#halo cut content

[frogblast-the-ventcore]

Artist Chanden Renard has "colorized" the cut ending for Halo 2 from the origin Halo 2 storyboards.

Source here. Apparently the art is several years old, but I hadn't seen it before, and it's really good.

[mvfm-25]

" Halo's incredible engine will allow for everything to take place all at once - mid-air dogfights, ground skirmishes, jeep races! "

Hyper Magazine n90 - April, 2001.

[halopedia]

Trivia Tuesday - Stalker

Did You Know that as part of the concepting process of the Elites for Halo: Combat Evolved, a monstrous enemy known as the "Stalker" was concepted? This creature would seemingly be held captive by the Covenant and used in combat roles.

[cut-content-contest]

Singing Mountain

"Singing Mountain" was a track that seems to have originally been intended to play in a cut dungeon, also likely known as Singing Mountain. It is also possible it was cut due to the song's similarity to a theme of the Studio Ghibli film Laputa: Castle in the Sky. It was added back into the game for an added area in the DS port, as well as all later ports.

multiplayer saber

It was a jet used in 1 mission, and it was a one-seater with machine guns, missiles, and a boost. It was meant to be brought into the multi-player/online, but, obviously, it was cut.

[exopelagic]

i am now entering finals mode so very sorry i’m gonna be dead for approximately 12 days

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

HAND IN UNLOVABLE HAND

PAIRING: THOMAS HEWITT X FEMALE READER

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+ MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 5.8K

SUMMARY | This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

WARNINGS | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT; DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT - this is slasher fan fiction with canon typical violence, mentions of blood, death, cannibalism and gore. if slasher fiction is not your cup of tea, please keep scrolling.

EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT: vaginal fingering, male masturbation, oral sex - f receiving, unprotected p in v, size kink, choking, creampie, praise kink

OTHER WARNINGS: no use of y/n, dual pov, able bodied reader, reader being picked up/carried, virgin thomas hewitt, no skin masks, monsters in love. if i’ve missed any tags, please kindly let me know.

Thomas hears a scream while he’s out in the barn. It cuts off so quickly he damn near thinks he imagined it but if he holds perfectly still and listens, listens, listens, there are noises that don’t belong. A grunt, a smack, a mumbled curse. Knife in hand, he ventures out in search of the source. 

Out on the road there’s a car, hood up and smoke billowing from the engine. A man has a woman pressed to the driver’s side door, forearm tight against her throat and a knife poised in front of her face. Red creeps into Thomas’ vision and his fingers begin to ache around the hilt of his own knife but just as he steps forward, something amazing happens.

The woman spits at the man’s face and in that brief moment of surprise, she brings her hands up and shoves the man back. He stumbles, falling to ground. The knife falls and she goes after it, lunging across the dirt and rocks. The man wraps a hand around her ankle, tugging her down and dragging her back as she screams, fingers digging into the dirt. She kicks, once, twice, the third time finally connecting with a painful crack to the man’s shin and sending him down to the ground again. She crawls away, grabbing the knife and scrambling to her feet. Thomas can see her chest heave with ragged breaths, skin glistening with sweat in the Texas heat. 

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

She approaches the man, the knife brandished in front of her. The man rolls onto his back, holds his hands up. A surrender. The woman doesn’t care. Her boot slams into his skull, a shout echoing in the vast emptiness of the road and fields. Thomas feels himself grow hard, pants tightening around his cock. He reaches down, adjusting himself.

The man is on his hands and knees now. Blood streaks his face and drips to the dirt, baptizing the land in violence. She kicks him between the shoulder blades, knocking him flat on his stomach, and stands over him with a leg on either side of his body. The breath catches in Thomas’ throat as she reaches down and tangles her fingers in the man’s hair, lifting his head. The man stares directly at Thomas and his lips move, a cry for help, but he doesn’t hear it. No, not when all his focus is on the way the woman leans close and drags the blade across the man’s neck and the skin splits, muscles and tendons ripping with the force of it and red, red, red spilling free. 

The man’s gaze grows empty and the woman loosens her grip, his head dropping to the ground. She drops to her knees, slams the knife into the man’s back over and over and over, roaring fiercely as she does. She’s covered in the red, red, red, clothes soaked through with it, skin stained and sticky. When she’s finished, she collapses on the ground beside the man, on her back, basking in the sun.

It’s then that Thomas approaches, his shadow falling over her, broad body blocking the sun. She blinks at him but doesn’t scream. Doesn’t run. 

Thomas holds a hand out to her.

To his surprise, she takes it.

Your mind is somewhere in the clouds as you walk beside the lumbering giant that carries John or Mike or David over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, is nothing. The body bounces with each step and you find it almost comical, lips twitching as you fight a smile. Something simmers in your veins, more potent than the adrenaline of the fight or the relief that you won another day against life’s shitty hand. 

This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

A house appears on the horizon, a two story Victorian era farmhouse that must have been impressive once before falling into a state of disrepair. There’s a woman on the porch, arms crossed over her chest and a stern look on her face as she watches the two (or is it technically three?) of you approach. 

“Bring ‘im downstairs. I’ll tend to the girl,” she says. The man looks at you, hesitating to follow the command. You give him a nod, the slight dip of your chin enough for his shoulders to relax. His heavy footsteps rattle the dilapidated porch as he disappears inside the house.

The woman leads you to the kitchen and pulls a chair out from the rough wood table for you to take a seat. You watch as she wets a cloth before returning to your side. Cool water hits the hot skin of your face and the rough fabric drags away the dried blood. Her touch is surprisingly gentle.

“You do all that to the fella my boy was carryin’?” She asks.

“Yes,” you reply, voice cracking on the single word that claws at your vocal cords. 

“‘Atta girl.” She smiles. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Thank you.”

She sets a glass on the table and you don’t hesitate to reach for it, chugging down the cold water so quickly it makes your stomach turn. She wordlessly refills it for you, twice, before murmuring a gentle, “That’s enough now, you’ll turn your stomach sour if you keep it up.”

“What’s with this fuckin’ car out on the road?” A voice yells from outside the house. Through the window you catch a glimpse of a man in a Sherriff’s uniform, shotgun held loosely in his hand as he approaches the house. The woman stands, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You don’t say nothin’, alright? You let me handle Charlie,” she commands. You nod.

The man appears in the doorway, eyes immediately landing on you. His leery gaze traces you from head to toe and you fight back the shiver that threatens to race down your spine. Your gaze drops to the floor as he addresses the woman.

“What’s with the whore?” He spits. 

“She’s a guest.”

“A guest? This a bed ‘n breakfast all of a sudden?”

“Thomas brought her up here.” As if summoned by his name, the monster returns. He looms behind the other man, silent. There’s a bucket in his hand that he drops to the floor with a loud clang that makes you jump. The woman pats your shoulder. 

“Tommy boy is takin’ in strays now, huh? What’s next, he’ll find himself some dumpster baby and finish buildin’ a whole happy family?”

The monster, Thomas, grows tense. His shoulders lift and the muscles of his arms flex, his eyes narrowed on the man who’s giving him a shit-eating smile. 

“Tommy, honey, why don’t you bring your guest to one of the rooms upstairs?” The woman suggests. Thomas shoves past Charlie and into the kitchen and stands wordlessly by your side. She nudges your shoulder and you stand, following him as he stomps through the second door to the kitchen. 

Shouting starts up as you leave, the words muffled when the door swings shut behind you. Thomas leads you upstairs to the second floor, where the hallway dark and a thick layer of dust coats anything it can reach. With a grunt he opens a door at the end of the hall and stands aside to allow you through the doorway. 

The room is bare save for a small but tidy bed and dresser. Despite the dust in the hall, the room itself is surprisingly clean. You sit on the bed, testing the squeaky springs with your weight. You look up at the man.

“Your name is Thomas?” You ask. He nods, once, a sharp dip of his chin that has his dirty hair falling into his face. You tell him your name and his blue eyes blink back at you, the only acknowledgment you’ll get.

He lingers for a moment, eyes searching. It doesn’t feel gross, not like when Charlie leered at you downstairs. No, it’s more like he’s committing you to memory. You realize, then, that he’s not looking at you like a predator looks at prey.

He’s looking at you like you’re a prize.

Thomas slams the cleaver down, the thud of it rhythmic, soothing. His thoughts keep straying to ones of you, upstairs in the kitchen with his mama. You’ve been here for two days now and he’s having a hard time concentrating on his chores knowing that you’re in the house, knowing that you’ve stuck around for God only knows what reason. It makes him antsy, suspicious. 

The door to the basement opens and he expects to hear Charlie’s boots stomping down the stairs but he’s surprised when you appear on the last step in an ill fitting dress that mama must have scrounged up for you. Thomas stands perfectly still as you look around the room. 

“This is what you do all day?” You ask. He nods. “That must be hard work.” Mama shouts your name from upstairs, making you jump. You give him a sheepish look. “I’m supposed to come tell you dinner’s ready.”

Thomas grunts, setting down the cleaver and wiping his hands on his apron. He washes up in the bloodstained sink, scrubbing at his fingers as best he can. You’re still on the stairs when he finishes, watching him. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the way you don’t look away, ashamed of your staring. 

You turn to climb the steps and he follows, a step below you. Your hips sway in front of him and he has visions of grabbing you by the hips, pulling you against his body so tightly you can’t leave, can’t leave, can’t leave. 

Mama is sitting at the table when you both emerge from the darkness, bowls of stew set out for each of you. Thomas sits down to mama’s left and you to her right, across the table from him. The two of you chat about the chores she’s assigned you and are they too much, honey? No, you tell her, you’re happy to help. Mama smiles at you and he knows what she’s thinking, that you’re sent from God himself, the perfect addition to the family. The daughter she never got to have, only the fucked up sons she was cursed and forsaken with. 

Thomas feels something prod his knee beneath the table and he freezes. All of your attention is still focused on mama, your head propped in your hand and your elbow on the table, relaxed as can be. He thinks maybe he just imagined it but he feels it again and this time he jumps, rattling the dishes on the table and sloshing stew from its bowls.

“Thomas! What’s the matter with you?” Mama asks, patting at her dress with a napkin. “You just got us all wet.”

“Yeah, Thomas,” you chime in. “Got me all wet and messy.”

By the look on your face, he knows that you’re not talking about the soup. He’s got some dirty magazines he snuck into the house over the years, women with their legs spread and their hands tied, glistening pussies on full display or the one videotape that Charlie got him, where the woman is split open on a man’s cock, begging for more as the lewd, slick sounds of sex grow louder and louder. The thought of you like that, maybe even because of him, makes his cheeks burn. He grunts, an apology, and his mama waves a hand at you both.

“You better get changed outta that dress before it stains. Can’t be lettin’ one go to waste so quick,” she tells you. You nod, standing from the table and heading for the door. You pause, looking over your shoulder at him and give him a wink. Mama clears her throat, a stern expression on her face as she looks at him.

“And you, boy. Go get yourself cleaned up and brush your damn hair for once. I raised you better than that.”

She didn’t, not really, but he listens to her anyway, trudging back down to the basement to hose himself off and change his clothes. As he cleans up, he thinks about you, because when hasn’t he been since you appeared? His cock hardens and he tries to ignore it, tries to think of the Bible lessons mama loved to teach and how it’s a sin to touch himself but maybe God will forgive him, just this once? 

He wraps a hand around his thick length and squeezes, almost punishing himself. His head drops back and he stares at the ceiling, eyes wide as he tugs and pulls at his cock, slow at first then fast, fast, fast, fist flying with a tight grip until stars burst in his vision and warm come dribbles over his hand. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, blinking away the dark spots as his high fizzles out.

Thomas dries himself and gets dressed before lying down on the mattress in the corner to toss and turn until the sun rises.

The next morning, Thomas doesn’t realize that you haven’t come down from your room until well into the afternoon. Mama’s gone to town and Charlie is off playing Sheriff so it’s just the two of you in the house. He debates whether he should check on you or leave you alone but ultimately the worry that something might be wrong pulls him upstairs and finds him knocking on your door, a quick tap of his knuckles to the wood.There’s no sound from the other side, no shout of fuck off like he’d get from Charlie or a quiet just a minute, sweetheart he’d hear from mama. Tentatively, he turns the handle and pushes the door open, just a crack, enough to peek inside.

You’re in bed, sprawled out on your back with the quilt kicked off to the floor. Your bare breasts draw his eye and he looks away quickly, shame clawing up his throat. The bed creaks as you shift, sleepy noises leaving your lips in the process, and panic races through his veins, worried that you might wake up and find him standing there, worried that it might be what sends you running, worried about what mama will say if you up and leave and it’s his fault, worried, worried, worried.

“Thomas?” You ask, voice raspy. He didn’t even realize that you were awake, stupid, stupid, stupid of him. He should have turned around and left, should have—

“Hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, sitting up. Thomas hesitates, eyes still fixed on the floor. You must notice because from the corner of his eye he notices the quilt get picked up and then you’re telling him, “I’m decent.”

He swallows around the rock lodged in his throat and looks up, meeting your gaze. You don’t look mad or disgusted or upset. You’re actually smiling at him, a hand held out in welcome. He doesn’t dare touch you, but he takes a step closer, body moving like a moth to a flame.

Your head tilts to the side, assessing him, eyes flaying him open and leaving him feeling more exposed than when someone catches him without the mask. You’re holding the quilt up over your chest but Thomas can still see the tantalizing curves of your shoulders, the long line of your neck with the flutter of your pulse beneath delicate skin. It makes his mouth go dry.

“You ever touch a woman, Tommy?” You ask. The question catches him so off guard that all he manages is a strangled noise. “Well? That a yes or a no?” He shakes his head. You smile, lowering the quilt just enough to expose the top curve of your breasts. 

“You wanna?” 

Thomas’ eyes drop to your chest before quickly looking away. A flush creeps up his neck, staining what little of his cheeks you can see above the mask he wears. His hand flexes at his side, fingers curling open and shut. 

“It’s okay, you can look,” you say, gentle, gentle, gentle, like coaxing a scared animal. He looks at you again, blue eyes wide. “Come closer.”

He shuffles closer, looming over the bed, back so wide that he blocks the sun streaming through the window and casts a shadow over your body. You reach for his hand and he jerks away, as if on instinct. You pause, giving him a few seconds of reprieve, then reach for him again, keeping your eyes fixed on his face. Lightly, you touch his hand and when he doesn’t flinch, you grasp it more tightly. 

You guide his hand to your breast, settling his warm palm to your chest. He holds perfectly still for a moment and the restraint of it drives you insane, makes you bite your tongue so hard the taste of copper blooms across your tastebuds. Finally, he leans a little closer, fingers digging into your skin and making you gasp. He massages one breast, then the other, playing with the weight and feel of them in his large hands. You press your thighs together, cunt aching from the attention.

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching into his touch. The praise spurs him on, makes him more confident, and he starts to focus his attention on your nipples, pinching and twisting the sensitive buds. He’s surprisingly gentle despite his size and demeanor. 

You kick away the quilt from your legs, exposing the rest of your body to him. His eyes trail down your body, hands going still. He looks up, tilting his head, asking a question, looking for permission. You nod your head quickly and your heart races as a palm slides down, down, down, until he’s cupping your pussy over your panties. Your hips jump at the friction.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine. Thomas holds his hand still as you grind yourself against his palm. You reach your hands down, holding onto his forearm with a death grip. “Please, please, please!”

His fingers slip beneath the elastic of your panties and you both groan. He plays with the embarrassing amount of wetness, smearing it over your skin. You guide his hand the slightest bit upwards until the calloused pads of his fingers swipe over your clit.

“That’s it, Tommy,” you tell him. “Right there, right there.”

Dutifully, he continues to lavish you with attention, taking every direction beautifully. Slower, faster, harder, he adjusts to every suggestion and has you moaning and crying his name in desperation, but it’s not enough. You’re right there, so close, but you feel so empty, you just need—

“Inside?” You ask. He pauses, brows pinching together. “Put your fingers inside me.”

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he eases one thick finger into your drenched hole. Your head drops back at the sensation, at the relief, and begin to grind your hips again. He starts to see the pattern, moving his hand so that he’s working with your rhythm. You look up at his face and the concentration in his eyes leaves you breathless. All he wants is to do good, be good, make you feel good. 

Thomas presses another finger to your entrance, glancing at your face to make sure it’s okay. When you don’t say otherwise, he works both inside of you in tandem, the stretch making you groan. He curls them, exploring, skimming a spot inside of you that makes you cry out and dig your nails into his arm so hard that he grunts but doesn’t doesn’t pull away.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “You’re doing so good, Tommy, oh my god.”

He’s panting, sweat dripping down his neck, muscles tight with his efforts to wrench an orgasm from you. The lethal combination of his fingers inside of you and his palm against your clit and the muffled noises sneaking past his mask have you tumbling over a precipice so high you worry you might never come down. Your cunt pulses around his fingers and you babble his name and an incoherent stream of praise as your release washes over you, wave after wave of it.

Thomas waits until your body collapses against the mattress and you’re gasping for breath before slowly removing his hand. He holds it up to his face, pink tongue darting out from the slit afforded for his mouth to taste your cum from his fingertips. He groans, his other hand reaching down to press tightly to the sizeable bulge in his pants. He thrusts against his palm once, twice, before going still, shoulders shaking.

A door slams downstairs. Luda Mae’s voice shouts for Thomas and he takes a step back, head whipping towards the door and eyes wide with panic. You scramble from the bed, grabbing your dress and pulling it on quickly so that you can rush out the room, shutting Thomas inside. You lean over the banister and see Luda Mae standing at the top of the basement stairs, hands on her hips.

“I think he went out to the barn,” you call down. She looks up at you.

“Why would he be out there?” She huffs. “And what are you still doin’ in your room? You look a mess.”

“Sorry, m’am. Had trouble sleeping last night.”

Your politeness softens her annoyance. “That’s okay, darlin’, you’re still learnin’ the ropes. I gotta go find Thomas, Charlie’s found some troublemakers.”

“If I see him first, I’ll let him know.” You nervously smooth your hands down your skirt. “What kind of trouble?”

“You don’t worry yourself about that. We’ll let the boys handle it, alright?”

“Yes, m’am.”

“Good girl,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

Luda Mae leaves through the front door and you return to your room. Thomas is standing where you left him, hands curled at his sides. 

“You hear all that?” You ask him. He nods. “What’s going to happen?”

He walks to the window, peeks through the curtain. His shoulders are tense. When he turns back to you, he sets his hands on your shoulders and steers you to the bed, pushing gently until you’re sitting, the springs squeaking beneath your weight. He cups your cheek with one hand and points around the room with the other.

“You want me to stay in here?”

He nods.

“What if you need help?”

He shakes his head. He won’t need help.

“Okay. You better get down there.”

He nods again. Leaning down, he presses his forehead to yours, an approximation of a kiss. You smile at him when he pulls away. He lingers for a brief second longer before tugging open the door and disappearing from the room.

