fade again. The tom and kitten say no more, voiceless now as she starts to forget them. The fog seeps in the cracks. She feels herself burrowing closer to whomever these strangers are, grasping desperately at the threads before they are lost again. She misses them, but she doesn't know them. She remembers how they smell, how the downy flesh of the kitten's ear brushes her chin, how her bones are suddenly loose and free of pain even caught against the pipe’s side. The summer heat is stifling, and the thicker coat under her cheek does not help, but she feels safe here.

She was safe there, she thinks.

I wish I were back there.

And as soon as she does - as soon as the betraying though creeps up her spine - the memory fades and disappears. Back to the storm clouds - where the window panes are broken and splintered.

Demeter buries her face in her knees, seeking out the blurry stars and clear glass and a hint of that kitten's scent. She does not cry, even as it begins to rain outside, but she mourns as the ringing returns. She has all this time left for mourning.

And tomorrow, beneath the heavyset press of Macavity's paw on her neck, she will remember nothing of it at all.

#Demeter #Asparagus #Tumblebrutus #(spoilers)#my fanfic #fanfiction #this fic is very him(derogatory) him(affectionate)#also the thing demeter is craving is parental affection #- she just doesn't remember #demeter was troubled as a kid at home i'll let you decide why #also yes i used intercourse very deliberately on purpose as a double entendre #based on a conversation i had with amie in that macavity's special brand of manipulation is what if #you couldn't remember literally anything of anything outside where we are and me - what a surefire way to ensure i keep my belongings #something made you happy before? nope only me #something made you upset? the world is so cruel out there - you should forget about it #etc etc etc #the other idea being played with here is whether this memory is actually real #or whether demeter is drawing on pieces to make herself something comforting #you decide

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marukrawler · 1 year

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sellon didn't fuck shun's entire world up with her ink stained lips and silver tongue for people online to dismiss her existence and say shun had the most insightful conversations with fabia

#yes this is supposed to be a double entendre read jam's shunsellon smut fic for more info

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folerdetdufoler · 2 years

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is there a reason there’s no smut in your new fic? 💔

heartbreaking, i know. it was actually pretty hard writing a relationship that doesn't go all the way, because i always have, even if it's only implied. but because i would have to keep this fic unlocked in order to be part of the bang, i wanted to be comfortable with what i was sharing. i still have a fear of my writing being read by people who worked with the characters/actors i'm using, even if that's highly unlikely at this point. so i lock the smut down to prevent that. also i'm writing a 17-year-old character for most of the story, and didn't want to deal with "underage sex," even though it happened in canon.

to make up for it though, i'll have about 11k of an explicit postscript that i'll link to at the end of the fic, a separate work that i can lock, where isak is 18 and they get down to it like the canon horndogs that they are.

#spoiler alert i guess #they do be fucking by the end #so yah they're together and there's a happy ending #but like....you already knew that #all of my stories have happy endings and happy endings #ya feel #kerrywrites #nine letters #and i wrote that postscript mad fast #like i had repressed it for so long while writing the main fic #that all the sex built up and was just waiting for me to finish #i could sit here all night and write double entendres in the tags #but we all have better things to do

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rearranging-deck-chairs · 2 years

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me referring to these:

and these:

both as arms and hoping you’ll just figure it out

#even worse i refer to the ends of the octopus arms as fingers too #which is not what theyre called but what else was i gonna call them #so it's really a bit of a choose your own adventure sort of a situation #you can choose :)#this fic is a 55k exercise in double entendre

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mikussabbath · 2 years

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Zack sees nothing wrong with his beloved 3-in-1 body wash. Unfortunately for him, Genesis disagrees.

In fact, Genesis takes so much offense at the idea that Zack would use such a terrible product that he resolves to teach him a lesson. Sephiroth decides to help.

With the two of them as teachers, Zack learns his lesson properly. Though their hands-on teaching methods might have something to do with that…

#asgzc #okay here is the shampoo fic lol #couldn’t come up w a more witty title but enjoy the double entendre #just a warning this one has ns//fw #or whatever 😳

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freelancearsonist · 26 days

Text

make a move on me

➔ pre-outbreak!Joel Miller x reader - 5.5k

➔ You've been teasing Joel every day since he started remodeling construction on your house. He finally works up the courage to do something about it - but not in the way you expect him to.

➔ Rated MA for baby’s first anal fic protected p in a and anal fingering (r receiving), age gap (reader is early 20’s, joel is 36), m masturbation/pillowhumping, daddy kink, size kink, praise kink, gentle-turned-rough sex, pet names (baby, darling, honey, good girl, baby girl, little lady), slight degradation and condescension but only in a sexy way, one use of “slut”, pussy pronouns, one (1) pussy slap, gratuitous dickscription, heavy dom/sub dynamics i mean seriously these power dynamics are out of control, tommy is a little bit of a shit (affectionate) [pls let me know if i missed anything at all :)]

➔ This reader insert character: has female anatomy and uses feminine pronouns, no name/no use of y/n, is generally able-bodied, fits in joel’s shirt and is implied to be shorter/smaller than him, is on summer break from college but no major/year is mentioned.

Joel had one rule for himself going into this job: be respectful. Keep his hands to himself and his mind on the job. Don’t fret over the pretty little thing who’s been draping herself all over the house ever since he started demo, practically begging to be fucked.

If he had any sense, he would pack his shit and drop the job–or, at the very least, tell your parents to put you on a leash. But there’s a little part of him that might be a glutton for punishment–that savors the teasing.

The most infuriating part of the whole thing is that he can’t blame you for this whole mess. He shouldn’t be so quick to temptation. You should be able to walk around your own home in whatever you want and not have to worry about the creepy contractor getting flustered every time he looks in your general direction.