Trouble is heralded by the arrival of Uncle Charlie. You watch through the window as his cop car pulls up in the yard and he gets out, spitting curses you can’t hear. He waves a shotgun in the air, firing off a warning shot that makes you jump. You know Thomas told you to stay in your room but curiosity gets the better of you and you head downstairs.

Luda Mae is in the kitchen, sat at the table with a cup of tea. A piercing scream filters through the open window as she takes a tiny sip from her cup. 

“You need somethin’, dear?” She asks, unperturbed by the interruption. You shake your head.

“No, m’am. Just came to ask if you needed help with dinner.”

“No, no, that’s alright. I got it covered.” Another sip. “Could you get the laundry from the line?”

It’s then that you realize she’s testing you. Earlier she told you to let the men handle it, but she wants to see where your loyalties lie. Thomas told you to stay put, to stay safe, but she’s sending you out to join the wolves because she knows, she knows, she knows that you’re just like them. 

She just needs proof.

You smile. “Of course.”

On your way out of the kitchen, you slip a knife from the butcher block.

One of the men that Charlie dragged home writhes in pain, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. His friend takes off at run, pace as fast as his injured ankle will allow. They’re the last two that need to be dealt with. Thomas raises his chainsaw in the air, ready to end the animal’s suffering, but movement from the corner of his eye makes him pause.

The back door to the house opens and you stroll out into the yard, looking around frantically with a frightened expression. Thomas feels a rush of anger that you didn’t listen to him, didn’t stay up in your room, didn’t stay inside. The anger quickly turns to fear when he sees the other man, the one he intended to deal with later, rushes toward you. You take off, running across the field toward the barn.

Thomas cuts the gas, tosses the chainsaw aside. The muffled whimpers from the man on the ground piss him off and with one, two, three strikes of the heel of his boot, he silences him for good. He heads for the barn, red in his vision with every step. If the other man lays a single finger on you, Thomas will keep him alive but begging for death.

“Come on, we gotta get out of here,” a male voice shouts. “They’re goin’ to kill us!”

Thomas throws open the barn doors, the wood shaking with the force of it. You’re turned away from him and the first thing he notices is the knife held in a tight fist behind your back. The man stumbles to the ground, trying to scramble back from you as Thomas comes closer.

“No. We’re going to kill you,” you tell him. You spring forward, jumping on the man with a feral scream that sounds like music to Thomas’ ears. Your arms swing up, up, up and then slam down, down, down, burying your knife into the man’s chest over and over and over.

Thomas can’t wait anymore. He approaches you from behind and wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you away from the mangled body. You struggle in his hold and he hauls you over to a work bench, swiping the tools to the ground with his other arm and setting you on the surface.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say immediately, head shaking side to side. “I just wanted to help, I just—“

Your rapid apologies morph into a choked off moan when he lifts your legs, wrapping them around his hips, grinding his painfully hard cock against you. He buries his face into your neck, licking at the blood that stains your perfect skin, the taste of salt and copper opening a pit of hunger in his belly that could never be filled by food.

“Tommy,” you whimper, head dropping back. He licks and bites at all the skin he can find and when he runs out, he drops to his knees and begins anew on the muscles of your legs. 

He pushes the fabric of your dress up, bunching it around your waist to expose your pussy, still covered by the same panties you wore earlier when he made you come on his fingers. Wrapping his fist in the elastic, he pulls until it snaps under the pressure, fabric falling away and leaving you completely bare. 

Thomas pushes your thighs apart, spreading you open. He leans closer, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh, a little harder than he should. The tiny indents his teeth make in your skin are proof that this isn’t some dream. You’re flesh and blood, just like him.

Just for him.

His mouth waters as he nears your cunt, the earlier memory of your taste making that hunger grow to near starvation. His tongue slides over the slick flesh, exploring the dips and folds that taste so sweet it hits him like a sugar high, like when he’d steal a handful of candy from the corner store and eat it all at once, afraid of getting caught.

There’s a quiet thump and Thomas looks up to find that you’ve collapsed onto the table. Hands reach down and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling on the strands. He remembers the spot that he rubbed with his fingers and searches for it with his tongue, knowing he’s found it when your thighs press against his ears and you moan his name like you did in your room.

“Oh, god! Just like that, Tommy,” you say, holding his head in place. “So good, so fucking good.”

He licks and sucks and grazes his teeth against you to his heart’s content and you writhe beneath him, bucking up against his face so fiercely he has to hold you down with an arm across your lower belly. He grows braver, dipping his tongue into the warmth of your cunt and drinking you from the source until you’re shaking. When he pulls away, he’s awed by the mess he’s made of you, your lips puffy and skin slick and shiny from your cum. He uses his thumbs to spread you apart, admiring the way your hole clenches around nothing.

Thomas stands, unsure of what to do next. You sit up from the table, expression dazed. Tear tracks stain your cheeks and a brief strike of worry hits him. Did he hurt you? Was that too much? Are you—

“Come closer,” you whisper. His thoughts go silent as he obeys. You reach up, cupping his face, hands trailing down to the strap of his apron. You lift it over his head and drops down, hanging limply. 

Your arms wrap around his thick middle, working the knot of strings loose behind his back. It falls to the floor in a heap now and he stares at it, pulse racing as your hands roam to his chest. His breath stutters as your touch traces lower, lower, lower, until your palm presses against his cock and his mouth drops open at the pleasure of it, so different from when he touches himself or ruts his hips into the mattress. He can feel the heat of your skin even through the thick fabric of his pants.

You’re popping the button and dragging down the zipper, wrapping a soft hand around his cock and pulling it free. Thomas groans, loud and rough, as you slide your hand up, thumb swiping over the clear fluid gathered at the very tip. 

You tug on his cock, hard enough that he stumbles forward, pressing closer. You look up at him as you rub the flushed head through your wetness and his shoulders shake at the sensation. You feel so good, so warm, he just wants to—

You notch him at your entrance and on instinct he thrusts forward the slightest bit, just enough that the fat tip of him sinks into tight heat. You gasp, eyes going wide and he’s once again struck with the fear that he could be hurting you, maybe he’s too big, too much of a monster, but when he tries to pull away you’re grabbing his shirt in a tight fist.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss. “Keep going.”

Thomas obeys, just as he always does, pushing his hips closer, shoving his cock deeper, deeper, deeper. He watches his length disappear, your body stretching to accommodate his size. You look beautiful, with the tears that gather in your eyes and the blood smeared on your chest and the way your thighs shake with the effort to take him, that his chest aches, that last thread of control keeping him slow and steady snapping like his hips as he buries himself inside of you, completely and thoroughly.

You’ve never been this full before. You fall back on the rough wood of the work bench with a gasp, stars in your vision as your body adjusts to the sheer size of the man, the thick length of him splitting you open and leaving you breathless. He leans forward, the angle changing and tears spilling from your eyes as you stare up at the hulking monster above you.

“So big,” you gasp. “God, you’re so fucking big.”

His cock twitches inside of you and you moan, back arching off the bench. He feels so good, even through the burning stretch. You give a tentative wiggle of your hips and his eyelids flutter, a moan escaping him. When the pain eases into a dull ache, you lift a shaky hand to his face, settling your palm against the cool leather of his mask.

“I want you to fuck me, Tommy,” you tell him. “I want you to ruin me.”

His pupils grow impossibly wider and a shadow falls across his features, his demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. Gone is the man who was worried he would hurt you and in his place is the ravenous beast that matches the one clawing at you from the inside, just beneath your ribs where your chest aches with need. He draws his hips back until the tip is barely inside of you before thrusting forward. Your mouth opens, a scream ripping from your lungs but it’s cut short when a large hand wraps around your throat and squeezes. 

Thomas is a man possessed, pounding into your body like it’s nothing more than a toy for his pleasure, filling your pussy to the limit with each stroke. The hand on your throat holds your body steady and he uses his other arm to lift one of your legs, then the other, your thighs pressed to his thick belly and your ankles by his ears. His moans mix with the lewd sound of skin against skin, a soundtrack of hedonism that you want to listen to on repeat until God calls you for judgment and sends you straight to Hell.

Your orgasm is quick to build, a pressure in your tummy that grows tighter and tighter until it bursts, all your muscles going taut with the force of it. Thomas roars, hands gripping your hips and holding you impaled on his cock as he floods your pussy with his release. You feel untethered, like you’re floating, and it’s not until you’re squinting into the Texas sun that you realize you are floating. Thomas is carrying you through the field, back to the main house, one arm supporting your back and other under your knees, holding you close to his chest.

Luda Mae is on the porch when he reaches the door, hands on her hips. He pauses and her keen gaze assesses you both. Finally, she smiles.

“Get yourselves cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready,” she says. 

Wordlessly, Thomas brings you inside and down to the basement, where does exactly as he’s told.

Just as he always does.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment.

Want more to read? Check out my masterlists.

[johnpriceslamb]

arthur morgan + back shots🙏

suggestive content under the cut. MDNI.

The headboard of the bed banged onto the thin, hotel wall.

A rough, calloused hand muffled your mouth as his other hand grabs a fist full of your hair— practically forcing your back to be arched.

After a long train robbery, with Micah pulling at his last straws and the amount of people he had to deal with, this was his reward. The anger within him diminished into a small ball once he heard your shy, meek request in going to a hotel from the gang to have a break. What he didn’t know, was that soft laced matching set which delicately rested on your perfect figure.

“Yeah? Yeah? Feel that, sweetheart?” The hand which held the fistful of your hair travels down to where his cock shaped into you too well- the bump forming in your stomach reappearing each time he thrusted deeper into your tight, velvety walls. He presses his fingers down, hearing your muffled gasps and cries.

You sobbed into his hand when his hips slammed into yours multiple times, which lead to his fingers coming back to hold your hair to pull you back further into his touch. The tip of his drooling member reaching places you’ve never thought existed, pre-cum spilling.

The walls were thin, but so was his restraint in fucking you till you couldn’t think.

“What a— ffuu— What a real good girl you are,” he leans a down to grunt in your ear, gently nipping it. You unconsciously tighten around him at the praise, which lead to him deliciously groaning right in your ears. That sound alone could make you cum.

The bristles of his stubble graze your skin which made you softly whine. He peers down to admire your sweaty, sticky body only to bite his lip hard once seeing your plump ass. His hand travels down to roughly grab it, watching it bounce as his dick slams into you.

“Hnnn..” He grunts lowly, a slow smirk forming on his face as he feels your walls tighten. You were so close, too close. Drool escapes your mouth as his pace became slower, yet the everlasting thrusts become so much more harder. You could feel every vein on his cock drag. Your nails claw at the bedsheets below you. Finally, his hand leaves your mouth to place on both your hips to allow him to practically re-arrange your guts.

Your sweet moans were echoing throughout the walls, he ushers you to be quiet but it was far too difficult considering how he was handling you.

“P—please..” You babble incoherently, long lashes dripping with tears from the pleasure he’s giving you. You don’t have to finish your sentence because he knew all too well of what you needed. His fingers come below to find that sensitive bundle of flesh which was in need of attention, rubbing figure 8’s on it.

Your tight walls spasm around him, hands clenching on the bedsheets tightly with your doe-y eyes rolling backing— his other hand frantically grabbing your chin to turn your head around so he could see the expression etched on your delicate face. A series of cum coats his cock like a white rimmed halo, from that alone was your spend.

“Darlin’,” He kisses your cheek, “Where do i—”

“Inside,” You softly whimper, “Please, fill me.”

Whatever his baby girl wanted, she got. A few more rough slams and his climax came quickly, dripping inside of you. It filled you to the brim. Hot, wet, and sticky.

With just a few last pumps, the movement of his hips stop. He doesn’t remove it, rather he buries himself deeper inside your sensitive little hole. Any movement from him etched out a tiny whine.

A sleepy smile formed on your face as you watch his burly figure come into your vision. He handles you so delicately afterwards, watching his soaked fingers from the prepping he did beforehand cup your face to place a small kiss on your lips.

“Needed that.” He mumbles lowly.

“You’re welcome..” You quietly whisper back.

A moment of silence occurs.

His cock hardens inside you again.

<3

[w4ndal0ver]

Good Old Fashioned Lover Girl (rockstar!agatha x fan!reader)

[minors don't interact, 18+]

pairing: rockstar!daddy!agatha x fan!sub!reader

summary: You find yourself in the bed of the one and only Agatha Harkness, the lead singer of your all time favourite band.

content warnings: drug use in build up, shameful daddy kink, gagging, slapping, praise and degradation, slut shaming, spit play, fingering, cunnilingus, semi-public sex, choking, strap sex, throat fucking, spanking (minimal), power imbalance considering reader is a fan, only read if you wanna be railed by rockstar agatha

word count: 10k, sorry but it is shameful smut, I'm ovulating <3

You could hardly believe the night you’d had as you walked the streets alone at midnight. The concert you’d just been to was the best you’d ever been to, the lights blazing hot and harsh against the smoke that filled the room, neon halos on top of each member of the band's head. The Coven had been your favourite band for years, so when you found yourself in the middle of the heaving crowd, your brain half-euphoric, you could hardly believe who was standing in front of you. 

Agatha Harkness stood centre stage, as she always did, owning the space with the kind of effortless power that seemed too raw, too real to be anything but magic. The Coven had made a name for themselves in the music industry, their sound something darker, more visceral than any other you’d heard and at the heart of it was her. 

She was wearing another version of the same outfit she always wore, her hair wild and untamed, nothing but a black headband around her forehead. She didn’t just sing, she commanded, snarling lyrics into the mic that she grasped with such intensity. Her voice had a honey gravel to it, carrying a rough edge that cut right through you. 

After a while, your brain still awestruck as you found yourself at the doors of a dive bar not too far from the venue. This place looked like it had been standing here forever, soaked in beer from the outside, and stale smoke encompassing the inside. The wallpaper was peeling, faded posters from bands that had long since faded away hung over the top. 

The bar was small and dimly lit, just a few lowlights casting a dull amber glow over worn out tables and booths. A jukebox sat in the corner, glowing softly, though it was clear nobody had bothered to feed it quarters in a long time. Behind the bar, a bored looking man with a cigarette between his fingers was polishing glasses with a rag that looked as though it might be dirtier than the glasses themselves. The air was thick with the scent of old leather, cigarettes, and spilled whiskey, mixed with the indefinable mustiness that clung to the room. 

In one corner, a small group of regulars huddled over their drinks, murmuring quietly to each other, their faces shadowed and weathered. So you decide to slide onto a stool at the bar, ordering a drink and letting the strange, comforting grime of the place settle around you. It wasn’t at all glamorous, but it was real, a welcome change from the chaos of the concert. The drink was cheap, but strong, and as you took a sip the buzzing in your brain started again. You’d taken everything you had at the concert but now you looked around eagerly in an attempt to see anyone doing any type of drug that you could befriend just to continue your high. 

That was when you saw her. 

You didn’t think it would happen, nowhere near a place like this, a dive tucked away from the spotlight, a world removed from the stage. But there she was: Agatha, who took centre stage even here, as if the universe had conspired this moment itself. She was perched on the edge of a booth in the corner, surrounded by a shifting circle of friends, hangers-on, industry types, all vying for her attention as she leaned back, one arm slung over the seat like she owned the entire bar. 

A glass dangled from her fingers, half filled with something dark, and her other held a cigarette, a thin wisp of smoke curling up toward the ceiling. She looked utterly magnetic, her hair still tousled from the stage, her eyes sharp as she surveyed the room through half lidded eyes. You couldn’t help staring, even though you knew you should look away. You could see the way her eyes flickered to the small folded up bill tucked in the palm of her hand. It was all too subtle, like a well worn habit, but you noticed. She unrolled it slowly, taking the time to expertly cut the line on the table, the sharp scent of it lingering in the air to you even from across the room. 

You zip up your jacket, hiding the Coven logo branded across your chest, but you feel your gaze stray back to her again and again, like a pull that you couldn’t resist. She seemed to glow in the low, smoky light. You watched her lean forward slightly, legs still spread, the sharp click on the lighter cutting through the noise as she held up the rolled up bill to her nose, inhaling deeply. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, a brief moment of bliss, before she straightened back up, licking her lips with a satisfied smile. Even in this rough dimly lit bar, she looked untouchable, like she could have the entire world if she wanted it. 

As she looked up again, her eyes met yours across the room and you felt your face go warm, the thrill and panic hitting all at once, as if you’d been laid bare under her piercing gaze. You quickly looked down, pretending to focus on your drink, and took a long, shaky sip, hoping to drown the strange tension in your chest. Even as you stared at the scratched surface of the bar, you could feel her eyes on you, lingering like heat on your skin. You laughed at your situation, before downing the rest of your drink, slamming the empty glass against the bar and waving at the bartender once more. 

“Whiskey, rocks.” You say, but somehow, impossibly, she was there beside you, moving so smoothly that you didn’t realise it until she was close enough that you could feel her presence, like a dark star drawing you into her orbit. You felt one of her hands pressed firmly against the small of your back, a strong, grounding touch that made you catch your breath, while the other reached up to signal to the bartender. 

“All her drinks are on my tab.” She drawled, her voice rich and low, a quiet command that made it clear she was used to getting what she wanted. 

“You don’t have to do that.” You protest, swallowing deeply at the way her fingers pressed just a little too hard into your back, possessive in a way that made your pulse race. She turned toward you, and there was a smirk playing at the corner of her lips, a knowing glint in her eye.

She raised an eyebrow, her smirk deepening, clearly amused by your protest. “Oh, but I insist,” she murmured, leaning in close enough that her breath grazed your cheek, warm and tinged with whiskey and something sweeter. “It’s the least I can do for a fan.” Her gaze flickered down, lingering on the way you fidgeted with the hem of your jacket, the subtle nerves you were trying so hard to mask.

“Fan? Who says I’m a fan?” You tried for nonchalance, but the way her hand lingered against your back made it hard to focus, like she was rooting you in place with the barest of touches.

Agatha chuckled, a low, velvet sound that seemed to resonate through you. “Don’t play coy,” she teased, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and challenge. “It’s adorable, but it doesn’t suit you.” Her gaze slipped down your form, slowly, her eyes dragging over every detail. Her fingers pressed a little harder, her thumb tracing a lazy circle over the small of your back, sending a shiver up your spine.

You tried to play it cool, shrugging one shoulder, but your heart was pounding. “I didn’t realise you were so charitable,” you shot back, lifting your glass and taking a steadying sip, hoping the whiskey would help ground you, help steady the thrill building in your chest.

She laughed softly, a flash of teeth in that knowing smirk of hers. “Only to the ones who catch my eye,” she replied, her voice dipped in honey, slow and deliberate. She let her gaze linger on you a beat too long, making her meaning unmistakable. “And you, well you’ve been looking at me all night, haven’t you?”