But god, you make it hard–double entendre intended. You walk around like you haven’t a care in the world because you don’t; you’re home for summer break after a grueling year at college, and you intend to savor every languid second of it. Your preferred method of savoring just happens to be wearing tight little bikinis that barely hold anything in place as you lounge out by the pool in the Texas heat, or tight leggings that hug your ass so perfectly it almost makes him jealous of the material as you curl up with a book on your couch.

Joel’s a grown man. He can keep it in his pants, no matter how badly he wants you. But you’re not exactly making it easy on him.

Really, it’s Tommy’s fault when the levee breaks. If he could keep his big mouth shut, Joel might’ve been able to maintain the thin control he had over himself. But Tommy goes and makes an off-handed comment about you one night, and that’s the beginning of the downward spiral.

The brothers are both lounging on Joel’s couch after a particularly taxing day of demolition work, beers cradled in hands and the TV droning uselessly with some movie that they’re more staring at than actually watching. It’s late, yet weary muscles are melted so comfortably into the couch that neither of them try to move even after Sarah’s gone off to bed.

Tommy’s eyes flicker over to Joel, then back to the TV. “That girl’s gon’ be trouble for us, brother.”

There’s a question mark in the grunt Joel emits, leaning forward with interest because he knows Tommy’s talking about you without any specification.

Tommy hums in confirmation and takes a sip of his Corona. “She’s always wearin’ those skimpy little outfits a’hers, and she ain’t coy. Must catch that pretty little thing starin’ at your ass even more than I catch you starin’ at hers.”

Joel plays it off as best as he can until Tommy goes home for the night with a half-assed promise to actually be on time in the morning for once. Then he goes up to his room, locks the door, and wraps himself around the spare pillow that lays against his headboard.

He tries so desperately hard not to think about the plump round curve of your ass, or the enticing way you lick your lips, or those damned little bikinis you favor. He grinds his aching cock into the soft pillowcase and tries to think about anything that isn’t you.

But he comes with a muffled growl of your name anyway, face pushed deep into the pillow and hips jerking arrhythmically.

There’s not much he can do now besides clean himself up and try not to think about how thoroughly fucked he is.

The next day is torture because he can feel your gaze lingering. He catches you checking him out on more than one occasion, and you’re brazen about it now. You can tell something has shifted, so you shift with it. Where you once would’ve flushed with heat and hurried away to your room, you now meet his heated eye contact and hold it.

Joel’s jaw hurts that night from the way it’s been hard-set and clenched all day long. He rubs over his sore temporomandibular joints with his long, thick fingers and wills himself to siphon you out from beneath his skin.

It doesn’t work.

The work helps. Laying tile is something he normally considers tedious, but it’s a welcome reprieve in your home because he can get down on his hands and knees and focus on something that isn’t you.

You see the labor he’s going through, and you appreciate it. And really, what kind of host would you be if you didn’t reward his efforts?

It starts with a pitcher of iced tea. It’s made just the way Joel likes it, with light ice and a few slices of lemon. He doesn’t know how you could possibly guess that, but it makes him want you that much more.

And then it’s cookies. Pain-stakingly handmade oatmeal raisin cookies, to be exact. You’re like something out of his most shameful domestic dreams in your cute floral-patterned apron and oven mitts as you pull the tray of cookies out of the oven, and an image of you in nothing but those mitts and that apron flickers through his mind before he can stop it.

All the while you traipse around the house like a mirage–humming along to the yacht rock that drifts from Joel’s stereo, swaying your hips in the kitchen as you put together the most delicious bologna sandwich Joel’s ever eaten, toweling off your soaking wet body after an afternoon in the pool. You’re the worst temptation Joel’s ever had to face.

It becomes his mantra. Be respectful, be respectful, be respectful.

But there’s no respect in your eyes. There’s nothing honorable about the way you bite your lip and smirk when he catches your gaze lingering on him.

Joel had one rule for himself going into this job: be respectful. But why should he have to play nice if you don’t?

And really, the whole thing is Tommy’s fault. He started it with that first comment about you, and then he goes and calls out sick (read: horribly hungover) this morning. He leaves Joel all alone with you–gives you the perfect opening to pounce.

Or, more accurately, entice Joel into pouncing on you.

He’s just setting his tool bag down, about to decide where he wants to start today, when your beautiful face pops in through the door.

“Good morning, Joel,” you say with that gorgeous smile of yours that makes his knees go a little weak. “No Tommy today?”

He nearly chokes on his own tongue when you step further into the room wearing a plaid button-up he left here earlier in the week and booty shorts so small he has to do a doubletake to make sure you’re actually wearing anything on your lower half. You look fucking good in his shirt, and suddenly all he can think about is pulling you in and bending you over the half-finished vanity–

“N-no. He’s sick,” Joel manages to choke out. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, then, “that’s my shirt, isn’t it?”

You look down and rub the time-worn fabric between your fingers like you have to think about it, like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.

“Oh, it must’ve gotten mixed in with our laundry!” The little giggle you let out is so innocent that he almost believes you. Almost. “Here–”

You start to lift the fabric up your torso in the most tantalizingly slow fashion, and he just sits there and watches it happen. He sees the first peek of skin above the waistband of your shorts, and then your beautiful stomach, then the delicious curve of a breast–

He quickly jolts out a hand to stop you in the midst of mentally willing every single molecule in his dick to control itself. “S’alright, darlin’. You keep it. Looks better on you, anyway.”

“Okay,” you acquiesce and let the fabric drop back down into its rightful place. “Can I get you anything? Water maybe?”

He certainly could use it. His neck and face are flushed red, and there’s sweat starting to form at his temples despite the relatively cool temperature within the house.

He realizes, with startling clarity, that he’s at a precipice right now. This might be the only chance he gets to really do something about this burgeoning tension that’s spread thicker than butter between you and him. He’s got a choice to make, and it’s not going to be an easy choice.

“Sure.” It comes out a bit too high-pitched, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Sure, sweetheart. That’d be great.”

“Alright,” you say with that damned giggle again. “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as you leave the room, Joel feels like he can breathe again. It’s so much easier to think straight when you’re not standing there, smiling up at him and looking so damn gorgeous.

He’s got two options, when it boils down to it: fuck you or leave you alone. And he really, really wants to take you. Make you scream his name while he pounds himself into you, fill you so full that you never completely wash him out. And you want it too, he knows you do, you’re practically begging for it.

But he promised himself he would be respectful. That he would keep his hands away from the girl that’s definitely too young and too pure for someone like him–because he knows that if has you, he’ll never be able to get enough.

There’s a very clear and obvious loophole that comes to mind now; a way he could have you without ruining you, a way you could both come out of this satisfied yet mostly intact. Joel’s never been opposed to doing the hard jobs, after all.

He’s got a condom in his wallet and KY jelly in his bag–mostly used for plumbing fittings, but it’ll do the job for this kind of pipework, too.

You come back with a glass of ice water, and his resolve slips. How the hell is he supposed to initiate this? What if you say no and think he’s disgusting? What if you tell your parents? He can’t do this, this was such a horrible idea, he–

Your touch on his back is like a gentle breeze, just a flutter of your fingers to alert him to your return. He flinches a bit at the sudden contact, but when he turns you’re still so achingly close. He can smell the agonizingly sweet aroma of your conditioner and the lotion you slather on your body after showering, and all he wants is more. He wants to wrap you around him, to inhale that scent straight from the source. His resolve is back, just like that.

He doesn’t give himself another opportunity to hesitate. He places one big, meaty palm on your cheek and wraps the other around your hand that holds the glass of ice water to steady you; and then he kisses you with such bruising force it almost knocks the wind out of you.

You moan. You actually moan the second his lips meet yours, and he knows just like that–with a startling moment of clarity–that this isn’t going to be enough. He’s going to take, and take, and take–gorge himself on you until you have nothing left to give. And the strangest thing of the whole matter is that he thinks you’ll actually enjoy his greed.

“Joel–”

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmurs as his lips break away from yours–so low and soft in your ear it can’t be anything but a growl. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop right now.”

“I want it,” you affirm.

He searches your eyes, but he finds only earnest honesty and lust. That darkness, that pure and unadulterated want is enough to make his pants tighten. “Fuck.”

He’s so big underneath your roaming hands as he crowds you back against the long bathroom vanity. He lifts you like you’re nothing and sets you on the counter top; he slots himself between your legs and there’s an actual stretch in your muscles to accommodate the width of his hips. One of his wide palms slips behind your head and his fingers tangle into your hair, tugging a little bit to angle your head just the way he wants it. It’s messy and frenzied and desperate–your hands gliding over tee shirt-covered muscle, his tugging your (his) shirt up over your stomach.

“Was starting to think you weren’t interested.” Your voice is heavy and breathy as he breaks away to tug the shirt over your head, casting it aside to lie forgotten on the floor.

“I’ve been tryna convince myself m’not,” he kisses into your neck. “Didn’t work.”

With a sudden roll of his hips, he has you gasping into his neck. He can’t be more than half-hard, but that bulge is formidable. Thick and straining and… suddenly you can’t focus on anything except getting him out of those tight jeans to see what you’re working with.

Your hand just barely fits around him. He’s thick and flushed, getting harder with each passing second as he scatters feather-light kisses over your neck and shoulders. He muffles a groan into your neck as you slowly pump his length–you think he’s seven, maybe eight inches at best guess. The tip of him is flushed red once you get his uncut skin out of the way, and it makes your mouth water. There’s a slight upward curve to him and a long, prominent vein that runs down the left side. It’s porn star material–you didn’t know real people had dicks like this.

“Joel… Jesus, that’s gonna be a tight fit.”

“Oh, don’t worry darlin’,” he hums, thumb ghosting over your clit in a way that makes your entire body jolt. “It ain’t goin’ in there.”

There’s nothing but pure excitement in your voice, despite the anxious gulp that tracks down your throat. “Where…”

“Flip over f’me.”

You follow his instruction with a sort of morbid curiosity, hopping down from the counter before folding yourself over it.

You can feel his eyes on you, as he takes in your willingness. It’s like you’re on display for him, for his appraisal. You’ve still got shorts and a bra on, yet you’ve never felt more exposed.

It’s almost like he can sense your mind swirling–maybe it’s because his is prone to do the same. He sets a gentle hand on your back and smooths it down your spine as he crowds up against you–you can feel the press of his exposed cock against the curve of your ass, and it makes you shiver.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs as he folds over you, caging you in with the delicious weight of his body. His lips trace along the curve of your jaw and down your neck as he speaks. “But I made myself this little promise that I wouldn’t fuck you. You got me actin’ so unprofessional, honey.”

You whine at the sincerity in his voice–all you’ve wanted since the day he started was for him to have you folded over and at his mercy like this.

“You can fuck me,” you whine earnestly. “It’s okay, I promise. Won’t tell.”

“Mmm, I know. You’re too good a girl to go gettin’ me in trouble over somethin’ like this,” he hums–you can hear the condescension in his voice even as he praises you, and it makes your cunt clench around nothing. “But with all the teasin’ you been doin’... don’t rightly know that you deserve to be fucked.”

“Please–”

“However,” he continues, landing a light smack to your ass in retaliation for your interruption, “might be willin’ to take you anyway, with some conditions. Out of the goodness of my heart.”

He pauses to let you ask, “What conditions?”

And then he pauses again, asking his own question this time. Is he really going to go through with this? But he’s spent the better part of two weeks staring at your ass, and you’ve spent the better part of two weeks putting it on display for him. It’s like you’ve been silently asking him all this time to take it.

His hand slides down from where it rests on your spine, over your tailbone to where he’s been thinking about all this time. He feels the way your muscles tense up even through your shorts, and it sends a thrill he can’t describe coursing through his veins.

“You ever taken someone here before?”