You felt your cheeks flush, caught off guard by her directness. “Maybe,” you replied, trying to sound casual, but the way she was looking at you made it impossible to keep up the facade. “Or maybe you’re just used to people looking.”

“True,” she admitted with a shrug, her hand sliding from your back to the bar beside you, her presence enveloping you as she leaned in. Her face was close, her voice barely a murmur. “But I don’t usually notice them.” She let that hang in the air, a faint smirk playing at her lips as her eyes drifted down to your mouth, just for a heartbeat, before flicking back to meet your gaze. 

The air between you was thick, electric, and you had to steady yourself, gripping your glass tighter. “So what’s someone like you doing in a place like this?” you asked, tipping your head toward the dive bar’s worn booths and the crowd that was beginning to dissipate, leaving the two of you in a quiet, unspoken bubble.

She shrugged, glancing around with a lazy, amused smile, as though the place were her personal playground. “I like the grime,” she said, her fingers idly tapping the bar. “It’s real. Cuts through the polish.” She tilted her head, studying you like you were part of her scenery, something curious and worth examining. “Besides,” she added, “I thought I’d find something interesting here tonight.”

“Something interesting?” you echoed, and she nodded, her eyes never leaving yours.

“Or maybe,” she purred, her voice soft and edged with challenge, “someone interesting.”

She was close enough now that you could feel the faint warmth of her skin, smell the lingering scent of her perfume mixed with smoke. You swallowed, barely able to hold her gaze, feeling like you were teetering on the edge of something dangerous and thrilling. She reached for her own drink, her fingers brushing against yours for just a moment, her touch electric.

“Come sit with me,” she said, tipping her head toward the booth in the corner where a glass, a small mirror, and a familiar rolled-up bill waited. Her invitation was as much a challenge as it was a command.

Your breath caught as she turned, her fingers slipping from your back in a way that left you feeling almost cold without her touch. But you didn’t hesitate. Her gaze stayed locked on you, even as she made her way to the booth, the air between you thick with anticipation. You could feel every eye in the bar turn as you followed her, but Agatha walked as if she was born to be watched. Heads turned; glances lingered, but she was utterly unfazed, her attention fully on you as she slid into the dark leather seat.

The booth was tucked in a shadowy corner, half hidden from the rest of the bar. You slid in across from her, feeling the cracked leather beneath your fingers as you settled in. She leaned back, one arm draped casually along the booth’s edge, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm as she watched you. The tension in the air thickened, like a coiled spring, and you couldn’t help but feel like you were in a game you didn’t quite know the rules to.

She reached for the mirror on the table, her movements smooth, practised, almost mesmerising. With a practised flick of her wrist, she cut a line, her fingers graceful and sure. She caught your gaze as she leaned down, taking her time, her eyes glinting with something wild as she inhaled. The scene felt surreal, like you were suspended between reality and some hazy dream, the sounds of the bar fading as she lifted her head, exhaling with a slow smile.

“You want one?” she asked, gesturing to the mirror, her voice low and edged with mischief.

You hesitated for a beat, but then nodded, feeling the adrenaline humming in your veins. You weren’t about to back down now, not with her eyes fixed on you like that, daring you to take the plunge. She slid the mirror toward you, a hint of approval in her gaze as you leaned forward, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. You took the line, feeling the sharp rush as it coursed through you, heightening everything, the smoky lights, the hum of the bar, the way her gaze seemed to burn into you.

“Not bad,” she murmured, her smirk widening, clearly satisfied as she watched you settle back, your senses tingling from the rush.

Conversation drifted between you, each exchange a slow burn, full of glances that lingered too long, subtle touches that seemed to spark against your skin. Her fingers grazed yours as she reached for her drink, her knee pressing against yours under the table, each point of contact like a flicker of static. The intensity in her gaze never wavered, her eyes dancing with amusement every time you tried to play it cool.

At some point, her hand slipped over yours on the table, her fingers tracing lazy circles along your knuckles, the touch so subtle it was almost maddening. You could feel yourself leaning closer, caught up in the gravitational pull between you, until her face was inches from yours. Her thumb brushed over your hand, her eyes flicking down to your mouth, and you barely had a second to react before she closed the space between you, her lips pressing against yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It was fierce, almost desperate, her mouth hot and demanding, like she’d been holding back until now. You felt a rush of vulnerability, exposed and yet anchored by her touch. Her fingers tightened over yours as she deepened the kiss, her other hand sliding to the back of your neck, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head backwards as she took your bottom lip between your teeth. The world blurred, the sounds and lights of the bar fading into nothing, leaving just the heat of her mouth and the taste of her lingering on your lips. 

When she finally pulled back, her lips hovered just above yours, her breath warm against your skin. She looked at you with a raw intensity, her fingers slipping down to the collar of your jacket. 

“Come with me, pet.” She growls into your ear, her voice a quiet demand that leaves no room for argument. 

“I’m not your pet, and I’m not just going to go anywhere-”

“Now, last chance.” She smirked into your lips as the pads of her fingers graze the skin of your throat.

Your heart pounded as she helped you off the booth by your hips, leading you down the narrow hallway to the back of the bar, her hand firm around yours, fingers intertwined as if she couldn’t risk letting you slip away. She pushed open the bathroom door, pulling you inside and locking it behind her with a decisive click.

In the small, dim space, the air felt even more charged, thick with the weight of everything that had gone unsaid. She pressed you against the wall, her fingers tracing along your collar, slipping down to your jacket’s zipper. She looked up at you, her eyes dark and unyielding, a smirk playing at her lips as she began to tug it down, slowly, drawing out every inch.

The moment the zipper gave way, her eyes flicked down, catching sight of the faded band logo on the shirt beneath. She froze, her expression flickering between surprise and satisfaction, her fingers tracing over the familiar emblem. Her gaze lifted, and a grin spread across her face, filled with a mix of pride and something darker, a glint of triumph in her eyes.

“So, you really are a fan,” she whispered, her voice thick with amusement, as she leaned in, her lips brushing your ear. “I like that. So you really will do whatever I want hm?”

Her words curled around you, low and smoky, settling over you with a teasing weight. You swallowed, your pulse racing as she traced the band logo with her fingertips, a lazy, possessive touch that sent a shiver down your spine. She was so close, every breath she took brushing warm against your neck, her fingers just hovering there, making it clear that she was savouring every second of this reveal.

Her smirk deepened, eyes locked on yours, searching for that flicker of hesitation that never came. You could feel yourself melting into her, caught up in the heady mixture of her touch and her scent, the unmistakable pull she seemed to have over you. “You don’t mind, do you?” she murmured, her voice a velvet-soft purr that seemed to echo in the dim, tiled room.

You felt the words catch in your throat, but the defiance flickered in your gaze for a brief moment, just enough to make her laugh softly, a dark, satisfied sound that only pulled you further under her spell. She let her fingers slide up to your shoulder, resting there with a possessiveness that made it impossible to pull away even if you wanted to.

"Good," she whispered, her lips tracing a feather-light line down to the side of your jaw. "Because I don't intend to be gentle."

“I don’t like it gentle.” You smirk, feeling the confidence hit you as her hands roamed your clothed skin. This seemed to rile Agatha up to the highest degree, her hand grasping your jaw, tilting your head roughly upwards, her thumb pressing against your bottom lip before her lips collided with yours again, her hands obsessed with wrapping themselves in your hair and pulling you about and into the positions she wanted your mouth in. 

She angled your head to just the right position, her lips moving against yours with a confidence that left no room for hesitation. Every motion was a reminder of exactly who was in control, and somehow, that only made your pulse race harder.

The roughness of her touch sent a thrill through you, her nails grazing your scalp as she pulled you even closer, moulding you to her with an urgency that left you dizzy. The cool tile pressed against your back, grounding you, a sharp contrast to the heat building between you. Her thumb swept over your bottom lip again, lingering there for a tantalising moment before she deepened the kiss, taking exactly what she wanted. You felt her smile against your mouth, a sly, knowing curve, as though she was savouring every bit of control she held over you.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes roamed over you, dark and pleased, her lips curled in that signature smirk. "There’s a good little girl," she murmured, her voice low and taunting, her gaze raking over you like she was cataloguing every response, every tell. Her fingers stayed buried in your hair, keeping you close, her eyes searching yours, relishing in the effect she had on you.

"Not so cocky now, are you?" she teased, her voice edged with satisfaction as she took in your slightly dazed expression. "Let’s see if you’re still this bold by the time I’m done with you."

“Please Agatha.” You couldn’t believe those words were tumbling from messy lips as your chin covered in her saliva, the way she kissed was rougher than anything you’d ever experienced before and each brush of her lips against your neck sent chills to your core and you could feel your arousal pooling at the cloth of your sheer underwear.

Agatha’s smirk widened, her eyes glinting with wicked amusement as she ran her thumb over your swollen lower lip, silencing any further plea with a dark satisfaction. “Begging already?” she murmured, her voice a low, sultry taunt that only made the heat pooling in your core throb harder. Her grip on you was firm, unyielding, her fingers tangling through your hair with a control that left you feeling both held and exposed. She tilted your head back slightly, her lips grazing your neck in maddening, fleeting touches, each one calculated, leaving you breathless.

“Patience,” she whispered, dragging her thumb down over your chin, tracing a line through the glisten of her own lingering kiss. “I need to know what I’m working with.” Her lips ghosted over your collarbone, her hands roaming, exploring, as if mapping out every sensitive inch with deliberate care. Each press of her fingers was possessive, each touch purposeful, a silent reminder of the control she had over you.

You swallowed, chest heaving, trying to keep up with her pace, her confidence, the edge in her gaze that promised you were just getting started. She seemed to drink in your reactions, her smirk only deepening as her lips moved back up to your ear, her breath hot against your skin.

“You don’t disappoint so far,” she purred, her voice low, wicked, as her fingers traced over the thin fabric clinging to your hips, teasing just enough to make you ache for more. “But let’s see if you can keep up with me, hmm?”

“I can, I will.” Your voice is laced with desperation, her lips cutting you off again, the burning sensation that spread across your entire body as she pressed you harder into the wall.

“So desperate to please, you’re ticking all the boxes.” Agatha hums, her lips grazing your ear lobe before biting down hard, eliciting a sharp moan from your lips as your head falls back against the tiles, “Such pretty noises, god you might be perfect.” Even that allowed for another moan to fall from your lips.

A dark, satisfied glint lit up Agatha’s gaze as she took in every sound, every tremble that escaped you. Her teeth dragged down the curve of your neck, marking her path with enough force to make your breath hitch, as if staking her claim on each inch of your skin. The pressure of her body kept you pressed against the wall, her hands never leaving you, roaming with a practised assurance that left no room for doubt, she knew exactly the effect she was having on you.

She pulled back just enough to watch your reaction, the intensity in her eyes searing into you. Her fingers traced slow, tantalising circles over the thin barrier of fabric at your hips, her smirk widening as she watched you bite your lip, barely able to stifle another moan. “I think I quite like you like this,” she murmured, her voice a velvet drawl, “all needy, waiting on me.”

Her lips found yours again, rough and consuming, a heady mix of possession and challenge as if daring you to keep up with her relentless pace. The kiss left you dizzy, her hands tightening around you, pulling you in closer until there was nothing between you but the heat and tension building with every breath.

“Tell me,” she whispered, her tone teasing, her thumb pressing firmly against your jaw to hold you there, “how long have you thought about this, hmm? Standing there in my crowd, wishing you were closer, wishing you could have this?” Her words were low and knowing, stoking the fire that was already blazing through you, her mouth grazing the edge of your jaw, her breath warm against your skin.

She didn’t need you to answer. The truth was written all over you, and from the look in her eyes, she was revelling in every moment of watching you unravel. “On your knees pet, now.” 

Her eyes held yours, sharp and unwavering, a quiet but unmistakable demand as her fingers traced down your jaw, guiding you downward with a touch that was both gentle and unrelenting. Heart pounding, you sank to your knees, feeling the rough tile beneath you as Agatha’s smirk deepened, satisfaction flickering across her face like she’d been waiting for this moment all night.

She took her time, savouring each second, watching with dark amusement as you settled, as though you were exactly where she’d intended you to be all along. Her hand stayed on your jaw, firm but caressing, fingers brushing your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. Her thumb traced your cheek, slow and deliberate, her gaze warm with both pride and anticipation.

“There we go,” she murmured, her voice a low hum that washed over you, making you feel completely at her mercy. She tilted her head, studying you like a masterpiece she was in the midst of creating, her smirk widening as she took in your flushed cheeks, the way you looked up at her, completely caught in her orbit.

“You look good like this,” she mused, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip, her fingers tilting your head up just enough to meet her gaze. “Desperate, willing, exactly as I imagined.” Her eyes glittered with satisfaction, and she leaned down, her lips ghosting over yours in a barely-there kiss, keeping you aching for more. “Now,” she whispered, a wicked glint in her eye as she leaned back, “show me just how much of a fan you really are.” As she said this, her fingers were unbuckling the gold belt that kept her flowing trousers up. 

You decided to take some initiative, your hands reaching up the back of her thighs, grabbing her ass with two firm handfuls before slowly pulling her trousers down her legs, placing kisses along the length of her skin, your hands trembling as she stepped out of the leg holes. 

Her smirk deepened as she watched you, clearly relishing every moment of control and every tremor that ran through your fingers as you traced her skin. The dim light cast shadows over her, adding to her untouchable aura, but here she was, letting you peel away the layers. Your lips brushed her thigh, feather-light, trailing upward as you took your time, savouring the feel of her beneath your hands. She hummed in approval, a low, satisfied sound that sent a thrill through you, her fingers tangling into your hair to guide you exactly where she wanted.

She pressed herself against you, one leg between your knees, steadying you with a possessive hand at the nape of your neck. Her grip tightened, firm yet teasing, as though she were testing your resolve, testing just how far you’d go to please her. Each kiss, each touch, seemed to stoke the fire between you both, her gaze dark and knowing as you looked up at her, taking in the raw, magnetic presence that she commanded so effortlessly.

“Keep going,” she murmured, her voice low, dripping with authority, as she looked down at you with that signature smirk. “Show me that you’re worth taking home.” The words were laced with challenge, her tone daring, yet there was an undeniable hint of satisfaction in her eyes, as if she’d known all along you’d be here, right in her hands. 

In the rush of her impatience, she pulled her lilac underwear down, stepping out of them and putting them in her pocket, pressing her leg between yours, putting pressure against the heat of your core in a gesture of getting you to hurry up. You looked up at her cunt, your hand reaching up to touch her but she batted your hand away, grabbing your hair and pushing your face towards her. You obliged immediately, the grip she had within your hair way too strong to disobey her. 

You sweeped your tongue through her folds, sliding gracefully across her glistening skin, with the first contact her grip tightened in your hair and you moaned deeply into her cunt as she placed her other leg over your shoulder, allowing for you to get the best angle. You couldn’t help but devour her, the clear view of her pussy reacting to every breath you took near her, lying your flat tongue against her entire slit, feeling her hips slip underneath you, finally gaining a level of contact that made her weak in the knees. 

Her light groans against your tongue quickened as you dragged your tongue from her entrance, encircling her clit with sharp strokes that made her grip tighten as you heard a thump from where her other hand fell against the wall, holding herself up. You took her clit between your lips, sucking gently which made her gasp in a way that surprised even Agatha herself. 

You were eagerly watching and feeling for her body to react positively to each new way you swiped your tongue against her clit, wanting to remember how you made her tremble beneath your mouth. You wanted to know what made her grip your hair tighter, more desperate for your tongue to drive her into that desperate release that you didn’t think she was expecting from a bar goer that she’d dragged into the bathroom. 

Her hips started to grind against your tongue, her low groans sometimes slipping into sharp moans, but once you hardened your muscle against her clit, she groaned a list of expletives for anyone in the entire bar to hear that sent a rush of arousal to your already dripping core. The way her leg was wrapped around your body, gripping your body closer to her cunt, not letting you pull away even if you wanted to.  

You continued your movements and there she was, moans tumbling from her lips as her climax reached its peak, her breathy groans forcing you to push away the feeling of your jaw beginning to clamp up, but there was no way you were going to stop now with her hips uncontrollably bucking against your mouth, her arousal lacing your lips and seeping in against your tastebuds. 

You continued light gentle circles until Agatha removed her leg that was tightly wrapped around you. She looked down at you, her eyes saying everything without her needing to speak a word. You knew you looked irresistible to her, she wasn’t expecting you to make her cum in the bar's bathroom, you got the feeling she wanted to humiliate you when you couldn’t, but you showed her. Her thumb stroked your lip, your face covered in her glistening arousal. She prised your lips open, allowing a long string of saliva to fall from her lips and land against your worked out tongue. You immediately swallowed, your mouth still open and she couldn’t help but smirk down at you. 

“Well you’re an experienced whore aren’t you.” She said and your immediate nod told her everything she needed to know, she needed to take you home. She grabbed her trousers off the floor, slipping back inside of them quickly, grabbing you by your hair and guiding you off your knees. She captured you in another kiss, “You’re coming with me, I need to use you like you deserve.” You whined into Agatha’s lips, nodding desperately as you could feel your own arousal leaking from your underwear. “You’d like that wouldn’t you pet.” 

“Please Agatha.” That was all you needed to say, she pinched your hardened nipple that had suddenly arisen through your Coven t-shirt and you groaned in desperation as she led you out of the bathroom and immediately out of the bar. 

As soon as the cool night air hits you, the taste of Agatha still on your lips as her driver turns the corner and stops right in front of you. The car was massive, its sleek black exterior gleaming under the dim street lights as the door swung open. Agatha’s driver gave a polite nod, allowing you to step inside. The interior was everything you’d expect, rich leather seats, polished wood accents, and soft lighting that gave the whole cabin a warm, intimate glow.

Agatha’s presence was magnetic as she followed you into the car, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. She slid into the seat next to you, her hand resting briefly on your leg before she reached for the partition, smoothly lowering it with a subtle press of a button. The car’s low hum enveloped you both in a private space, shutting out the outside world.

She leaned back, her eyes glinting with amusement as she studied you. “Comfy?” Her voice was smooth, like velvet, making your skin tingle.

You nodded, trying to calm the rush of emotions swirling inside you. Agatha’s presence was overwhelming, and being this close, in the intimate confines of the car, only made everything feel more intense.

The car began to move and Agatha lent forward, shutting the divider between your section and the drivers, unclicking your seatbelt with a chuckle. “Come sit on Daddy’s lap.” You swallow in shock at the title she’d crowned herself, not that you were complaining. You shuffle off of your seat, straddling over her lap, burying your face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. She smelt like smoke covered in vanilla, a smell that you couldn’t help but need. 

You were wearing a short black skirt, your Coven t-shirt still on show, now directly in Agatha’s eyeline as her hands fell to your bare thighs. You arched your back into her touch as you kept your head against her shoulder. You could feel how desperate you were, your legs being spread over her lap constantly reminding you of how your arousal was dripping down your thighs. 