“N-no.” He feels it again as his other hand comes to soothingly rub your hip–that excited-yet-nervous flutter of muscle. You haven’t run away screaming yet, and that’s the biggest motivator he could have to keep going.

“I think you ought to let me. As a thank you, for puttin’ up with all your play,” he growls into your ear.

It’s fucking dirty, the idea of letting a man you hardly know take you in such a taboo way. It’s even dirtier how fucking excited the idea has you.

“You say no right now and I’ll drop it,” he murmurs so sweetly. “Don’t ever have to talk about this again.”

You’re shaking your head before he’s even finished talking–a sly smirk spreading over your lips as you grind back against him hard enough to make him choke on a moan.

“It’s only right,” you affirm. “Gotta make it up to you for how naughty I’ve been.’

His eyes flash dangerously as he grinds his cock against you again, smearing precome against the flimsy fabric of your shorts. “Atta fuckin’ girl.”

He has your bottoms and panties down around your ankles in a flash, and he actually groans at the sight of your sticky cunt all puffy and wet and on display for him.

He can’t resist the urge to swipe a finger through your folds, delighting in the string of shiny arousal that connects his finger to your core when he pulls away. “She wants it so bad, hmm? Such a shame she ain’t gettin’ any.”

It tugs a moan from your throat, especially when he drags as much slick as he can up to circle your tightest hole. He feels the way you flutter with apprehension, and he leans back down to kiss the corner of your jaw.

“Gonna get you nice and ready, I promise. M’not gonna hurt you, baby girl.”

“Thank you, da–” You almost lost yourself there for a second–almost laid your whole hand of cards out on the table for him to see. You try not to get flustered over the slip–you simply clear your throat and try again. “Thank you, Joel.” But you aren’t nearly as smooth as you hope to be.

In a flash Joel’s free hand is lifting your head, forcing you to look into his deep brown eyes. They’re so much darker than normal, and it only serves to make you wetter.

“What’d you call me?”

“J-Joel.”

His hand slips down to your throat and gives it a warning squeeze–his jaw is set, you know he isn’t playing. “Try again, and tell the truth this time.”

“D… daddy.”

You try to hide your face, to cower in shame, but he won’t let you. He smashes his lips to yours at the exact second his first finger probes that tight, waiting entrance.

“Good girl,” he murmurs as he slowly breaches you, using your own slick to guide the way. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You can’t do anything but gasp, hands clutching for dear life to the edge of the counter. This feels different, and not in the way you were expecting it to. It’s tight, sure, and it feels foreign, but it also feels so much better than you ever could’ve expected it to. The subtle stretch around his thick finger is addicting.

Joel’s jaw drops at the expression on your face; you already look so thoroughly fucked-out, and he’s barely even started. “Fuck.You like this, hmm? Like feelin’ daddy’s fingers gettin’ you ready for his big cock?”

The only response he gets is a wrecked little whimper, and he props your chin up again to meet his heated gaze. “Talk to me. Gotta talk to me, tell me how you’re feelin’, or I’m gonna stop.”

“Fuck!” It’s shriller than you want it to be and you would feel pathetic if you weren’t so thoroughly overwhelmed with this new sensation. “Don’t stop daddy!”

“Feels good, yeah? How long has daddy’s little slut wanted to try this?”

But there’s no way you can be expected to answer, not when he’s adding another finger to the onslaught. Not when your legs are already shaking and you’re thinking about just how many fingers he’s going to have to use to get you ready for the massive cock you can feel throbbing against your thigh.

He retracts just as suddenly as he started, and a needy little whine escapes from your throat involuntarily.

He can’t help chuckling as he reaches for the bottle of KY jelly he’d dug out of his bag while you were getting him water. It feels like it’s been years since you left the room on that little errand for him–definitely not the barely ten minutes it’s actually been.

“Relax, baby girl. I’m comin’ right back.”

You feel the cool drizzle of the water-based substance over your hole and it forces another whine from your throat. It’s met with his thick fingers again, spreading the jelly over your hole before plunging two in knuckle-deep.

“Atta girl.” His voice is thick and sweet as honey as he slowly works his fingers, thrusting and scissoring at an achingly slow pace. “Doin’ so good f’me.”

“Daddy–”

“I know,” he coos. “I know, it’s so much, isn’it?”

All you can manage to do is nod your head, arms shaking under the strain of holding yourself upright. He sees the way your limbs tremble and he adds a third finger just to be extra cruel–although he steadies you by grabbing your hip firmly with his free hand, keeping you in place as he fucks you open with his fingers.

Everything is so hot. There’s a sticky sheen of sweat covering your forehead and your chest; you can feel your own slick dripping down your thighs.

And then his free hand drops down to thumb at your clit, and everything twists in your gut so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

Within seconds you’re coming–no pretense, no warning. It explodes white-hot from your belly and sweeps through you to the tips of your fingers and toes with flash flood speed. One second there’s nothing more than pleasant anticipation–the next, you’re shaking and convulsing and sobbing Joel’s name as you fight with every cell in your body to remain upright.

He does his part to work you through it, thumb swiping even circles on your sensitive clit, pulling his fingers from you to pin you in place on the counter so he can continue working you through it.

“I know, I know,” he coos so sweetly in your ear over the sound of your moans and cries. “You’re doin’ so good baby, let yourself have it.”

It’s minutes before you’re breathing normally again–your legs are cramping from trying so desperately to support your shaky weight. Joel’s hands are soothing you the whole time once he lets up the onslaught on your clit; it’s like he’s mapping you, tracing over every dip and curve so tenderly you could almost forget what this encounter really is.

“Doin’ okay?” He husks into your ear–and then he’s folding himself over you again, and you can feel the insistent press of his hard cock against the curve of your ass.

For some reason, that’s what really makes it sink in. That’s the moment you realize that this is actually going to happen–that you want it to happen. Joel’s about to take something from you that no one has ever taken before, and you want him to. You’re offering it willingly, even.

You hum in response and buck your hips back, giving him a delicious taste of friction that pulls a ground from his throat. “Mhm. I’m ready, daddy.”

“Fuck, that’s my girl.” He gives your hip a light pat before pulling away for a moment, and you somehow have the presence of mind to jump up on the deep countertop because you know your legs won’t be able to support you through what’s about to happen.

There’s a smile on his handsome face when he turns back towards you, lube and condom in hand. “That how you want it, baby?”

Despite everything that’s already happened, you feel so much more exposed like this. You’re completely naked, and he’s fully clothed with his pants shoved down just enough to free his dick. Even as you spread your legs to admit him between your thighs, you feel shy. And he senses it, the slight apprehension in your gaze, because his smile softens even further; he sets the lube and condom down on the counter next to you so he can grasp the collar of his worn t-shirt and tug it up over his head.

He’s beautiful for a nearly forty-year-old man, you think. He’s firm and toned, but there’s a softness about him that you can’t help admiring, especially around his belly. Your eyes eagerly lap up the soft curve of his tummy, following the tantalizing promise of his treasure trail to his cock, hard and aching for you. The ruddy, flushed tip is weeping for you; you don’t know that you’ve ever seen someone so turned on before, and it’s a heady rush of power.

He chuckles as he sees your hungry eyes taking him in–he raises one big hand to cup your chin and pull your gaze up to meet his. “You’re so pretty, baby, look so good spread out f’me like this. You sure you’re ready f’this?”

“Fuck yes,” you say with an alluring little wiggle of your hips, and that’s more than enough for him.

He pulls his bottom lip between even rows of shiny white teeth as he rolls the condom down over his length, and it’s actually intimidating like this. He’s so big and imposing and it makes your legs want to close, but–

“M’gonna go slow, okay?” He vows, voice gentle as his big, brown eyes look into yours. His fingers wrap tightly around the half-used tube of KY jelly, and he leans down to kiss you when he sees the nervous gulp that bobs your throat. “Gonna be real gentle, I promise. You tap out at any time and we’re done, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” you affirm, and you feel a lot better. As out of the blue as this is, as little as you really know Joel, you can tell he’s being sincere. You trust him; you know he won’t hurt you.

The first press of his aching tip against your hole is enough to make you choke on a gasp. He’s big, and even with all of his attentive prep work to get you ready for him it’s a tight fit. You can tell it’s affecting him, too. His eyes flutter shut and he bites down hard on his bottom lip, and you can tell that he’s fighting with all his strength not to just shove himself deep inside you. You appreciate his restraint more than words can convey, so you don’t even try; you hook your arms around his neck and pull him in for a deep, messy, desperate kiss instead. His tongue licks eagerly into your mouth as he eases his hips further and further towards yours, and it’s a nice distraction from the nearly overwhelming stretch of your muscle trying to accommodate his girth.

He shudders when his hips finally meet yours, cock stuffed to the hilt into your ass. “God damn baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight. You doin’ okay?”

You whine at the first roll of his hips, nodding your head rapidly because words won’t come. It’s such a foreign sensation, being stretched and breached like this. Not unpleasant necessarily, but so brain-scramblingly different that all you can do is dig your nails into his strong, broad shoulders and hold on for dear life as he actually starts to fuck into you.

It’s nasty, and you’ve never been so wet in your life. You hear the sticky squelch of lube as he thrusts his hips, shoving his cock deeper than you imagined possible. Your own wetness seeps from your neglected cunt and drenches him, dripping down around his cock and wetting the dense curls at the apex of his sex.

“Shit baby, you’re takin’ daddy’s cock so well,” he whines breathlessly; one arm hooks under your knee so he can spread you open a bit wider for him, and then the other hand returns to your puffy, arousal swollen clit.

You make what has to be the most high-pitched sound you’ve ever made as his index and middle fingers start a torturously slow pace on the little bud. “Fuck daddy!”

“I know,” he coos–you think that soft, breathy, Southern twang is going to actually put you in your grave. “I know, you wanna come, dontcha? It’s okay baby, daddy’s gonna make you come all over his cock just the way you need.”

His hips pick up the pace in time with his fingers, and all you can do is lay there limply like a ragdoll. The pleasure is so much different than what you’re used to, but it’s good. It’s amazing, the feeling of him balls deep in your guts in tandem with his ministrations on your clit, in a way you never imagined it could be.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl f’me,” he growls, hitching your leg a bit higher over his hip so he can thrust even deeper. “Fuck, m’not gonna last long like this. You’re gonna make daddy come so hard in this tight little ass.”

His words are accentuated with a little smack to the side of your ass, and it makes you moan louder still. Your head rolls back as he picks up the pace of his fingers, swirling hard and messy circles with reckless abandon. He’s not trying to prolong it anymore–he’s going for the kill.

“Fuck daddy!” Your hands scrabble for purchase on his smooth, freckled skin as he pounds harder into you. “W-want it, please, want you to come in my ass–”

“Gonna give it to you, impatient girl,” he growls deep in his chest. “You gimme one first.”

Your entire body jolts when he brings his hand down on your sensitive cunt before groaning at the way your arousal sticks to his hand and makes his fingers shine.

“She wants t’be stuffed so full, doesn’t she?” He purrs, fingers dancing so fucking teasingly around your fluttering cunt that it makes your eyes water. “Bet she’d love to be chock full’a cock right now.”

“Joel–”

“Now, now, baby, no whinin’. It’s unbecomin’ for such a sweet little lady,” he grunts, and the condescension dripping from his tone is almost enough to make you come on its own. “You’re gonna take what I give you and be grateful for it, aintcha?”

“Yesyesyesplease–”

His fingers have barely returned to your clit before you’re coming again. This one is even more powerful than before–a hurricane instead of a flash flood. Your entire body trembles with the ebbing flow of pleasurable waves–the words you’re panting aren’t even discernible English anymore.