“I need you Daddy.” You whimper into her ear, sucking lightly against her earlobe. You were trying to pull on every one of her strings, you’d imagined this moment in your head for years, ever since you heard her first song. You never thought you’d ever be sitting on her lap in the back of her car, so you weren’t going to pass up on the opportunity. 

“Oh I know you do, pet.” Agatha grins, her palm cupping your clothed cunt, licking her bottom lip at the damp fabric. You whimper at the slight contact, unconsciously grinding your hips against her hand. “Behave.” You comply, stilling your hips and allowing for her finger to push your underwear to the side, just the tip of her finger grazing your arousal. She isn’t prepared to do much more, just gently allowing your arousal to seep into her skin, letting you get used to not getting what you want. 

After a few more minutes of relentless teasing, the car pulls up to the entrance of her estate. The mansion looms in front of you, a towering structure bathed in soft light, the large windows reflecting the night sky. The grand, wrought-iron gates open slowly, and the driver steers the car down the long, winding driveway. 

“You have a beautiful house.” You say, awestruck at the sight of it. 

“Thank you,” Agatha replies, her voice as cool and controlled as always, though there’s a flicker of pride in her eyes. She watches you with a knowing expression. “ I take care of it, and those who walk through its doors.”

The car stops at the front steps, and as the engine quiets, you can hear the sound of crickets in the distance, adding an eerie but peaceful touch to the atmosphere. You’re still trying to process the vastness of the estate, the grandeur of the house—its stone pillars, the delicate arches of the windows, and the perfectly manicured gardens that line the path.

Before you can say another word, the door opens, and Agatha steps out of the car, her coat billowing around her. She doesn’t look back, but her posture is commanding, as though she knows exactly how you’re looking at her.

“You coming?” she asks, her voice low and smooth.

You quickly follow her, stepping out onto the cold marble steps, your breath visible in the night air. Agatha walks ahead, her heels clicking on the stone as she leads you to the massive oak doors. The faint scent of something floral lingers in the air as she opens the door with a practised ease, and the interior of her home is revealed.

Rich tapestries hang from the walls, the faint glow of candlelight illuminating the elegant furniture, casting shadows that dance across the room. It’s opulent, but in a way that feels lived-in, comfortable, inviting.

She turns to face you as she closes the door behind you, her lips curling into a slow, amused smile. Agatha steps toward you, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she stops just in front of you. The temperature seems to rise just slightly, the intensity of her gaze holding you captive. She lifts a hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, her fingers grazing your skin with a touch that feels like it could set you alight.

"This way," she murmurs, her voice smooth, yet carrying a subtle authority. She walks toward the door at the far end of the hallway, her heels clicking softly against the floor before she opens it with a graceful motion.

The room she reveals is everything you'd expect and more, a serene, almost ethereal space. The soft, golden light from a chandelier above illuminates the room, casting warm shadows across the floor and highlighting the luxurious details of the décor. The walls are lined with plush velvet curtains in deep, rich tones, and the polished wood floors gleam beneath the thick, patterned rug that stretches across the room.

In the centre of it all stands a grand four-poster bed, its towering wooden pillars reaching toward the ceiling. The bed is draped in luxurious linens, plush, silken sheets in shades of deep cream and gold that shimmer slightly in the soft lighting. The canopy above is sheer, cascading down in delicate folds, adding an almost dreamlike quality to the space. The posts are intricately carved, their designs subtle but elegant, giving the bed an air of grandeur without being overwhelming.

A large vanity mirror stands across from the bed, its surface covered with a scattering of perfume bottles, fine brushes, and a few other personal items.  Agatha stands by the window for a moment, her figure framed by the soft light pouring in from outside. Then, with a slight glance over her shoulder, she turns to face you, her lips curling into a slow, confident smile.

"Make yourself at home," she says, her voice laced with both invitation and command. You try to listen to her order, perching yourself on the bed. “By that I mean strip.” The soft light from the window creates a halo around her, enhancing her presence as she stands across from you.

There’s no mistaking the implication in her voice. She watches as you slowly take in the room, the elegance of it, the softness of the bed beneath you, yet the quiet authority in her gaze makes you feel almost like an open book.

You hesitate for only a moment before standing, feeling the subtle weight of her eyes as you begin to unbutton your jacket, the fabric slipping from your shoulders. Each movement seems deliberate, and yet, there's a strange sense of freedom in it as you follow her quiet, unspoken guidance.

Agatha watches you silently, her eyes never leaving yours as she steps closer, the distance between you two narrowing. She reaches out, her hand brushing against your arm lightly, the touch almost reassuring in its gentleness, yet it carries an unspoken promise that makes your heart race just a little faster.

"Relax," she murmurs, as her presence seems to fill the room even more, her every movement calm, but purposeful.

You glance back at her, a slight tension still present in the air, but there's an unspoken understanding that whatever this moment brings, it's going to be entirely on her terms. And somehow, that feels just right.

“Let me help you.” Agatha’s voice is low, almost like a murmur, but it carries weight, pulling your attention completely. She steps closer, the subtle click of her heels on the floor the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. Her presence fills the space, each step deliberate, each movement calculated, yet graceful. You can’t help but be drawn to her, the way she commands the room without a word.

She stops just in front of you, her eyes locking onto yours, searching, reading you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. Her hand lifts slowly, fingers brushing lightly against your wrist, as if testing your reaction. Her touch is soft but firm, a clear signal that she’s in control, but she’s patient, letting you decide how to respond.

"Let me help you," she repeats, her words steady and calm, but there's an underlying edge to them, a subtle demand you can’t ignore. She unbuttons your skirt, yanking it down quickly, leaving you in nothing but the band tee and your soaked underwear, a sight that was making Agatha drool all over you. 

You cross your arms over your shirt, reaching the hem before trying to reach it over your head. She stops you, grabbing your wrists. You cock your eyebrow at her refusal to remove her band's logo from your chest. “You want me to keep it on?”

She holds your wrists firmly, her eyes never leaving yours. The air between you feels charged, thick with unspoken words and a subtle challenge. Her grip is forceful, just enough to let you know she's in control. Her lips curl into a slight smile, almost teasing, as if she’s waiting for you to respond.

"Is that a problem?" she asks, her tone soft but with an edge that makes you wonder if she's testing your limits.

You stand there, caught between defiance and curiosity, feeling her presence loom larger with every passing second. You shake your head, her grip on your wrists never loosening. You look up at her, knowingly allowing your desperation to seep through your pupils as they lock with hers. 

“Come on, you've got work to do.” She smirks at you, laughing in the face of your desperation to be touched by her.

“What work?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed, not quite getting on the same wavelength as the older rockstar. 

“What work?” She mocked, her finger tracing your jaw, “You give me another orgasm and I’ll fuck you, make you cry, work you out until you’re begging me to stop.” She orders and you gulp in nervous anticipation. 

“I can do that for you.” You say, silence falling again and for a moment she expected you to turn and run away, but you didn’t. You stayed still, wanting so desperately to please her. 

“Good, c’mon then pet.” She gets herself on the bed, trousers removed in the process, her shirt unbuttoned allowing you to see the outline of her cleavage. She rested her back against the headboard and you weren’t prepared to waste any time. 

You shifted yourself across the bed, kneeling down in front of her. For the first time she wasn’t looking at you but instead straight in front of her. In curiosity, you turn to see what she was looking at, to which you saw the reflection of your ass in the mirror that she was looking directly into. You turn and purposefully arch your back lower so she could get a better view. 

Your lips gravitate back towards her inner thighs, her underwear had already been removed in the bar bathroom, but she wasn’t appreciative of your teasing judging by her hand on your head. In response, your tongue grazed her clit and a moan left her lips as you looked back up at her.   

“That's a good girl, show Daddy how good that tongue of yours is.” She orders through panting breaths as you hum against her cunt, making her squirm slightly beneath your mouth. You were determined to make her cum quicker than before, one hand slipping between your body and hers as you spread her lips apart giving yourself more room to work with. Her moan that escaped was much louder this time, a sound that was doing nothing but doubling the arousal between your own legs. 

“You’re getting Daddy close, pretty girl.” 

“Already, god I must be really impressing you.” You smirk against her folds and she delivers a quick and sharp slap to your ass, making your body fall against her. 

“Three strikes and you’re done.” She warns, your whimper ricocheting around the room, her spank leaving a harsh bright red mark. 

You were gasping desperately against her pussy, the vibrations of your humming rippling through her body as you could feel all the muscles touching you tense. This was a moment of confidence surging through you as you continued to move your tongue in the same tangled circles that were driving her crazy beneath you. You began to make sloppier movements with your tongue, allowing her to hear the way your tongue moved gracefully against her folds. 

“Oh fuck baby, you’re gonna make me-” She curses, a hand flying into your hair, gripping tightly as she grinded down on your face as her orgasm ripped harshly through her body, her entire body convulsing beneath you.

It didn’t take her long to recover, she pulled your head up and admired your skin, glistening with her arousal and it was a picture perfect image that was forever branded in her brain. You hum into a gentle kiss, her lips gently touching yours in an attempt to not remove any of her fluids from your face, wanting to see you drowning in her wetness. She brings her hand up to the base of your throat, grasping around you tightly making you dizzy as she swipes her tongue against yours. 

“Please can I give you one more.” You plead, wanting to touch her with your fingers, desperate to see how the woman would fold beneath your touch. There was a slight selfishness to your begging, knowing that you would get exactly what you wanted if you showed her the respect she so desperately wanted to see from you. 

She laid herself back down, pulling you around her body, your chest resting on her arm with one leg hooked over hers as you pushed her legs apart with your foot. “Such a people pleaser hm?” Agatha quizzed, but not complaining, she was usually happy enough to not receive anything, but from someone who could bring her to orgasm so quickly, she wasn’t going to pass it by. 

“I just want to please you.” You say, a faux innocent smile on your face as your fingers carefully brushed against her clit. She whimpered with sensitivity but you carried on with your movements, but her pussy was dripping, coating your fingers with natural lubricant before you moved her shirt out of the way, allowing your tongue to carefully circle her nipple until it hardened against your mouth. 

As you began to make wide circles around her clit with your two fingers, she shifted her arm so it was stretched just enough to be able to brush your clit every time you grind your hips at the correct angle. It was like fireworks inside of you so you began to suck against her nipple, quickening and narrowing the circles you made with your fingers around her clit but soon enough she matched your movements. 

You let out a whimpery moan, desperate for so much more than she was giving you, yet the contact alone interrupted your movements against her clit. She slapped your ass again. “Second strike sweetheart, focus on your Daddy.” You nod at her words, knowing you had to carry on. It didn’t take too much longer before her hips began to buck when you sped up your circles. 

Her breathing laboured as you sucked the other nipple between your teeth, you spare hand playing with the other, overstimulating her in the best way possible as she started to grind down on your fingers. 

“You want me to cum again baby?” 

You nod, her nipple still loosely placed between your lips as she added another finger worth of pressure to your clit, mirroring exactly what you’d done to her. “Yes,” You gasp, “Please.”

The sound of your broken panting voice, whimpers tumbling from your lips made everything too much and she couldn’t help herself as her second orgasm fiercly crashed through her body, growling at the sensation as she let go of you, her back arching away from your relentless touch.  

She stilled your hand as she recovered, looking desperately into your eyes and you could feel her domineering persona washing straight back over her as she yanked your shirt from your abdomen, chucking it onto the floor by the bed. She hungrily attacked your breasts with her mouth, making you moan desperately at the sudden contact. 

“You did such a good job,” She smiles, “Looking so pretty while you did it too, that deserves a reward only good enough for whores like you.” With that, she flips you over her body, planting your back against the mattress with an insane level of strength that you didn’t expect. She wasn’t planning on wasting any time, needing to taste you as you glistened directly in her eye line. “God you’re already so wet, I don’t think I even need to warm you up for my cock huh.”

You gasped at her words, but before they processed her tongue licked one long stroke up your clit, before replacing it with her fingers, circling your clit with one hand, the other trailing around your quivering opening. 

You were nothing but desperate, aching for the feeling of her inside of you, but she repeatedly teased you with circles around your entrance, until eventually, she slipped them in, just one at first, gently stretching you out with her expert, well practised hands. 

“Taste yourself on my fingers pet.” She demanded and Agatha’s fingers pressed in and out of you, gathering enough of your arousal to place in your open mouth, but she didn’t. You watched her eagerly as she sucked you from her own fingers, prying your jaw open with her other hand and spitting your arousal from her mouth, holding your mouth open and continuing to spit against your tongue, knowing your skill from earlier you swallowed as much as you could, but you were still left with a mix of Agatha’s saliva and your arousal dripping down your chin. 

She couldn’t help but groan at the sight of you, before she slid her fingers down your throat until you choked against her, saliva bubbling from your mouth now. She continued to fuck your throat until you were a spluttering mess. Her lips pressed against yours now, her soaked fingers sliding between your folds as your entrance begged for them inside of you, and you took them so much easier now. 

She pumped her fingers relentlessly inside of you, her thumb finding your clit and rubbing it aggressively, stretching you out and you couldn’t help but squirm and moan against her hold, but she kept you still. “You sound so pretty, Daddy needs to fuck you now.” She demanded, pulling her fingers from you and you couldn’t help but feel fucked out already, but you weren’t giving in now. 

“Play with yourself while I put this on.” She orders, shuffling over and reaching for the strap which she kept in her bedside drawer. You could barely see it, but you could tell it was way bigger than you were used to, but you weren’t surprised in the slightest. One that matched the size of her enormous ego. 

You did as she said, pressing two fingers against your clit, carefully applying pressure that didn’t match up to the way Agatha made you feel, but watching her pull her legs through the harness you couldn’t help but squirm and moan as you waited in anticipation. 

“Show me that pretty pussy baby.” She hummed as she turned around, the sheer size of the nine inch dildo attached to her waist making you moan let alone her words. Your hands spread your cunt apart right in front of her. She crawled up to you on her knees until she was between your legs, the position allowing her to tease you, dragging the head of her dick through your wet folds, watching as your body prepared for her. 

She locked eyes with you before she slid straight inside of you, gasping at the feeling of every inch of her forcing its way into your entrance, purposefully making you feel every single centimetre of her cock as it pushed you closer and closer to the edge. 

“Oh fuck Agatha.” You whined, her hands spreading your thighs further apart, her strokes becoming deeper as she aimed to hit every spot inside of you. You couldn’t stop the whiney gasps and high pitched pornographic moans that were escaping your lips. You wrapped your legs around her, pulling her into you, leaving her flush against your sweat painted skin. 

“Aw you’re so wet for Daddy aren’t you.” You nod in response, actually you don’t stop nodding as she pulls out of you, rubbing the head against your aching clit, before pushing herself back into you quickly, pinning your waist against the mattress and pounding into you. You couldn’t take much more of her thrusts, each one hasher than the last, something which you didn’t think was possible but she proved you wrong with every buck of her hips. 

You grip onto her shoulders, arching your back off the bed so you could press your chest against hers. This allowed her to draw messy circles around your clit and it was like she could feel you clenching around her cock. 

“Daddy, I’m gonna-”

“No you’re not.” She commands, pulling out of you and spinning you round by your hips, pressing your head into the mattress, moulding you into the position she wanted you in. “You’re mine, pet, you take what I give you and you cum when I ask you to.” Her voice was a continuous growl as one hand gripped your waist, the other spreading you apart before she spat against your entrance before pushing her cock back inside of you. 

This angle changed everything, your moans jumbled into the duvet as you felt your body being forcefully moved with every rapid thrust, her rhythm never faltering once. 

“Please Daddy, I need to cum.” You beg, turning your head so she could hear your pleas more clearly. Her relentless thrusting of her hips had you so close to the edge and you knew you couldn’t hold it anymore. Just as your cunt clenched around her dick, she could see it in your body language. 

“Cum now on my cock you fucking slut.” You did exactly that, your hands gripping against the covers as Agatha refused to slow down her pace. Your orgasm coursed through you harder than any you’d ever felt before, your moans became screams against each pounding thrust she delivered into your dripping, aching cunt. With a string of expletives and breathy moans you fell flat against the mattress, whining as you felt the emptiness consume you as Agatha pulled out of you. 

“Agatha, that was something else.” You spoke, your eyes only just opening from how hard they’d scrunched shut at the peak of your climax. When your eyes opened, the strap was hovering over your mouth, your arousal glistening in front of your face. 

“You’ve got to clean Daddy up, look at all the mess your slutty hole has made.” You moaned at the deep husk in her voice as you did nothing but open your mouth as wide as you could, allowing Agatha to guide her cock into your mouth, only the head was filling you up to the back of your throat. You began to suck, holding the base between your hands, not letting Agatha thrust her hips into your mouth. You let it go deeper, but not as much as Agatha wanted. 

“You can do better than that, I thought you wanted to be my little cock whore.” Agatha teased and you opened your throat as wide as you could, thrusting your own head into the length of her cock, allowing her to harshy thrust into your choking and spluttering mouth. Her nails deep into your scalp now, as you started coughing she went easy on you, slowly pulling out of your throat as your head fell back in sheer tiredness. 

“Oh sweet girl, you did such a good job.” Agatha praises, loosening the harness and tossing it towards the end of the bed, reminding herself to deal with it after she’d given you the praise you deserved. 

“I’ve never been fucked like that in my life.” You admit honestly. 

“Didn’t seem like it.” Agatha teased before she pulled your naked body into a deep embrace, her body cocooning you between hers. “I’m joking, I only perform best for my fans.”

“Oh shut up Agatha.” You laugh, the reminder of who she actually was came flooding back to you and you couldn’t help but feel the flush of scarlet red beam at your cheeks. 

“Well you’re the prettiest little fan I’ve ever had the honour of fucking.”

[reidmoony-toast]

Angel. - sr x reader

Reader gets shot and Spencer is there to comfort her

content: fem reader, established relationship, angst/comfort, ambiguous ending, no use of y/n, takes place in 15x01-02

cw: canon compliant violence, blood, guns, dying (they're going to be fine dw)

wc: 966

an: Hey, so this is my first ever published Spencer fic, so I'm really nervous lol! This will get zero to no engagement and I'm accepting that now, but if ya'll want a part 2 I'm happy to oblige!! Enjoy lovelies <3

Part 2

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Everything happened so quickly, yet it felt like a millennia before I hit the ground–free falling through life and death in turn, the descent ending on the dingy floor of a parking garage. My vision cut in and out through the surges of white-hot agony that were coursing throughout my entire body, ears ringing.

I saw a blurry figure pile into a car, before peeling out of the parking space, kicking up dust as it raced out of the building. I tried to move to grab my gun that was lying a few feet away, but it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on me, causing me to become prone and forcing me to accept the fate that was laid before me.