The way you clench and flutter around him in your own pleasure pulls him over the edge faster than anything ever has before. He comes hard, chest clenching hard around his breath, cock twitching more violently than anything you’ve ever felt before as he spills his load into the condom.

It’s a long, breathless moment before he pulls himself from the vice-like grip you have around his dick. He pulls out with a deep, long groan–it makes you giggle, because it’s the most over-dramatic sound you’ve ever heard in your life.

There’s a beat, and then he starts laughing, too. At the sweet sound of your laugh, at the way he feels like he just ran a marathon, at the absolute absurdity of this whole thing. His laughter is so sweet and gut-deep and infectious, and it only serves to make you laugh harder. For a good few moments it’s just you and Joel, half naked, panting and sweaty, doubled over in laughter.

And then the bathroom door swings open and Tommy barges in.

“I’m feelin’ a helluva lot better after sleepin’ in, what’s so funny–” He stops dead in his tracks; he sees you naked and spread out on the counter and Joel disheveled and sweating. Neither of you are laughing very much anymore as you both scramble to cover yourselves up.

Tommy quirks a brow, a smirk spreading across his lips as his eyes dart back and forth between you and Joel. “Well, well, well. What have we here?”

You don’t know how to answer when you’re so mortified, so you do the only thing you can think of–you dart out of the room and down the hall to the safety of your bedroom as fast as your shaky legs can carry you.

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bambiesfics · 7 months

Text

⊹ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐭 ⊹

warning: water-sports, extreme overstimulation, graphic depictions of lesbian smut, r!receiving finger bang, sarcastic Ellie, fluff + loving at the end.

vague description: reader has a full bladder and is trapped in Ellie William’s hatchback.

author’s note: re-upload of my fic from last blog, also don’t read this in public. It gets intense.

“Pinup paradise diner…home to… ‘The World’s Bustiest Milkshake Jars?’”

You read, with your face nosed deep into the crease of the monotoned map. You deflated back into your seat, irritated at the amount of eye-strain required to make out such small font. And let the roadmap blanket the top of your thighs.

“Is that where we’re going next?”

Ellie's eyes were intently focused on the red Honda Civic in front of her, the one she’d almost rolled her windows down to spit at, less than a minute ago. Her stacked bracelets clinked as she cracked the knuckles of each one of her boney fingers.

“Is that what it says on the map?”

You flipped back to the legend, squinting at the list of diners, drive-ins, and street trucks. The corner of her plump smile quirked, hearing you mutter,

“Jesus, how do you read this thing?”

Your squint jumped between Ellie and the page, “uhhhh…yes?—yes!”

“Then that’s where we’re going next.” She crudely cracked her pinky last. The last finger with chips of black nail polish speckled on it and a snug silver braided ring that hugged it. She settled into her seat, merging onto the left lane.

“Pinup Paradise? Really? Seems like an odd choice for a drink after going to Whopping Wrap.”

You flipped the map neatly back onto your lap as your girlfriend flicked the blinker up.

“Milkshakes after chicken wraps Ellie? Really?”

“Hey—Tommy said they have the best milkshakes this side of the state. That type of man, the fucking lumberjack he is, does not fuck around when it comes to satiating that gnarly sweet tooth.”

She muttered “He probably has cavities bigger and darker than the cracks in the Grand Canyon.”

And your tiny giggle teased a smile out of Ellie, as she half-heartedly blocked the swats you struck at her with the rolled up map.

Your girlfriend got such a fucked up kick out of busting Tommy’s balls, and he knew it too.

She flicked the signal light up higher once more and cruised right into the strip mall lane that led the car through to the drive-thru, the diner growing closer each second.

In a smooth slow crawl you and your girlfriend rolled towards ‘Pinup Paradise Diner.’

A canary yellow, vintage diner, littered with paintings of 50’s pinup models that decorated all of the glass windows.

A drive-thru swinging sign read ‘The World’s Bustiest Milkshake!’ above the order window.

You were incredibly humored, noting all the double entendres and puns that weaved through the slogans graffitied across the menu board and windows.

A young crew member poked her head out of the order window, smiling tightly before asking for both of your orders. She watched on while Ellie fished for her peeling leather wallet in the back pocket, and poked her head out of the side of the hatchback window.

“Hey, can I grab a blueberry crust milkshake? And she’ll have….” Ellie trailed off, shooting you back a look with her eyebrow raised.

“…What’ll you have?”

“I’ll have a vanilla bean milkshake please. Also could I get a bottled water, if you have that?”

“Okay, so right now we only have the 1 liter sized bottled water.. would that be alright?”

“Ah, I’m sure that’s no problem, I’ll take it. Thank youuu.” you sang, and the girl mirrored your gentle smiled. You settled back into your seat and she closed the window.

“Why’d you get water?”

Ellie observed, hastily touching up her upper and bottom lashes with mascara, in the dash mirror, before she had to put her foot on the gas.

Vain. You teased in your head.

….But so pretty.

The mascara made her already long lashes, even longer. Her dark brown eyeliner was smudged, yet the grittiness was still so attractive on her. “You should wear brown eyeliner more Els. It really brings out the green in your eyes.”

She side-eyed you suspiciously.

“Thanks?…”

And you rolled your eyes. Your girlfriend loved to pretend she was allergic to compliments unless they were talking about her earth-shattering service top abilities.

Ellie grabbed both your milkshakes. And used her teeth to rip the paper cover off her straw while passing you your drink.

She put her foot on the gas and peeled out.

“You still didn’t answer the question.”

“What question?”

“The question of what possessed you to buy an entire liter of water?”

“Because like, you know the sweet aftertaste left in your mouth after you eat something really sweet? I don’t know, but it makes my mouth feel dry.”

“Ah.” she responded.

“…that’s actually real as fuck.”

“Right?” You settled deeper into your seat. Hugging the milkshake to your chest while you stalked a few instagram stories, relaxing into the rhythmic roll of your girlfriend's beat up hatchback.