As I coughed up blood, I had the inexplicable urge to laugh. The irony, that this was the way I would go out–lying defenceless and helpless on the cold concrete, synthetic LED bulbs flickering incessantly above me.

The pain was becoming too unbearable, paralysing any coherent thoughts. There was one word that was repeated over and over again:

Spencer.

I didn't know if it was a prayer to some higher being, or merely a mantra, but it was the only single word I could make out in the haze of my dying mind. I wished I was the one with the eidetic memory, so that I could at least see his face one last time.

Blood pooled steadily around me as it left my body, never to return. The ringing in my ears steadily grew louder while the garage was dead silent, besides for the wet sounds of me choking on my own blood.

The bitter silence was cut off by the frantic shouting of a name. My name. The person neared, skidding to a halt and dropping to their knees beside me. The blurry figure hovered over me, obscuring the too-bright lights from view.

They came into partial focus, and I choked out a sob when I realised my pathetic prayers had been answered. Spencer was here. He shushed me soothingly, stroking my hair with shaking hands. "It's okay, baby. You're gonna be okay, okay?" He cradled my cheeks with his hands, trying in vain to wipe the blood from my face with his own bloodied hands. I sobbed again, squeezing my eyes shut.

"No, no, no, no," Spencer chanted, "Keep your eyes open, love, please. Look at me," He pleaded, gently shaking me so that I would open my eyes again. They landed on his face, screwed up in worry and pain. I vaguely wondered if he was hurt, if that's why he looked as though he too was in agony.

My eyes studied his face as best as they could, mapping out every detail, desperate to memorise it. They landed where they–without fail–always did. His eyes stared back with tears, frantic and pleading. I would gladly study these eyes for hours on end–and I did–so much so that he would often make fun of me for the incessant staring.

It didn't stop me though, not while those deep brown eyes with the ring of pure gold in the centre were there for me to look at. That's where my gaze now rested, on those gorgeous, breathtaking eyes.

"Spencer." My voice was foreign to me–shaky and so unbelievably small. "You- you came." I strangled out. He nodded, pushing my hair back off of my face.

"I'm here, baby. I'm here." His voice cracked and trailed off. He never let go of me as he radioed in, asking for an immediate ambulance. I didn't hear the response. Spencer carefully repositioned me, laying my head and shoulders in his lap as he searched for the source of the bleeding.

I gazed numbly up at Spencer, the lights causing a halo around his head with his messy curls. I thought that it was fitting. By all accounts he was an angel. My angel. I let out a shaky and ragged breath. How many more of those would I have? I could most likely count them with one hand.

Spencer stopped his quick search when he found what he was looking for, immediately putting pressure on the wound. I cried out at the added agony. "I know, I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry." He kept chanting, cradling my head with his free hand. I whimper in pain.

"Spencer?" I breathed out, voice wobbling. He stroked my cheek lovingly, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Yes?"

My face crumpled in pain. "It hurts."

He drew in a sharp, pained breath. "I know, baby, I know." He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. "Help's coming, okay? Hang in there, love." Another shaky breath. "Stay with me." His sentence tapered off to a barely audible volume, bloodied hand shaking violently on my face, tears dripping down his cheeks. "Please."

I started coughing again, more blood spraying over my face, some of it even ending up on Spencer's. It made me disproportionately angry–that his face was tainted with my dying blood. I wished I could wipe it off, but I didn't have the strength to lift my arm.

My vision swam as I started to lose what was left of my consciousness as what felt like the last of my blood left my body. My eyes fluttered closed.

"No, no, no, hey!" Spencer gently tapped my cheek. "Don't close your eyes. Stay awake until the ambulance arrives, please," He begged, but my lids were incredibly heavy.

"I-I feel–," I sucked in a shallow breath. "So cold."

He bundled me tighter against him, trying to sooth me with whispered comforting words. The last thing I remembered before I slipped out of consciousness was Spencer's calming voice and the sound of approaching sirens.

· · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

Thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated x

Masterlist ౨ৎ

[b0tster]

this halo 2 mod that restores cut or otherwise removed content has a very interesting naming convention

[lowpolynpixelated]

Bloodborne PSX One of the best fanworks on the web

Though the PS4 boasted and still boasts an impressive library of releases, for many (myself included) the system served to be bought for initially one purpose, to be the Bloodborne Machine. Most of the people in my life who had a PS4 during its generation either bought one exclusively to play Fromsoftware’s Nightmare Hunting Adventure or had initially got one solely to play the game and ended up getting more games afterward. It’s a phenomenon the game industry sees time and time again, with previous generations having swathes of fans buying entire consoles for one or two games. As far as games go though, Bloodborne is at the very least worth the price of entry. At the time, it was heralded as Fromsoftware’s most cutting-edge and impressive game to date. A gorgeous gothic world filled with creatures ripped straight out of H.P Lovecraft’s nightmares, a haunting soundtrack showcasing beautifully composed choral scores and a combat system that incentivized aggression and speed to achieve brutal and bloody efficiency. It’s no wonder then why Bloodborne still has such a large following behind it. Fans of Fromsoftware have hoped for a sequel or PC port year after year to largely disappointing results. But where the community shines is in its fanworks. 

From fanart, comics, music, animations, and even fan-made video game spinoffs, the game has been shown a monumental amount of love since its debut in 2015. One of these fanworks was released back in 2022 and has since become one of the most famous pieces of fan-made content surrounding the game, this of course, being BloodbornePSX by LWMedia. An incredibly impressive feat of coding and art direction, the game serves as a “Demake” of Bloodborne’s first Yharnam segment, made to look like and play as if it were made on the very first PlayStation console. With some custom-made areas and an entirely unique boss to boot the perfectly paced experience is both a treat to fans who have been orbiting the game since its earliest days and new fans looking for the best and brightest fanworks to interact with. 

The game has since gone on to be covered by a variety of news outlets all over the web, along with its creator receiving much-deserved attention for her efforts. One Lilith Walther (AKA b0tster on social media) holds the title of developer for the project. A long-time video game enthusiast and FromSoftware fan herself, she’s had quite an impact on the community I’m sure she’s very proud to be a part of. Later in the article, we’ve got an interview with Lilith herself about both Bloodborne PSX and her current project, “Bloodborne Kart”, but first, let’s talk a bit more in-depth about BBPSX.

(Official launch trailer for Bloodborne PSX, uploaded January 31, 2022 by LWMedia on Youtube)

Bloodborne PSX:

So, what exactly is Bloodborne PSX? To start, let’s answer what precisely a “Demake” is first. Demakes often have the goal of remaking the likeness of a game either stylistically, mechanically, or both, as if it was developed on retro/outdated hardware. Famous examples of Demakes include “The Mummy Demastered” developed by Wayforward as a sort of tie-in to the 2017 film “The Mummy” in the stylings of a 16-bit run and gun adventure against armies of the undead, and “Pixel Force Halo” by Eric Ruth games which take the prolific XBOX franchise and shrinks it down to a Mega Man-esque platformer reminiscent of the NES’ 8-bit days. Demakes are intensely attractive looking, not only into the past of video games and their developments but just how creative developers can be with games that they love and appreciate. Bloodborne PSX hits as hard as a Demake can in my opinion, blending masterfully recreated graphics with perfectly clunky early PSX gameplay quirks that go above and beyond to make the game not only LOOK like it belongs on the nearly 30-year-old console but feel right at home on it as well.

(A screenshot depicting the player character “The Hunter” facing off against two fearsome Werewolf enemies. Screenshot sourced from the Bloodborne PSX Official itch.io page)

Gameplay:

Starting off with the masterfully recreated clunk in the gameplay, Bloodborne PSX “shows its age” by hearkening back to a time when being seamless just wasn’t an option. Much like adventure action games of the past (and much UNLIKE its modern inspiration), you’ll be cycling through your inventory delightfully more than you’d expect. Equipping keys, checking items, and even the trademark weapon transformations are all done through the wonderfully nostalgic menu and inventory screens. Taking one of the foundational parts of Bloodborne’s combat system and making it such a more encumbering mechanic is nothing short of sheer genius when it comes to ways to really make you feel like it’s 1994 again. On top of this, the Hunter’s movement itself has been made reminiscent of classic action titles. Somehow, both stiff enough to feel dated and fluid enough to make combat that same rush of bestial fun found in the original, it goes a long way towards the total immersion into that retro vibe the game sets out to give the player. Anyone who grew up with Fromsoftware’s earlier titles like Armored Core and the King’s Field series will be very familiar with this unique brand of “well-tuned clunk”.

(A delightfully dated looking diagram showing off the controller layout for Bloodborne PSX’s controls. Image sourced from the Bloodborne PSX Official itch.io page)

Graphics:

Speaking of old Fromsoftware games, though, let’s talk about the absolutely bit-crushingly beautiful graphical work on display. As I’m sure you’ve seen from the videos and screenshots included in the article, BBPSX’s art style and direction are nothing short of perfect for what it aims to be. While playing, I couldn’t help but notice every little detail (or lack thereof) in the environments meant to emulate the experience of a game made on 30-year-old hardware. Low render distances, chunky textures, blocky polygonal models, just the right amount of texture warp, it all blends together to create an atmosphere that I can 100% picture being shown off on the back of a jewel CD case with a T for Teen rating slapped into the lower corner. While playing, something rather specific that called out to me was the new way enemy names and health bars were displayed in the bottom right corner of the screen while fighting. As a big fan of the King’s Field games, this small detail went (probably too much of) a long way toward my love of how everything’s meant to feel older. Other games trying to match the more specific feel of King’s Field, like “Lunacid” created by KIRA LLC, also include this delightful little detail, a personal favorite for sure. 

(A screenshot depicting the second phase of Father Gascoigne’s boss fight, showing off the game’s perfectly retro art style. Image sourced from the Bloodborne PSX Official itch.io page)

Sound design/Soundtrack:

But where would a game be without its sound and score? No need to fear, however, because Bloodborne PSX comes complete with a chunky soundscape that will make you want to check and see if your TV is set to channel 3. A haunting set of tracks played by fittingly digital-sounding MIDIs ran through filters to sound just as crackly as you remember backs up crunchy sounds of spilling blood with low-poly weaponry. Original sounds from Bloodborne have been used for an authentic sounding experience, but have also been given the CRT speaker treatment and sound like something you remember playing on Halloween 20 years ago. If you watched the launch trailer featured above then you know exactly what I’m talking about. The Cleric Beast’s trademark screech and Gascoine’s signature howl after his beastly transformation have never sounded so beautifully dated, and I’m here for every bit of it. Even the horrific boss themes we know and love from the original Bloodborne have been brought through this portal to the past. One of my favourite tracks, the Cleric Beast boss theme, might just sound even better when played on a 16-bit sound chip. It really cannot be understated just how much weight the sound design of the game is pulling. In my opinion, the only thing missing is that sweet sweet PSX startup sound before the game starts crackling through the speakers of a TV in the computer room.

(The Bloodborne PSX rendition of the Cleric Beast’s boss theme. Created by and uploaded to Youtube by The Noble Demon on March 20, 2021)

Interview with the developer:

Before writing this article, I had the absolute pleasure and privilege of talking with Lilith Walther about some developmental notes and personal feelings about inspirations and challenges that can come with the daunting task of being a developer. Below are the nine (initially ten, but unfortunately, a bit of the interview was lost due to my recording software bugging out) questions I posed to Miss Lilith, along with her answers transcribed directly from the interview. 

I’d like to start this section of the article by saying Lilith was an absolute joy to talk to. During the interview, I really felt like she and I shared some common ground on some topics regarding how media can have an impact on you and what sorts of things come with video games as an art form. After some minor technical difficulties (and by that, I mean my video drivers crashed), I started off with something simple. The first question posited was: “What got you into video games initially?” Lilith’s response was as follows: “When I was a kid, the family member of a friend had a SNES lying around. I turned it on and didn’t really understand. I was a guy on top of a pyramid, I walked down the pyramid, and some big ogre killed me. Later I learned that was A Link to the past.” and after a brief laugh continued, “A couple years later my parents got a Nintendo 64 with Mario64 and Ocarina of Time and that was it. Never put the controller down since then.” 

She then went on to describe what precisely about Nintendo’s first foray into 3D Zelda had hooked her. “I’ve heard this story so many times. It’s like you’re not even playing the game. You’re just in the world hanging out in Kokiri forest collecting rupees to get the Deku shield, and the game expects you to! It was just, ‘run around this world and explore,’ and that really hooked me.” I couldn’t agree more with her statement about her experience. Not just with a game as prolific as Ocarina of Time but many experiences from older console generations that could be considered “the first of their kind”, or at the very least some of the earliest. Lilith also described her first experience with a PlayStation console, stating: “Later on I got a PS2 which played PS1 games. I didn’t end up getting a PS1 until around the PS3 era, so I guess I’m a poser. I remember my sister bringing home Final Fantasy 9 when it was a relatively new game. If it wasn’t my first PS1 game it was definitely my first Final Fantasy game. Of course I went back and played 8 and 7 afterwards.” A solid answer to a simple question. 

The second question I asked was one starting to move toward the topic of Bloodborne PSX and its namesake/inspiration. Or at least the family of systems it was released on: “What PlayStation console was your favorite and why?” Lilith’s answer surprised me a bit. Not because I disagreed, quite the opposite, actually. But with such a big inspiration for her work being games from the PSX-PS2 generations, what followed was a pleasant bit of insight into one of her favourite eras of gaming, to quote: “I can give you two answers here.” To which I assured her she was more than welcome to, but she was set on having something definitive. “No no I’m only going to give you one answer. I can give you the correct answer that I don’t want to admit, but it was the PlayStation 3. It’s so embarrassing but I genuinely was hooked into the marketing of the whole ‘The cell processor is the smartest thing in the world’ and all that. It really seemed like the future of gaming and I was all about it. I think I owned an XBOX360 before but I did eventually get it and really enjoyed it. It took a couple years for some of the best games to come out but I really did.” A few examples she cited as being some of her most memorable experiences on the console were Uncharted 2, Journey, Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare, and Warhawk. All games I’ve seen on several top 5 and top 10 lists throughout my life within the gaming space. A delightful show of affection for a generation personally very dear to me as well, in which she ended the segment by declaring “Hell yeag”, a bit of a catchphrase she’s coined online.

Getting into the topic proper, my third question was one about her personal relationship with Bloodborne: “How did Bloodborne impact/appeal to your interests?” A question that received perhaps my favourite answer of the whole interview. From her response: ”Oh that’s a big one. Going to the opposite end of the poser spectrum, I was a Fromsoftware fan before it was cool. One of the games I played religiously on my PS2 was Armored Core.” A statement which made more sense than perhaps anything else said during my time with her. “Then later in the PS3 era everyone was talking about Dark Souls, this was when I was in college. I finally caved and got it and saw the Fromsoftware logo and thought ‘Oh it’s the Armored Core people!’ I played and beat it, really enjoyed my time with it. I skipped Dark Souls 2 because everyone told me to hate it, I still need to go back to that one.” 

It’s something I would recommend anyone who hasn’t played Dark Souls 2 to go and do. “Then Bloodborne came out and I thought ‘Alright this is the new one, gotta play this one’ and I was a huge fan of all the gothic stuff in the aesthetic. And how do I explain this, I do really like Bloodborne. I like the design, and the mechanical suite of gameplay, as a video-gamey video game it’s very good.” The tone shifted here to something a bit more personal. “But as well, I was playing it at a specific time in my life. I came out in 2019, I know Bloodborne came out in 2015 but I was obviously just playing it non-stop. It was just one of my ‘coming out games’, you know?” For those who maybe don’t understand the statement there, “coming out” is a very common term used within the Queer community to describe the experience of revealing your identity to those around you. Whether it be to family, friends, or co-workers, almost every queer person has some sort of coming out story to tell. Lilith is speaking in reference to her coming out as a trans woman. She elaborated: “Obviously I can only speak for myself, but I just feel like when you make a decision like that, that part of my life just ended up seared into my brain, you know? Bloodborne was there, so now it’s just a part of me. And it definitely influenced some things about me. It was there because I was working on Bloodborne PSX at the time, but it had an impact on something I’ve heard a lot of other Trans people describe.” She went on to describe the concept of “Coming out a second time” as sort of “finding yourself more within your identity” and becoming more affirmed in it. She described both Bloodborne and her development on Bloodborne PSX influencing large parts of her life, a good example being how she dresses and presents. As a trans woman myself, this answer delighted me to no end. I, for one, can absolutely 100% relate to the notion of media you experience during such a radical turning point in your life sticking with you. There are plenty of games, shows, music, and books that I still hold very near and dear to me because, as Lilith stated, they were there. All the right things at the right time.

Halfway through our questions, we’ve finally arrived at one pertaining specifically to the development of Bloodborne PSX: “What are some unique challenges you’ve faced developing a game meant to look/play like something made on retro hardware?”

Lilith answers: “So there’s two things, two big things. One is rolling back all of the quality of life improvements we’ve gotten over the years in gaming. Not automatically using keys is always my go-to example.” Something as well I mentioned in my short talk about the game’s gloriously dated feeling gameplay above. “That was definitely very very intentional. Because it’s not just the graphics, right? It was the design sensibilities of the 90s. Bringing that to the surface was very challenging but very fun. Another big part was, since it was one of the first 3D consoles, I wanted to recreate the hype around the fact that ‘ITS IN 3D NOW!’ So if you go into your inventory you’ll see all the objects rendered in beautiful 3D while they slowly spin as you scroll through them.” This is a feature I very much miss seeing in modern video games. 

She continued, “I think the biggest one was the weapon changes. Bloodborne’s whole thing was the weapon transformations. Like, you could seamlessly change your weapons and work them into your combo and do a bunch of crazy stuff, and I kind of said ‘that needs to go immediately.’ So now you have to pause and go to your weapon and press L1 to transform it, that was extremely intentional. So once I had those three big things down it all just sort of fell into place. Like the clunky UI and the janky controls. You need jank and clunk, and I think that’s why Fromsoft games scale down so nicely, because they are jank and clunk.” 

A point I couldn’t agree with more. Despite all the modern streamlining and improvements to gameplay, Fromsoft’s ever-growing catalog of impressive experiences still contains some of that old-school video game stiffness we’ve (hopefully) come to appreciate. She went on to make a point I was very excited to share here in the article, “It was just a lot of trying to nail the feel of the games and not just the look, right? Like I’m not trying to recreate a screenshot; I’m trying to recreate the feeling of playing this weird game that’s barely holding together because the devs didn’t know what they were doing.” In my humble opinion, something she did an excellent job with. 

Fifth on the list was a question relating to her current project, Bloodborne Kart, a concept initially drawn from a popular meme shared around social media sites like Tumblr when the buzz of a Bloodborne sequel was keeping the talking spaces around Fromsoft alight: “Anything to say about the development of Bloodborne Kart or its inspiration?”

Lilith answers: “So first off Bloodborne Kart is less trying to be a simulation of a PS1 game and more just an indie game. It’s not trying to be a PS1 game, I just want it to be a fun kart racer first. Starting off of course is Mario Kart 64, that’s the one I played back in the day. But I looked at other games like Crash Team Racing and Diddy Kong Racing, but also stuff like Twisted Metal of course. I always used those as a template to sort of look at for design stuff like ‘how did they handle what happens to racers after player 1 crosses the finish line.” The next portion of her answer was initially a bit confusing but comes across better when you consider certain elements present in BBK’s battle mode. “And also Halo, like for the battle mode. I had to do a battle mode and it kind of just bubbled to the surface. Split Screen with my sister was such a big part of my childhood. Thinking about Halo multiplayer while I was making the battle mode stuff.” 

Her answer to the previous question began to dip into the topic of our sixth question: “Are there any unique challenges or enjoyable creative points that go into making something like Bloodborne Kart?”

As she continued from her previous answer: “One of the biggest quirks of the battle mode I had to figure out was how to tell what team you were on at a glance, and that came back to Halo again. I started thinking about how you could tell in that game and it hit me that the arms of your suit change to the color of whatever team you’re on. It was just something I never even thought of because it’s so seamless. So that gave me the idea to change the kart colours, and that’s the most recent example of me pulling directly from Halo. It’s wild how a small change like that can turn your game from something unplayable to something fun.” I would agree. Tons of small details and things you don’t think about go into making seamless multiplayer experiences. Some of which we take for granted nowadays. She then made a point about one of the most challenging aspects of BBK’s development, “The most challenging thing was definitely the Kart AI. AI is just my worst skill when it comes to game development among the massive array of skills you need to make a game. It’s really hard to find examples of people coding kart driving AI, You know? You need to make a biped walk around you can find a million tutorials online but if you need to make something drive a kart, not really. I was really on my own there. A lot of the examples out there are very simulation oriented. Like cars using suspension and whatnot, but I’m making a kart racer. So I started simple, I put a navpoint down and if it needs to turn left, turn left, if it needs to turn right, turn right. And I just kept adding features from there.”

Moving onto our last three questions, we started to get a little more personal. Question seven being: “What’s your favorite part of Bloodborne Kart so far?”

Her answer was concise in what she was excited about most, quote: “The boss fights.” Short and sweet but she did elaborate. “Translating a big part of Bloodborne is the boss fights. So I made a short linear campaign which is basically AI battles and races strung together. Some of those stages are just boss fights which are unique to the rest of the game. When you make a video game you sit down and you make all your different modes of interactions, and then you make a multi-hour experience mixing and matching all those different modes in more complicated ways. I think the most interesting part is when that style tends to fall away and it ends up building something entirely unique to that experience.” An example she gave was the infamous “Eventide Island” in Breath of the wild, it being a unique experience where the game’s usual modes of interaction are stripped or limited, forcing you into a more structured experience that ends up being a majorly positive one. “That’s what the boss fights are in Bloodborne Kart. They do multiple game mechanics like a chase that ends in a battle mode. Like Father Gascoine’s fight where he chases you, and after you blow up his kart he turns into a beast and picks up a minigun.” That sounds absolutely incredible. It’s very easy to see why she’d pick the boss fights as her favorite element when they’re clearly intended to be such unique and memorable experiences. 

Our last two questions veer away from the topics of development proper and focus more on our dear dev’s personal thoughts on the matter. Question eight posits: “What’s your personal favorite part of being a game developer?”

After some thought, she gave a very impassioned talk about something she considers to be the best part of the experience: “When people who aren’t game developers think about game development they think of things like ‘oh well you just get to play video games all day and have fun’ but it’s not! Except for the 2% that is, and it’s near the end of development. When all the pieces fall into place and you start actually ‘making the game.’ Game development, especially solo, you’re so zoomed in on specific parts. Because you’re not making a game you’re programming software that’s what making a game is. You spend months working on different systems and then you actually sit down and make a level, and you hit play and it you go ‘Oh my god, I just made a game’. That part is what sustains me. It’s magical. That’s the best part when it comes to true appreciation of the craft aside from the reception.” An answer that I don’t think I could’ve put better if I tried. 

My last question is one that I consider to be the question when it comes to interviewing anyone who works on video games. Perhaps a bit basic, but heartfelt nonetheless: “Anything to say to anyone aspiring to be a game developer?”

Lilith’s answer: “Yes. Just do it. For real. This is what I did and it always felt wrong until I looked at more established devs echoing the sentiment. You cannot plan a game before you’ve started making one. The example I always bring up is the team behind Deus Ex wrote a 500 page design document for the game and almost immediately threw it out when they started development. Just start! You’re going to have unanswered questions and I think that trips people up. Don’t start with your magnum opus idea, start with something simple and achievable. I feel like a lot of people set out with the goal of making a triple-A game, and that’s good! But it can’t be your first game. Game development is creating art, just like any other form of art, and it’s like saying ‘my first drawing is going to be the Mona Lisa’ and it just doesn’t work like that. You need practice and development, and it’s difficult to see that because games take so long and so much, so it’s definitely seen as a bigger undertaking. But it’s still art. You’re still making mistakes and learning from them for your first project. Your next game will be better. View your career as a game developer as a series of games you want to make, and not just one big game.” A perfect response to an otherwise unassuming question. 

Lilith’s passion and love for video games were reflected very clearly in every response she gave during my time with her. Her dedication and appreciation for the art form can be seen in every pixel of Bloodborne PSX, as well as the development logs and test builds of Bloodborne Kart. I really do think that the way she answered my final question speaks volumes to the type of attitude someone should take up when endeavoring to make art as intensive as a video game. Whether it’s fanwork of a game that’s important to you or an entirely new concept, do it. 

(developer of Bloodborne PSX Lilith Walther, image provided by Lilith Walther via Twitter)

Closing:

If you’d like to check out the positively phenomenal experience that is Bloodborne PSX  I’ve included a link to the official itch.io page below the article, as well as a link to the official LWMedia Youtube page where you can check out Lilith’s dev logs, test videos, and animations about her work and other art. Thank you so much for reading, and another very special thank you to Lilith for setting aside some of her time to talk to me about this article. Now get out there and cleanse those foul streets!

Links:

Bloodborne PSX official itch.io page: https://b0tster.itch.io/bbpsx

LWMedia Official Youtube page: https://www.youtube.com/@b0tster

Lilith Walther Twitter page: https://twitter.com/b0tster

[jame7t]

one of the most frustrating things about halo fans who become indie game devs is that a lotta them want to just remake halo 3. like not spiritually, they just make a fan halo game in the artstyle of halo 3. Microsoft had to explode a few iirc

stop doing that and make an original title that harkens back to cut content from across the series and plays with original ideas.

look at the master Chief from the beta 10 billion years ago. go down this path and make something weird

these fucked up proto-elites are like .2 steps away from being geigeresque. go that route. make penis aliens. fall forever. make more indie games that harken to the shitty aesthetics of yester-millennium because that shit rocks*

*lots of games do this but you see way more games being spiritually doom or wolfy than you see halo-likes. and I think that’s a shame

**it’s only frustrating to me because the time wasted making a halo clone Microsoft will nuke could be spent making a halo clone that makes Microsoft reconsider its moronic employment policies regarding 18-month contracts

***hi

[halopedia]

Check out the newest Canon Fodder by @ur-haruspis Halopedians! Giving lore to many of Digsites finds in the cutting room floor!

Yes even the slugmen get discussed!

Side note: Be sure to check out the Halo: Outcasts previews that are linked in article! We swear they are fantastic reads that will get you pumped for the book releasing August 8!

[rynbutt]

pierced. epilogue. | spencer reid.

It's Spencer's birthday and there are a lot of things to be shared.

you can find the other parts on my masterlist.

cw: fem!reader, 18+ content (MDNI), kissing, other stuff shhh

a/n: im pretty proud of this one fr

His kiss against your lips was feverish– it was hungry and wanting, punctuated by his warm hand desperately squeezing the skin of your thigh, the other tangled in your hair as it sprawled over your pillow like a halo. 

You were always breathtaking like this– your face contorted in pleasure as you breathed soft whines and moans, unable to form coherent words. Spencer found it fascinating, how you bewitched him body and soul. You made everything melt away with your gentle touch and your soft kisses. Maybe it was how you cradled his face like you would divine art. Maybe it was how you looked at him, eyes so sultry and enchanting yet wide with innocence.

Spencer couldn’t handle it half the time, it drove him mad how he longed for you in every aspect of his life, how he spent every waking minute away from you wishing you were wrapped in the safety of his arms, where he knew no one and nothing could harm you. 

“Happy birthday, baby,” your voice was breathless as you whispered the words against his lips. One of your hands pressed into the nape of his neck, the other gripped the wrist beside your head, holding onto anything that would ground you in reality.

Spencer responded by kissing you again, swallowing your breathless moans as he snapped his hips against the soft flesh of your ass. The sounds were lewd and salacious, but it only provoked him further. His grip on your thigh was bruising at best, his mind growing foggy with desire as he lost control of his ability to notice the obvious strength he had over you.

You didn’t mind though– you never did. It only spurred you on further, your moans and whines growing louder and louder as your belly warmed. Tonight was supposed to be about him. It was his birthday after all and you wanted him to be the centre of attention. But when you spread your legs for him, your curves adorned in delicate lace, he couldn’t help himself.

“Spence–” You cut yourself off as another whine left your dry throat; it seems you forgot how to naturally function when Spencer’s cock was splitting you open, your head filled with nonsense the moment he filled you to the brim.

“Fuck, angel–” Spencer’s voice was low with lust, his lips pressing to the underside of your jaw. His breath was warm against the column of your throat, his lips pressing desperate kisses to your smooth skin. 

Spencer never got tired of you, he knows he never will. He’s so hopelessly in love with you and you have him wrapped around your delicate finger despite what you like to think. You were wrapped around him so tight, your core pulsing around him with such desperation.

He’s surprised he lasted as long as he did. You looked so beautiful with your skin adorned with intricate lace and bows– he kept it on while he fucked you, admiring every dip and curve of your body, truly convinced every part of you was carefully crafted for him and him alone.

Your hands combed through his hair as he calmed down, your legs tangled with his and the sheets. While fucking you was his favourite pass time; this part was always worth the wait. His body was heavy with exhaustion but he couldn’t take his eyes off you. You were always so gentle, something he both envied and valued in you. You were safe; you were home.

“Marry me.” The words left his lips in a whisper. It bothered him how he hadn’t asked you yet– how he hadn’t even thought about it until that very moment. Spencer had always questioned the notion of marriage, wondering why people did it when– to him– it seemed outdated; almost pointless. He saw it with his own parents and he saw it with his friend, but with you it was different. Calling you his wife made him feel warm, being able to put a ring on your finger and call you his forever. He was going against his own reasoning and Spencer was willing to say his old way of thinking about marriage was wrong. Because with you, it seemed like the only reasonable choice he had ever made.

Your fingers stilled against his hair, your heart beating hard in your chest. “What?” You almost thought you misheard him.

“Marry me.” Spencer spoke a little louder, his chest blooming with warmth at the smile that tugged at the corner of your lips. You gently covered your mouth as a small surprised laugh left your throat, you didn’t mean to laugh, you really didn’t, but Spencer Reid– The Dr. Spencer Reid– wanted to marry you. “Don’t laugh, I’m serious,” he feigned offence, pulling your hand away from your face.

“I’m not laughing at you, I just–” You sighed, eyes blinking up at him softly, “You, Dr. ‘I don’t really believe in marriage’ want to marry me?”

He let out a breath. “I’ve thought about it.” He thought about it for maybe four seconds before deciding because he already knew what the answer would be, “and I want it. I didn’t think I would, but then I met you and… it just seems like the only logical progression.”

“Mm, I love when you talk about logical progressions,” you teased, your hands cupping his face gently, resting your forehead against his.

“You still haven’t answered me.” Spencer wasn’t nervous, he knew you loved him and wanted to be with him. Even if you said no, he wouldn’t mull over it because he would know that you had your own reasons. 

“What do you think the answer will be?” You were curious and it was so easy to tease him. He didn’t like when people pushed his buttons, but you could push all you like and he would adore you all the same.

“I think you’ll dance around it just to annoy me,” he started with a grin, “but inevitably you’ll say yes because the idea of getting to call yourself Mrs Reid would be too good to pass up.”

Oh how he knows you.

“Mm, you caught me,” you giggled softly, drowning in the softness of his beautiful brown eyes. You brushed your thumb over his cheekbone, “I’d love to marry you, Spencer.”

He smiled coyly. “See?” 

You rolled your eyes playfully, scooting yourself closer to him to press against his warm skin. He draped an arm over your waist, pressing his nose into your hair and breathing in your scent. This is exactly how he wanted to spend his 30th birthday, with you wrapped in his arms, tracing letters into your hip as your nails gently scraped against the skin of his back, following every gentle ridge of his ribs and spine, memorising his body beneath your fingertips.

“Are you sure we have to go?” Spencer called to you as he stood in front of your full-length mirror tying his tie. The end of the day came far too quickly– one minute he had your warmth wrapped around him, your lips and bodies clashing in feverish need. Now he was getting ready to go to dinner at a new fancy restaurant deep in the city when he would much rather stay tangled with you in bed.

“Yes, baby,” You replied, lining your lips in your bathroom mirror. “Penelope and JJ want to make tonight special for you for your birthday.”

You had already made it special. You made him breakfast, spoiled him far beyond what he deserved, then let him have you for hours. His birthday was already perfect but he knew his friends had tried hard to do something nice for him– but you said yes to his marriage proposal, so he’s doubtful this dinner could at all improve his day.

You stepped out of the bathroom, clasping the necklace Spencer had got you for your birthday last year around your neck. Your heels clicked against the floor in a way that was so alluring he was ready to ditch the dinner and have you again. But you would definitely protest, not wanting him to ruin your perfectly styled hair and makeup. He would just have to hold it together for a bit longer.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, a smile playing on his lips. Your dress hugged your hips and waist, the neckline showing off your cleavage and the slit up the side to your mid thigh sending him reeling. You smiled at him, reaching for his tie to adjust it.

“You look very handsome,” you pressed up on your toes, kissing his cheek. His hands fell to your waist, holding you close as he pressed a peck to your lips. “Alright, we should go.” Spencer let out a soft sigh, holding his elbow out for you to link your arm with his. You chuckled softly, holding his bicep as the two of you left your shared apartment. 

Spencer’s fingers were laced with yours as you walked into the restaurant, walking slightly slower than he normally did since you were in heels; something you found rather adorable. Derek saw him first, wrapping his arms around Spencer and patting his back as he wished him a happy birthday. Derek planted a kiss on your cheek as he hugged you next, letting the rest of the team swarm Spencer with hugs, birthday wishes and presents. Spencer pulled your chair out for you before sitting down next to you, scooting his chair slightly closer to yours. He had his hand on your thigh the whole night, his thumb stroking the side of your knee. 

“More drinks! This is a day to celebrate!” Penelope cheered, pouring herself and JJ another glass of wine. Derek swirled his tumbler of whiskey around, lifting it up in a cheers motion to Spencer.

“Amen to that,” he nodded before taking a sip.

“What are you having, Reid? On me,” Emily offered, eyes narrowing at the man of the hour. Spencer waved her off, not typically one for drinking.

“Give mine to Y/N, I’m good,” Spencer said. 

“No, no, I’m good, Spence,” you squeezed his hand under the table. 

“Whaaat!” Penelope looked at you, stopping mid-sip of wine. “My loves, we must celebrate!” She pointed at the both of you and Spencer rolled his eyes playfully.

“Fine, but nothing too strong, please,” Spencer gave in, earning a cheer from everyone at the table. 

Emily turned to you, “what’s my girl having? Gin and tonic? Spiced rum? Wine? Name it and you’ve got it,” she grinned.

“No, I’m really good, thank you,” you replied with a breathy laugh, desperate to get the attention off of you. Emily noticed your slight embarrassment and backed off, getting up to get Spencer a drink from the bar. 

You quietly excused yourself, getting up and taking your purse to the bathroom. Spencer could tell something was bothering you. He excused himself to Hotch, following you to the back of the restaurant. He gently knocked on the bathroom door, calling your name. You washed your hands in the sink, letting out a sigh before opening the door.

“Are you okay, angel?” Spencer asked, voice laced with concern. He searched your eyes for a moment and he could tell something was on your mind.

“I’m pregnant, Spence.”

Spencer felt his mind go blank, his eyes widening at your confession. You didn’t sound upset when you said it, nor did you sound thrilled. You wanted to gauge his reaction before you started tangling yourself up in your own thoughts. 

After a year of dating, Spencer had mentioned the idea of kids to you, asking you if it’s something you wanted. You knew he wanted it, he was so good with kids and kids gravitated to him. It made your heart swell whenever he would play with Henry or Jack, wondering if that’s something you wanted for yourself. You wanted to give him that, of course you did. But when he asked you, you had just got a promotion and you were about to begin your second semester back at school and Spencer’s job was crazy, it didn’t seem like adequate timing. So you told him one day.

One day was apparently today.

“You’re… You’re pregnant?” He repeated, his voice barely above a whisper as the words sank in. His heart fluttered at the idea of you carrying his baby, a little boy or girl, he didn’t care. You were going to have his baby. He was going to be a family with you.

“Yeah, I am,” a smile tugged at your lips. “I wanted to tell you in a more… creative way? Like hide it in a book or give you a crossword or something but–” You cut yourself off, gently shrugging your shoulders as Spencer reached for your hands.

“How–How far along are you?” His voice was shaky, he was so nervous and excited and had no idea where to put all the emotions he was feeling.

“Eight weeks,” you grinned.

“Shit,” he cursed, a smile breaking out across his face. He pulled you in for a kiss, his hands cupping your cheeks. You held his suit jacket in your fists, kissing him back with just as much excitement and love. He pulled away slightly, “this is by far the best birthday present.”

You chuckled softly, “lucky her parents are hitched,” you teased.