Townhouses and parked SUV’s started running on either side of the car as Ellie drove on, deeper into suburbia. You pushed yourself up to gaze out the window.

“Where are we going?”

Ellie turned right into a smaller street.

“To find a place to park. I’m tired of driving.”

“Hmm, sorry baby” you hummed as you rubbed her thigh. Your eyes lit up. “Then can I drive your ca—”

“—no. When will you stop asking?”

“When you finally let me drive it? Let me behind the wheel please.”

She scoffed, eyeing you up and down. “So I can end up with my knees touching the back of my skull? Yeah no.”

“You’re not funny Ellie.”

“And you’re the only passenger princess I’ve seen whining to do her girlfriend's job. Be a lady, damn.”

You broke down laughing, clutching your chest while Ellie bit her lip down to put a lid on her own laughter.

You shimmied close to her, your breasts squishing her upper arm.

“Then can I have some of your blueberry shake?”

She circled the straw around your mouth and made you chase it.

“uh ah-uh-hah—Ellie.” You whined.

Ellie barked a laugh at how adorable you looked, and then slotted the straw onto your puckered mouth.

“Mmm…”

“You like?”

“Yeah it’s so yummy. I should’ve gotten that instead.”

Ellie attempted to take her milkshake back, but with some struggle as you leaned further and further into her seat, pressing your front body into her arms just to keep tasting it. You were practically finished your own drink, and were now drinking half of hers. And in that moment you recalled at all the previous times your girlfriend had gripped your ass and whispered how you were a greedy little princess in your ear. Ellie was an asshole through and through.

But she spoiled you, and she loved doing it.

You eased back, and Ellie stole her milkshake back. She circled her tongue around the tip of the straw before sucking it. Wrapping her pink lips around the sticky tip your rosy lip gloss had covered seconds prior.

You dropped your empty cup in the cup holder and went to chug most of your water. It provided an indescribable amount of relief from the saccharine blanket on your tastebuds. A cool feeling that settled in you, as Ellie pulled into a grassy park parking lot.

Willow trees lined up along the curb, their weeping pose provided shade to several lots, including the one above you.

Ellie killed off the engine. She tipped her head against the headrest in relief. She flexed her fingers, stretching out the kinks, feeling the breeze run past.

Her head lolled limply to face you. “Do I really look that good in brown eyeliner?”

“Yes you really do.”

Ellie’s cheek dimpled.

“I love when you tell me stuff like that.”

“Like what? That you look pretty?”

You murmured into her shoulder, looking up at her.

“Yeah, makes me feel…dunno, not like a greasy loser.”

“Please, as if I would ever let a greasy loser bag me.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Jesus, kill yourself.”

She maintained eye contact with you, green eyes jumping between your own. Reflecting the amber beauty of the sun in its sparkle. She gave you a soft smile, you gave Ellie one back. A truce to the constant teasing. And Ellie took it as an invitation to dip her head down, and pull your lips into a kiss. One she’d been yearning to do since she’d first reversed both of you out of your driveway.

Ellie chased the kiss into the back seat. She gripped the fat of your hips to inch you slowly off of the center console and towards the back. She followed, kicking her loose driver’s seat forward with the sole of her sneakers. The slide adjusting rail had seen better days, and had been owned by better people than the currently horny, blunt, ungraceful young lesbian who had an avid penchant for violence, that owned it that day.

Ellie teased her hand up from your hips to the base of your neck, to grab the back of your head as she worked her puffy lips against yours. She was hungry for your little mouth, and it was seen in the way her jaw flexed.

Ellie kissed you with a remarkably intense eroticism.

Her hands ran down over the fabric of your milkmaid top before ripping the holes away from the buttons to let your tits spill out right into her hands. Each nipple immediately kissed the waiting pads of her thumbs, as they moved to greedily massage the sensitive head. Grazing each of your puffy tender domes over and over. “Fuck, need to suck these heavy tits baby.”

Ellie’s lips made their way down your chest. She suckled some swollen red marks into the skin, before making her way lower. Coming eye to eye with your nipples.

“Can you please squeeze your boobies together?”

You took your palms and pushed them together. Ellie's whiny sigh sent heat pooling in your tummy. She leaned in, licking a greedy stripe across both nipples, tickling their head with the tip of her tongue, tonguing the flesh around both areolas. And suckling your nipples intermittently then popping off them. Leaving both of them so puffed out.

Your squeaks filled the expanse of her small car, and her aroused groans joined to match.

She shoved her fingers in the waistband of your tiny denim shorts and tugged at them. They budged, but barely, so you helped your girlfriend. You lifted your ass off the seat and slid your shorts and thong down your thighs, before Ellie slid them the rest of the way off your ankles and threw them in the front seat.

The soft breeze blew past your cunt. Exposing the warm skin to a cooler environment.

“S-should we be doing this in a park?” you squeeked.

Ellie kissed her answer on your lips “there’s” *smooch* “no one” *smooch* “here.” As she shoved her hand down to palm the fat of your vagina. Feeling your pussy fill up her fingers. Ellie curled a middle finger into your tight hole, it barely wanted to split apart to accommodate her finger. But she marveled at how hungrily it sucked her in. She pumped shallowly before adding in her ring finger.

Her chrome ring grazed the swelling mound inside your hole; your g-spot. And it pulled a pathetic mewl out of you. She curled her wrist up, ligament appearing. And pumped harder. Enjoying your shaking thighs in the air.

Your brain was melting into mush. And all you managed were barely coherent babbles.

“…feels ss-s'good” your eyes were rolled backwards.

“God bunny…” Ellie marveled, “your pretty pussy’s so greedy.”

Ellie’s teeth dug into her lip “How did I bag you?”

All you could muster were delirious squeak noises in response as you tugged on the base of her ponytail.

“Look-look down” Ellie’s fingers grasped your chin, pulling your eyes away from her flushed aroused face and towards your own shiny pussy. “L-look at how you’re swallowing my fingers.”