“You know you can’t actually tell the sex of a foetus until 18 to 21 weeks, baby,” he said matter-of-factly. He gestured his head to the side, “it’s possible as early as 14 weeks but–”

You kissed him again to shut him up, “call it a mother’s intuition, Spence." Spencer led you back to the table, refusing to let go of your hand for the rest of the night. He had a lot of trouble sitting on all the news he had to share but he would tell them another time, all he wanted to do was spend the night with you and enjoy every waking minute of you.

a/n: i know most of you won't read this but i just wanna say thank you for reading this, i know it's not super canon compliant but it was more just a fluffy little series for me to write and i had a blast. and i know not everyone likes the pregnancy trope but god dammit! our boy deserves a family of his own!

i will definitely be doing more series in the future and i'm already working on another project that i hope you'll all like! anywho, love all of you and imma give you all a fat kiss goodnight, muah!

taglist: @crazycat-ladys-blog @cillsnostalgia @secretly-tumb1r @33-81 @elissanatok @outrunangelss @cultish-corner @666-gothic-bat-666 @evvy96 @littlemarvelstan8 @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @meg-black @dreamsarebig @anuncalledbridge @fioletowelowe @ladylincoln @spencereidsgf420 @bollzinurmouth @scarlettssub @ipseitydelrey @donttrustlove @mcntsee @ruziazyn @valinherfantasyworld @khxna @maybe-not-this @shardsofmarxx @danadinosaur3 @justsarahbella @ah-blossom @lorelaireid @btskzfav @reidsdoll @pinkpantheris @violetvsworld @readergf @pangirl-fangirl @emideadpoets @blackbeautyiloveyouso @amethyst-marie368 @amethyst-marie368

[oceandolores]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | ending.

dbf!joel miller x female reader

"I'm always going to be right here, no one's going anywhere."

summary: it's the end

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, pedophilia, cannibalism, human trafficking, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 22

masterlist!

previous | chapter 21

The stench hit Tommy first. Damp iron, rotting meat, and something more acrid that clawed at the back of his throat. He stumbled into the room, flashlight trembling in his hand as the beam cut through the darkness.

His boots stuck to the blood-slicked floor, and for a brief moment, he froze.

There they were.

Joel and you, collapsed together in a grotesque tableau of ruin. Joel's head lolled against yours, blood trailing from a gaping wound that soaked his graying hair and matted your cheek.

His arms clutched you fiercely even in unconsciousness, as though holding you was the only thing tethering him to this world. Your face was pale, lifeless, lips parted as if in a final whisper.

Both of you were drenched in crimson, a dark halo pooling beneath your entwined bodies.

Tommy’s knees buckled as his voice cracked. “No. No, no, no!” He dropped the flashlight, its beam rolling away and casting distorted shadows across the room.

He crawled toward you, shaking hands brushing against Joel’s still-warm shoulder. “Joel, Joel, Wake up, Wake up brother,"

"THEY ARE HERE!" His heart hammered in his chest as he pressed trembling fingers to your neck, then Joel’s.

Faint pulses—fragile, flickering, but there. Relief collided with dread. They were alive, barely.

"HELP!"

"Ellie! Maria!" he roared, his voice breaking like splintered glass.

Ellie was the first to burst through the doorway, Maria on her heels. Ellie’s sharp inhale morphed into a guttural scream as she threw herself toward Joel.

"Joel? NO! NO NO! JOEL NO!"

"You can’t—wake up, wake the fuck up!” She shook him, tears streaking down her face, hands smearing his blood as she begged.

Maria pulled her back, gripping her shoulders tightly. “Ellie, it's alright, it's alright,"

"NO! NO LET ME GO! JOEL WAKE UP!"

But Ellie wouldn’t listen, sobbing uncontrollably, her fists pounding against Maria’s restraint.

"Don’t leave me, Joel. Please! You promised!"

Tommy couldn’t look at her. He had to keep himself steady, had to shove down the overwhelming tidal wave of emotion threatening to consume him.

He helped the EMTs lift Joel onto a stretcher, his hand lingering on his brother’s wrist for a moment longer than necessary.

“I’ll go with him,” Tommy said hoarsely, his voice as brittle as dried leaves. “Maria, stay with her.”

Maria nodded, her face pale but resolute, and knelt by your side.

Tommy sat rigid in the corner of the ER, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. He pressed them against his knees, trying to anchor himself, to keep his breathing steady.

But the panic was a wild animal inside him, clawing its way up his throat. He couldn't let it out—not here, not now.

Joel lay on the gurney, pale and fragile in a way Tommy had never seen. His big brother, who had always seemed unbreakable, now looked like a shell of the man Tommy had leaned on his entire life.

Blood seeped through the bandages wrapped hastily around his head, staining the sterile white sheets beneath him.

“Please, brother,” Tommy whispered, his voice trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. “Don’t go. Don't go, please,"

The words were more for himself than anyone else. A mantra, a prayer, a desperate plea to the universe. Joel was his anchor, the one who had always taken the brunt of the storm so Tommy wouldn’t have to.

Without him, Tommy felt like a ship unmoored, adrift in a sea of grief and fear.

He glanced at Ellie, who sat beside him, her hands buried in her face, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

She looked so small, so young, like a child who had just lost her world.

And maybe she had.

Tommy reached out, hesitating for a moment before placing a hand on her shoulder. She flinched but didn’t pull away.

Instead, she looked up at him, her face streaked with tears, her eyes wild with anguish.

“He can’t die,” Ellie choked out, her voice raw and broken. “He can’t, Tommy. He’s all I have. He’s all I fucking have.”

Her words hit Tommy like a punch to the gut. He knew what Joel meant to her—how he’d become more than just a guardian, more than a father figure. Joel was her home, her safe place, the one person who had never given up on her.

“I know,” Tommy murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I know, kid. He ain’t going anywhere,"

But his own words felt hollow, like a lie he was telling to keep them both from falling apart.

Inside, he was unraveling. Every time the heart monitor beeped, every time a doctor barked out orders, he felt his chest tighten, his breaths growing shallower.

Memories flashed through his mind—Joel was always by his side, even when they were children and adults, he took care of Tommy, he believed in him, he was always holding him steady when the world felt like it was falling apart.

And now it was Tommy’s turn to hold steady.

To be the rock Joel had always been for him.

But God, it was hard.

Ellie’s sobs grew louder, her hands clutching the fabric of her jeans like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. “He promised me,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “He promised he’d always be here.”

Tommy swallowed the lump in his throat and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. She resisted for a moment before collapsing against him, her tears soaking into his shirt.

“He’s a fighter,” Tommy said, his voice barely audible. “You know that better than anyone. He ain’t giving up now. Not on you. Not on us.”

But even as he said the words, doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve. He knew how fragile life was, how quickly it could be snatched away.

And yet, he couldn’t let himself believe it. He wouldn’t.

“Just hold on, Joel,” Tommy whispered, his eyes fixed on his brother’s pale face. “Please, just hold on.”

He tightened his grip on Ellie, drawing strength from her even as he tried to give her his.

Meanwhile, Maria sat beside your gurney, her hands trembling as they hovered over your pale, battered face. She couldn’t bring herself to touch you—not yet.

You looked so fragile, so breakable, like a porcelain doll left too long in the storm, your edges cracked and worn.

The steady rhythm of the heart monitor was the only proof that you were still here, still clinging to whatever thin thread tethered you to this world.

She didn’t know you like Joel did, or Ellie, or Tommy. But she had known you long enough.

Long enough to remember the shy little girl in her Sunday dresses, her hair tied up with ribbons, her voice ringing clear and sweet as she sang hymns with the choir.

You had always been so eager to help, bustling around the church like a sparrow, your hands too small to carry the weight of the world, and yet you tried.

Even then, Maria had seen the signs—the way you flinched when someone raised their voice, the shadows in your eyes that no child should have.

She should have known. She did know.

Maria bit down hard on her lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood. She wanted to scream, to cry, to beg for forgiveness—not from you, but from the universe, for failing you.

You were just a child.

All the signs had been there, like a map she had chosen to ignore. The bruises you tried to hide under long sleeves, the hollow cheerfulness in your smile, the way you’d cling to Joel or Ellie like they were lifelines.

And now, here you were, barely breathing, barely alive, because she hadn’t done anything.

Maria leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees as she pressed her hands to her face. She thought of her own son, her sweet baby boy, safe in his crib back home.

She couldn’t imagine him growing up without her, couldn’t imagine a world where he was left to fend for himself, broken and alone. But that was your world now.

You had no one.

Tears slid down Maria’s cheeks, hot and unrelenting. She reached out, finally letting her fingers graze your hand. Your skin was cold, too cold, and it made her shiver.

She wanted to hold you, to pull you into her arms like she did with her son when he cried, to tell you it was all going to be okay. But she couldn’t lie to you like that. Not now.

“You were just a child,” Maria whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her grief. “You didn’t deserve any of this.”

She thought of all the times she had watched you from afar, her heart aching with the knowledge she had buried deep down.

She had told herself it wasn’t her place, that your parents were good, church-going people, that someone else would step in if something was wrong.

Until Joel stepped up.

But still, now you were here, shattered and bleeding, because the adults in your life had failed you.

Maria wiped at her tears with the back of her hand, her resolve hardening. “I’m here now,” she murmured, her voice steady even as her heart quaked.

“You’re not alone, sweetheart. You’ll never be alone again.”

She didn’t know if you could hear her. Maybe you were too far gone, lost in whatever dark void had claimed you.

But she would sit here as long as it took, would fight for you in the way she should have all those years ago.

You were just a child.

But now, you were hers to protect.

***

The world around you dissolved into a weightless expanse of white. It wasn’t harsh or blinding; it was soft, endless, like freshly fallen snow untouched by footprints.

There was no floor beneath you, no walls, no sky. Just an infinite void, as if time and space had folded into nothingness.

You felt… nothing.

No pain, no fear, no exhaustion. The gnawing ache in your body, the sharp sting of wounds, the crushing heaviness of the world—it was all gone.

Instead, there was a quiet peace, gentle and all-encompassing. It should have been comforting, this emptiness, but it wasn’t.

Something was missing.

You tried to move, to speak, but your body didn’t respond. It wasn’t heavy or restrained—it simply wasn’t there. You were a thought, an echo in the silence.

Is this it?

The question hung in the air, unanswered. A strange calm settled over you, and yet, deep in your chest—if you even had a chest anymore—a faint tug lingered, a gnawing unease that refused to be soothed.

Something wasn’t right.

And then you heard it.

A voice, soft and familiar, weaving through the stillness like a hymn.

“Honey…”

Your breath—or what felt like breath—hitched. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. Slowly, you turned, and there she was.

“Mama.”

Your voice broke, raw and disbelieving, as you stumbled toward her. She stood there, whole and radiant, as if the years and the violence had never touched her.

Her face was just as you remembered—warm blue eyes, soft cheeks, a smile that had once been your safe harbor.

Tears blurred your vision as you threw yourself into her arms, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt solid.

Her arms wrapped around you, strong and steady, and you buried your face in her shoulder, sobbing like a child.

“Mama, I’m sorry,” you choked out, the words tumbling from your lips in a torrent of guilt and grief.

“I’m so sorry. I left you. I should have done something—I should have saved you—”

She hushed you, her fingers combing gently through your hair. “Shh, honey. Look at me.”

You pulled back, your chest heaving with unspent sobs, and looked into her eyes. They were filled with a tenderness that threatened to undo you.

“It’s not your fault,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “It was never your fault.”

You shook your head, fresh tears spilling over. “But I—father—Negan—”

She placed her hands on either side of your face, forcing you to meet her gaze. “Listen to me, honey. What happened wasn’t because of you. It was us, it was our fault, all of it,—your father—and me. I was too afraid to protect you. I failed you.” Her voice cracked, but she pressed on.

“But you?” Her voice quivered, trembling under the weight of her own sorrow.

“You were just a child. You were just a child. My baby. My baby girl.” Her hands cradled your face, fingers trembling like autumn leaves barely clinging to their branches.

The warmth of her touch seeped into your skin, but it couldn’t thaw the ice of guilt frozen in your chest.

Her words unfurled in the void, weaving through your heart like a psalm you didn’t realize you’d been aching to hear. Her voice cracked, thick with grief.

“I couldn’t do anything to protect you. I failed—I failed as a mother, as your mother.” Tears glistened in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks like rivers eroding her steadfast resolve.

“I failed you, and I’m so, so sorry for it.”

You shook your head violently, choking on your tears. “No, Mama. Don’t say that—please don’t say that. You were scared. You didn’t have a choice—”

“I was supposed to have a choice,” she interrupted, her voice rising, fierce and broken.

“God entrusted you to me. He placed you in my arms, so tiny, so perfect. You were a gift, my precious lamb, and I—” Her voice faltered, her hands tightening around yours.

“I let the wolves devour you.”

Her grief crashed over you like a tidal wave, drowning you in its depth.

She shook her head, her sorrow spilling out like an overflowing chalice. “A mother’s love is supposed to be unyielding, a shield against all harm. I should have been your fortress, your refuge. But instead…” She looked away, shame twisting her features.

“Instead, I was a reed, bending under the weight of fear, snapping when you needed me most.”

Her words pierced through you, carving out a hollow space where the guilt had lived for so long. Your chest ached with the enormity of it, the shared burden of her regrets and yours.

Her eyes, luminous with love and pain, met yours again. “But you… Oh, my beautiful baby girl. You were never to blame. Never.” Her voice softened, turning into a prayer, a hymn.

“You were the lamb, innocent and pure, while the wolves prowled at your door. And I—I didn’t drive them away. I let them linger, let them sink their fangs into you. And for that, I will carry my guilt for eternity.”

"You did what you could. You loved me the best you could.”

Her smile was bittersweet, a fragile thing that barely reached her eyes. “Love isn’t enough, baby. Love must have action, must have courage. But I didn’t act. I let fear bind me, as surely as chains. Your father’s wrath…” Her voice broke, her tears falling freely now.

“It wasn’t just you he terrorized, you know. I was too weak to stop him, too paralyzed to shield you.”

She drew a shaky breath, her gaze lifting to some unseen point beyond you. “But now, I see clearly. In the kingdom of heaven, where grace flows like rivers of light, I’ve learned what I should have known all along. A mother’s love should reflect God’s love—unyielding, sacrificial, all-consuming.”

Her hands cupped your cheeks again, her thumbs brushing away your tears.

“But you, my child—you are stronger than I ever was. You bore the brunt of his sins, carried his cruelties on your back. You endured the cross I should have carried for you.”

Her words opened a wound in your heart, but they also poured something healing into it. Something divine.

“You are my lamb, yes,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against yours. “But you are also my lion. Fierce, unbroken, redeemed. You’ve endured what no one should endure, and yet you’re still here."

"Do you hear me, honey? You’re still here. You have a chance to live, to love, to heal. To have the life I always wanted for you.”

“I can’t…” you whispered, your voice small and trembling. “I don’t know how.”

She smiled again, this time radiant, her eyes gleaming with something you could only call holy.

“You will. God’s light is within you, burning brighter than you know. You will find your way, my beautiful girl."

"But you can’t stay here. Not yet.”

"You and him doesn't belong here,"

The void around you began to shift, the brightness dimming, pulling her farther and farther away.

"What? Mama, what's happening?"

Her kiss lingered like the warmth of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “I’ll always be with you,” she whispered, her voice soft as a hymn, “as surely as the spirit of God dwells within you.”

Tears spilled from your eyes as her form began to fade, dissolving into the luminous void like mist burned away by dawn. Her final words echoed in the stillness: “I love you so much.”

And then, she was gone.

You stood alone in the vast expanse, the emptiness pressing in on you. Panic gripped your chest, and you screamed, Your voice cracked, reverberating in the silence, unanswered.

The world around you swirled, a disorienting blend of white and nothingness, until a figure emerged in the distance.

It was Joel.

Joel.

Relief surged through you like a flood, washing away your fear. “Joel!” you called, your voice trembling, desperate.

You ran toward him, but he didn’t seem to hear you. He stood motionless, his head bowed, and as you got closer, you saw them—two figures standing beside him.

His late wife, Jane, her features soft and kind, just as you had seen in the pictures your mother had once saved.

And next to her, a young girl, her smile radiant and full of life. Sarah.

You recognized her immediately, even though you’d only seen her in photographs. Her beauty was ethereal, her eyes unmistakably Joel’s—a mirror of his soul.

You froze in place, your heart pounding as Joel turned to embrace them both. The sight of him holding them shattered something deep inside you.

You called out again, your voice breaking, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t hear you.

“No,” you whispered, your chest tightening with despair. “No, Joel, don’t leave me.”

Then, Sarah’s gaze met yours. Her smile softened, her eyes glowing with a warmth that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. She pointed toward you, her finger trembling slightly, and Joel turned.

His eyes found you.

“Baby?” His voice was soft, disbelieving, as though he couldn’t trust what he was seeing.

“Joel,” you choked, tears streaming down your face. You ran to him, your feet barely feeling the ground beneath you, and flung yourself into his arms.

His embrace was warm, solid, real—just as it had always been.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice trembling with confusion and fear.

“I came to find you,” you sobbed, clutching his shirt as though letting go would shatter you into a thousand pieces.

“No,” he said firmly, his hands gripping your shoulders as he pulled back to look into your eyes. “No, you don’t belong here.”

"What do you mean? I’m not leaving without you.”

“Baby…” Joel’s voice cracked, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. His thumb brushed away your tears, his touch so achingly familiar.

“Look at me. I’m here, where I belong.” He glanced toward Jane and Sarah, his eyes brimming with sorrow and something resembling peace. “Look—I found them. My family,”

Your heart fractured, the jagged edges cutting deep. “No, Joel. You don’t get to leave me. Please,” you begged, pressing your forehead against his.

“Please don’t leave me.”

His breath hitched, and he held you closer, his fingers threading through your hair. “Baby, listen to me..."

"I’m so sorry. For everything. For the pain, for the fear, for all the ways I failed you. But I love you. God, I love you so much.” His voice broke completely, his tears mingling with yours.

Joel’s voice was a broken melody, each word trembling with the weight of his love.

His hands cradled your face like you were the most fragile and precious thing he had ever held, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks as though he could wipe away your pain.

“You are the light of my life,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion.

“Fire of my loins, my sin, my soul,"

"My moon, my sun..."

"You gave me a reason to keep going when all I saw was darkness. When everything else fell apart, when the world was nothing but ash and shadows, you were the one thing that felt real. The one thing that kept me grounded.”

His breath hitched, and he leaned his forehead against yours, his tears falling freely now.

“You’re my anchor, baby. You’ve held me steady when I was drowning, pulled me back when I was ready to let go. You’ve been my salvation in ways I never deserved.”

His hands trembled as they moved to cup the sides of your face, his gaze boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart ache.

“I’m so glad I found you. So damn grateful you walked into my life. You’ve given me something I never thought I’d have again—a reason to live, a reason to hope.”

He swallowed hard, his voice breaking as he continued.

“You’re every good thing I’ve ever known. Every sunrise that painted the sky in gold. Every quiet moment of peace that I never thought I’d have again. You’re the laughter I didn’t think I’d hear, the love I didn’t think I deserved.”

His lips quivered as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering as though he could pour everything he felt for you into that one touch.

“I don’t know how to let go of you,” he whispered, his voice cracking like thunder through the void.

“But I need you to live, baby. You’re the light this world needs, the light I need, even if I can’t stay."

You sobbed, your hands clutching at him like he was the only thing tethering you to existence. “Then stay,” you pleaded, your voice a raw whisper.

“Stay with me, Joel. I need you. I can’t do this without you.”