Ellie’s forehead knocked against yours.

“Hey…c-can you squeeze for me?”

You never disobeyed her instructions, not when you both were like this. Nodding limply, you clamped around Ellie’s fingers, a choked moan escaped you. And a deep, throaty groan escaped her. Feeling how tightly you suckled in her fingers, how badly you wanted her there, made a warm heat throb between Ellie’s legs and left her boxers sticking to her sloppy cunt. Ellie could almost cry that she couldn’t bully a cock inside you, just to feel that desperate clamp around her cock.

Her ring pushed into your plump inner walls over and over, and dragged a new delicious zing of pleasure through the ribbed inner walls. Puffy, swollen, and sloppy with slick.

Ellie had a newfound resistance in her thrusting, the clamping, warm grip of your puffed out walls were holding her fingers still. But she kept pumping, like a suction cup being stuck on and popped off.

You were assaulted with thrilling pleasure from your walls clamping, chasing the press of her jewelry. And from your girlfriends frenzied, desperate thrusting. Ellie was just as hazy brained as you.

It was a costly mistake. All of the fluttering was stimulating your pelvic muscles. Which stimulated the other tiny hole snuggled in your pussy. The familiar pressure of a full bladder pressed behind the teeny hole of your urethra. Your squeaks came out strained. You scooted into different positions on the seat, trying to ebb away the pressure.

The shifting positions only made it worse as your tummy squished from movement, and as Ellie pumped upwards.

She jack hammered her fingertips against the puffy roof of your warm cunt. Her feverish ministrations put so much pressure on your bladder. You choked out a breathy plea.

Your hands skated up your girlfriend's torso, past her exposed waist and pebbled nipples that strained against her t-shirt, and finally towards her square shoulders in an attempt to push her back.

She needed off.

“I gotta…uhn… I gotta.” you whimpered.

“What was that?” Ellie sighed.

“I-ah!” The thrust felt so good.

You were whiny “th-think I needa pee.”

“I’m fucking you so good it’s got you confusing cumming for peeing? Y’so adorable it’s insane.” Ellie kissed your lips, picking up her pace.

She took the hand she’d used to squeeze and pinch your tits and brought it down to press on your lower tummy, as she thrust up.

Oh.

“Nnnnhnhn no! ph-please ewwie.. can’t—hold it.” You babbled the same desperate plea incoherently, but with a mouth nearly paralyzed from the incessant abuse of your hole Ellie was doing, you were left whiny and gulping, babbling tiny sentences at a time.

Sweat pricked at your skin, an orgasm was fucked into your vagina, and a full bladder pressed at your urethra. You didn’t know what to do as the mounting climax forced against your urethra left you with a desperate need for release, in the car.

Ellie’s lips kissed your jaw, snuggling against your head.

“You wanna let it out, big girl? Make a big mess f’me. We can clean it all up later, I promise.”

“nuh—ah Ellie no no…aghh! ”

Your urethra let out a thin light spurtle. Settling into the space between you two as more slick gushed out of your hole. You sobbed through your orgasm, from the joint pleasure of climax combined with relief from pressure pressing against your urethra. Ellie kept fingering you through each tiny pump of liquid that squirted from your urethra and through each contraction of its sloppy wet vagina, as slick spilled out of you and ran past your bare ass, onto her leather seats. With each aggressive thrust of Ellie’s fingers—fuck in—pull out—came out spurt after spurt, from each hole. She slowed down once you fell back into the seat softly; boneless and glass-eyed. Like an abused rag doll.

You both caught your breaths, Ellie from the aggressive thump and heat in her pussy. And you from your ‘accident’.

Ellie watched as the looming embarrassment creeped every so slowly onto your face, as the orgasm slowly ebbed away. She placed shaky kisses on top of your head. Cupping the back of it in support.

Sure, maybe her car wasn’t the best time to explore that kink. Seeing as the bottom half of her shirt and her belt was wet.

But she wasn’t going to let her girlfriend curl in on herself in shame, just because of her body’s natural reaction. Especially one that Ellie practically fucked out of you.

If not for the small space of the car she might’ve pulled you into her lap, to kiss away the upset creases between your brows. But she could do nothing more than hover above your trembling body, and caress your squished tummy with her free hand, until the shaking eased.

She was breathless. “You did so good, baby.”

You shoved your face into the crook of Ellie’s neck. The sweet cologne on the collar of her shirt calmed you down, with its medley of gourmands, lavender and florals.

Your girlfriend had a way of grounding you. Everything about Ellie had the ability to. From her cold, icy fingers, to her soft, pine scented hair. To her woodsy cologne, always left on the collar of her shirts, ready to tranquilize your unrest.

“nuh-uh I—.”

“—So good. My good girl, doing exactly what I tell you too, c’mere.”

Ellie unplugged her fingers out from your hole and suckled the last bit of slick cream off, then swiped it on her shirt. She licked her lips. Using her now clean hand to cup the side of your jaw and draw you into a heated kiss that left both of you trembling.

You shifted positions in the seat from discomfort.

“You still need to pee s’more?”

“No.”

“Babe…”

“Maybe.”

Ellie reached over and opened your door, then hopped out from her side. Jogging over to shield your body.

You crouched in behind her, her and the car towered over you from both sides.

You pouted up at her, and she glowered down at you. Her arms crossed firmly as she looked away briefly to scan around the area. Before parking her gaze back down at you as the remaining stream from your bladder emptied itself.

“No more vanilla bean milkshakes.” you winced at the feeling of the breeze tickling your swollen labia.

“Of course. Yeah, that was the real culprit. Not the mega-giant 1 liter water bottle.”

You frowned.

Ellie’s arms dropped from their cross, and her black fingernails pinched the fat of your cheek and pulled teasingly.

She reassured you.

“Yeah sure, we’ll blame it on the vanilla bean milkshake.”

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