His own tears fell harder, but he smiled—a soft, broken smile filled with love and sorrow.

“You can. And you will. Because you’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, and you’ve got so much left to give, so much left to live for.”

He pressed his lips to yours, the kiss tender, full of love, full of goodbye. “I love you,” he murmured against your mouth.

“More than words could ever say, more than this life could ever show. I love you with everything I am, and I’ll love you with everything I’ll ever be.”

The light around you began to shift, and Joel’s form flickered, his edges growing softer, less solid. “Baby,” he said, his voice now barely a whisper,

“you’ll carry me with you. Always. In every step, every breath. I’ll be there, just like you’ve always been there for me.”

“No,” you whimpered, shaking your head violently. “I can’t.”

“You have to, babygirl.” His voice was soft but firm, a command laced with infinite sorrow.

“This isn’t your time. You have a life to live, love to give, and the world needs you. You don’t belong here."

His words sliced through you, leaving you gasping for air. He pressed his lips to your forehead, the kiss lingering, warm and full of finality.

“I’ll always love you, my sweet girl,” he whispered against your skin.

As he pulled away, Jane and Sarah stepped closer, their hands resting gently on his shoulders. You tried to cling to him, to pull him back, but his form began to fade, dissolving into the light.

“No!” you screamed, your voice shattering into the void. “Joel, please! Don’t leave me!”

"No, don't take him away from me please," you look at Jane and Sarah, like they can do anything to make stay Joel with you. But they can't.

His final words reached you like a prayer whispered into the wind. “I’ll never leave you, baby."

"I’ll be in every sunrise, every star, every moment you take a breath. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

"I'll see you when you get here,"

And then he was gone.

You collapsed to your knees, the emptiness swallowing you whole. The void around you seemed colder, darker, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

But then, a faint warmth stirred within you, like the faintest flicker of a candle. His promise, his love—it lingered, eternal, a part of you now.

The sound was deafening. That high-pitched scream of the machine announcing a life extinguished. But it wasn’t yours.

A force stronger than gravity itself yanked at you, pulling you from the void and hurling you back into the world. You gasped for air, your chest heaving as your lungs filled with fire.

Your eyes fluttered open to blinding light, hospital lights, cold and clinical. Pain surged through you like a tidal wave, radiating from every inch of your battered body.

You looked down and saw the remnants of what had been done—stitches running jagged like broken seams, blood still staining your skin.

You're alive, but barely.

The room swam in and out of focus. Faces blurred, voices merged into static. But one name, one thought cut through the haze like a blade. 

Joel.

“Joel,” you croaked, your voice weak, hoarse, but resolute.

The doctors were at your side instantly, their hands on your shoulders, their voices calm but firm as they begged you to lie down. You didn’t listen. You couldn’t.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, your body protesting every movement, every step, but nothing would stop you.

Not now.

Maria’s voice rose behind you, calling your name, panic lacing her tone. You heard her footsteps rushing after you, heard her yelling for Tommy, but you kept going.

People stared as you stumbled through the hallway, their eyes wide with something between pity and horror. You must have looked like death itself—bloodied, fragile, dragging your broken body forward with sheer willpower alone.

But you didn’t care. Nothing mattered except finding him.

And then you did.

Joel.

He was lying still in the hospital bed, pale as the sheets beneath him, his chest unmoving. The machine beside him was silent, its flatline a cruel, unrelenting sound that confirmed your worst fear.

“No,” you whispered, your breath catching in your throat. “No, no, no.”

Ellie was at his side, her small frame hunched over as sobs wracked her body. Tommy stood nearby, his shoulders shaking, his face buried in his hands.

Maria’s voice was somewhere behind you, but you couldn’t hear her anymore.

You pushed past them, your movements frantic, desperate. “NO!” you screamed, throwing yourself at his bedside, your hands clutching his cold, lifeless face.

“No, this isn’t real. Joel, wake up! Wake up!”

Tears streamed down your face, hot and unrelenting, as you shook him, your voice breaking into pieces.

“Please, Joel. Please, come back to me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, please!”

The room felt like it was collapsing around you, the walls closing in, the air too thick to breathe. You pressed your forehead against his, your tears soaking into his skin.

He felt so cold. Too cold.

Your hands trembled as they clung to Joel’s face, your fingers tracing the lines of his cheeks now void of warmth. He was so still, so unbearably still.

The icy chill of his skin seeped into your bones, but you refused to believe this was the end.

It couldn’t be.

“Please, God,” you whispered, your voice trembling like the flicker of a candle in a storm. “Don’t take him from me. Please, not him. I’ll do anything—anything—just let him stay.”

Your words grew louder, desperate, until they became a chant, a plea that echoed through the room.

Tears streaked down your face in rivers, dripping onto his still form.

“Lord,” you prayed, your voice cracking as sobs overtook you. “I have sinned, I know I have. I am broken, unworthy of your grace. But Joel...he is good. He is so good. Spare him, please. Take me instead, but don’t take him. He’s my everything, my heart, my soul. Don’t let this be his end.”

Your fingers curled into fists against his chest, as though you could will his heart to beat again with your sheer desperation.

“You said you are merciful,” you cried. “You are the shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine for the one. Let him be that one, Lord. Bring him back to me. Please, bring him back!”

The room felt heavy, oppressive, as though the weight of the heavens themselves bore down upon you. Your voice climbed higher, louder, animalistic and raw.

“PLEASE!” you screamed. “Don’t you leave him! He is mine, he is yours, and I cannot live without him. Please, God, don’t forsake us.”

The doctors tried to pull you away, their voices a blur as they urged you to let him go.

Their hands gripped your arms, but you wrenched free, throwing yourself onto Joel’s body as though you could shield him from the inevitability of death.

“NO!” you shrieked, your voice ripping through the sterile air. “LET ME GO! NO! JOEL, PLEASE! COME BACK TO ME!”

Your screams were guttural, the kind of pain that stripped you down to nothing, leaving you raw and exposed.

It echoed down the hospital corridors, reaching ears far beyond the room.

Tommy’s heart broke as he watched you. Tears streamed down his face, his hands clenched into fists, helpless to do anything but witness your agony.

Ellie buried her face in Maria’s shoulder, her small frame shaking with sobs as Maria held her close, her own tears falling silently.

You pressed your forehead to Joel’s chest, your body trembling as you sobbed. “It’s my fault,” you whispered, your voice barely audible now. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t—if I had never bring you into this, maybe—maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”

His blood stained your fingers, dried and cracking like the earth after a long drought. You kissed his face, his forehead, his cheeks, your tears washing streaks into the crimson smudges.

“Joel,” you whimpered, your voice breaking as your forehead rested against his. “Please, don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, baby."

"I need you. I need you so much. Come back, please, come back...come back to me..."

***

Joel’s world was a haze, the edges blurred like an old photograph left too long in the sun. The last thing he remembered was you—your cries, your desperate pleas.

And then, there was nothing.

No pain, no noise, just a quiet stillness that wrapped around him like a soft, suffocating blanket.

When his eyes opened, he wasn’t in the hospital. The space around him was unearthly, bathed in a warm, golden light that seemed to hum with peace.

A familiar laugh rang out, soft and lilting, and his heart clenched as he turned toward the sound.

There they were.

Sarah.

Jane.

His breath hitched as his little girl came running toward him, her curls bouncing with every step, her smile as radiant as the sun. He fell to his knees, his arms wide open as she flung herself into his chest.

“Daddy,” she whispered, her small hands clutching his shirt. “I missed you so much.”

Joel’s throat closed, his arms tightening around her as he pressed his face into her hair. “Baby girl,” he rasped, his voice trembling.

“I’ve missed you too. I’ve missed you every day.”

Jane stood a few feet away, her smile soft, her eyes filled with a warmth that broke and healed him all at once.

“You’re here,” Joel said, his voice barely above a whisper. He reached out a hand toward her, but when she moved to take it, his fingers passed through hers like smoke.

“What...?” Joel’s brow furrowed as he stared at his hand.

“You can’t hold us, Joel,” Jane said gently, stepping closer. “Not anymore.”

His chest tightened, his eyes darting between them. “What do you mean? I’m here. You’re here. We’re together now."

Sarah stepped back, her small hand slipping from his grasp. “Daddy,” she said softly, her voice tinged with sadness. “You belong with her.”

Her words hit him like a blow, and his head whipped toward Jane for clarity, for something to hold onto.

“What?” Joel asked, his voice cracking.

“What are you saying?”

“She’s calling for you, Joel,” Jane said, her eyes brimming with understanding. “Don’t you hear her?”

Joel’s heart stuttered as he thought of you—your face wet with tears, your voice raw as you screamed his name.

It echoed in the recesses of his mind, faint but insistent, like the pull of a tide.

“I can’t... I can’t leave you both."

Jane stepped closer, her hand hovering near his cheek but never quite touching. “Joel,” she said softly, her voice like a balm to his wounded soul.

“It’s not your fault.”

His shoulders shook as he closed his eyes, the guilt rising in his chest like a tidal wave. “It is,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

“It’s my fault you’re gone. You and Sarah. If I, If i didn't lose control, If—”

Jane cut him off, her voice firm but kind. “It wasn’t your fault. It was fate, Joel."

"God’s plan."

"As much as it hurts, we were never meant to stay.”

Tears streamed down his face, his fists clenching at his sides. “But you were my family,” he choked out. “You’re my family.”

Jane’s smile softened, and she shook her head gently. “No, Joel,” she said.

“She’s your family now. The woman who’s calling for you, the one who refuses to let go. She’s your home. And the children you two would have... they’re waiting for you.”

Jane nodded, her eyes shimmering with tears. “You found her, Joel,” she said.

“You found the reason to keep going. Now go back. Go to her. And just know that we’ll always be here, by your side.”

Sarah stepped forward, her small hand brushing the air near his. “We’ll always be with you, Daddy,” she said, her voice sweet and unwavering.

Joel’s heart felt like it was being torn in two. He looked at them, his girls, his everything, and then closed his eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

"I love you, daddy."

“Now go.” Jane said.

A force tugged at him, pulling him backward, away from the light, away from them.

Their faces blurred, their forms dissolving into the golden glow as the world around him grew dark.

And then he heard it—your voice. Raw, desperate, filled with a love so fierce it defied everything.

“Joel, please! Come back to me!”

***

(listen to this for this scene, xx)

The English countryside stretched endlessly before you, a quilt of rolling green hills dotted with wildflowers and the occasional stone cottage, their chimneys releasing tendrils of smoke into the brisk morning air.

The sky above was a canvas of soft pastels, where the first light of dawn kissed the earth with a gentle embrace.

Yet, even amidst this beauty, your heart felt heavy—a weight you had carried for five long years.

Five years since everything changed.

The memories came unbidden, sharp as the cold breeze that whispered through the grass. They were vivid, like paintings etched in fire, each stroke searing with the weight of all you endured.

You remembered Texas—the dry, oppressive heat of your small town, the suffocating walls of the preacher’s house, and the silent screams you carried within you.

You were just the preacher's daughter then, the perfect picture of obedience. But beneath the surface, the wounds left by your father ran deep.

His hands left bruises, his words left scars, and his righteous fury left you trembling in the dark.

And then there was Negan.

The man who had stolen you away from Joel, the man who nearly destroyed you both. You still remembered the cold steel of his chains, the cruelty in his gaze, and the weight of hopelessness in that basement.

He had tried to take everything—your love, your freedom, your soul. But the ache in your chest reminded you that he had failed. You had fought.

You had survived.

California.

It had been your dream once—a place where sunshine and salt air might have smoothed over the jagged edges of your memories.

You had imagined golden beaches and blue skies erasing the shadows of your past.

But when the time came, the brightness of that place felt like a lie. It was too glaring, too sharp for a soul so fractured.

Instead, you fled across the ocean to the English countryside, where the world moved slower and softer.

Here, the hum of life was a quiet balm, the rolling hills and open fields a canvas of peace.

The sound of children’s laughter pulled you from your thoughts. Their bright, melodic voices mingled with the chirping birds and rustling leaves.

You turned, watching them run through the yard, their small figures glowing in the morning light. Their joy was an anchor, a reminder of what you had fought so hard to build.

A faint smile tugged at your lips. They didn’t know the depth of the ground beneath their feet—the battles you had waged, the demons you had vanquished to stand where you were now.

There had been years of sleepless nights, haunted by the shadows of your father and the cruelty of men like Negan.

Therapists had tried to reach you with kind faces and soft voices, but no amount of words could silence the screams in your mind.

The memories were relentless, dragging you into spirals of despair until you admitted yourself to a mental hospital.

Healing had been slow, agonizing work, each step forward feeling like climbing a mountain barefoot. Not all scars faded—some you carried like a hidden roadmap of your survival.

Yet here you were, standing in the golden light, breathing in the scent of wild lavender, alive and grateful.

The breeze caressed your skin, and then you felt it—a hand, strong and steady, sliding around your waist.

That touch, that presence—you knew it as intimately as your own heartbeat. It brings you comfort.

“Lost in your thoughts again?” His voice was low, warm, familiar. It settled over you like a prayer answered.

Joel.

There he was, standing before you, a figure drawn from dreams and memory.

His face was lined with years, his hair streaked with more gray now, but his eyes—those deep, brown eyes—still held the strength you had clung to through every storm.

The memories rushed in, unrelenting. You saw the hospital again—the sterile smell of antiseptic, the blinding lights, the cacophony of voices urging you to let him go.

You hadn’t.

You couldn’t.

For those agonizing moments, you believed you had lost him. You had screamed and sobbed, clinging to his lifeless form, willing him back to you with every ounce of your soul.

And then, like a divine answer, Joel had gasped for air.

It had been nothing short of a miracle.

The doctors called it improbable; you called it grace.

A man who had been stitched together by tragedy had been handed back to you, like Lazarus rising from the tomb.

But even miracles come with scars. The year that followed was not without chaos.

Joel was proven innocent.

With all the evidence back in Negan's house, his DNA all over the place and the bodies and thanks to Emma, who had captured Negan’s confession on tape.

The truth had shifted blame away from Joel, painting Negan as the monster responsible for Jamie and Ben’s deaths.

Joel finally walked free, but freedom didn’t erase the shadows.

For a year, both of you were haunted by what had happened. You by the ghosts of your father and Negan, Joel by the weight of Ben and Jamie and the fear of losing you again.

Yet, through every sleepless night and every whispered fear, you clung to each other, vowing to fight for the future you both deserved.

And look where it had brought you.

Joel’s hand tightened around your waist as you gazed into his eyes. The love there was steady, unyielding, the kind of love that had carried you through hell and back.

He's your sanctuary, your savior, your home.

You thought of the vows you had whispered to him on your wedding day, standing beneath an arch of wildflowers in this very field.

“To love and to hold, in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, until death do us part.”

Yet your love had defied even death.

You rested your hand against Joel’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart—each beat a testament to the life you now lived, the love you had fought so hard to keep. The world around you seemed suspended, wrapped in the golden haze of the countryside, but your mind drifted to places far from this gentle field.

“You’ve given me a life I never thought I deserved,” you whispered, your voice trembling under the weight of gratitude and sorrow.

Joel’s lips curved into that faint, familiar smile—the one that always held a mix of strength and tenderness. “You gave me one too, doll. You’re the reason I kept going.”

The words settled deep into your chest, yet a shadow flickered behind your eyes. The life you held now—this sanctuary you built together—wasn’t free. It had been bought with sacrifice, and you could never forget those who had been lost along the way.

Emma.

Her name was a quiet ache in your heart, a hymn of both love and loss. You still saw her sometimes in your dreams—her soft smile, her fierce determination, the way she had stood between you and Negan that final time. Her blood had stained your hands, her final breath etched into your memory like scripture on ancient stone. Jim, her husband, followed her into the grave, his love for her carrying him into the arms of eternity.

At night, you knelt at your bedside, your hands clasped tightly as you whispered prayers into the silence. “Lord, grant them rest. Let their souls find peace in Your grace. For Emma, for Jim, for the girls who never found freedom. For the innocents who were lost, for those who suffered.”

The words felt like offerings, fragile and holy, sent up to the heavens where you hoped they might find solace.

And then, there were your parents.

Your father’s shadow still lingered in the corners of your mind. His voice, heavy with righteous fury, had once filled your world with fear. His hands, meant to guide, had instead punished, and his sermons on forgiveness had tasted bitter on your tongue for years.

Yet here you were, trying to live those very words he had preached.

Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

Forgiveness wasn’t a flood; it was a river—slow, winding, carving through the stone of your heart over time. You had forgiven your mother first.

She, too, was a prisoner in her way, bound by duty and fear, but her love had always been there, quiet and trembling.

Your father, though—he was the stone that took the longest to break.

You had stared at his face in your mind, the lines of anger and authority softened now by memory, and whispered, “I forgive you.” The words felt like pulling thorns from your skin—sharp, painful, but freeing.

Even now, the pain lingered, like bruises that hadn’t fully faded.

But you had chosen to let go, to leave those wounds in the hands of God, the ultimate judge and the endless source of mercy.

If He could forgive, how could you not try?

The weight of your past drifted on the breeze, carried high into the endless sky where it could no longer touch you.

The air in the English countryside was sweet and clean, like a hymn sung in spring, wrapping your soul in a quiet kind of grace.

This was your sanctuary—a land flowing with the milk of peace and the honey of redemption, where time felt softer, like it had been ordained just for you.

Joel’s decision to move here had been as much for you as it had been for himself. Away from the cities, from the noise, from the echoes of everything you had left behind.

The ranch, with its soft bleats of sheep and a garden kissed by sunlight, was a place to plant roots—not just in the earth, but in each other.

Joel still worked, commuting to London for his business, but home was here, in the rolling green hills, with you and the children.

Tommy and Maria, now raising seven-year-old Luke, remained stateside, but their love traveled across oceans. Ellie, newly wed to Dina, lived closer in London.

She came often, her laughter filling your home like music, her love for her little brother and sister an anchor in your growing family.

Frank and Bill, although they can't visit much to England, they always have time for video call you and the kids, and sending them the strawberries from your own garden.

You, once a wandering soul yearning for a place to belong, were now a wife and a mother.

Two beautiful children—Emma, with her bright, curious eyes, and Jack, with his chubby hands that reached for the world—had brought new meaning to your life.

And Joel…your husband, the father of your children.

Joel had become a father again, though you could see in his every move the man who had always been a protector, a nurturer, even through his hardest years.

This was the family you had prayed for as a child. A home stitched together not just by blood but by love, by the grace of second chances.

The children’s laughter rang out, clear as church bells on a quiet Sunday morning.

You turned toward the sound, watching them run through the field, their joy as boundless as the sky.

Gratitude swelled in your chest, a psalm of thanksgiving rising silently to the heavens.

A car horn echoed in the distance, cutting through the stillness. You squinted toward the road and saw a familiar truck pulling into the drive.

Tommy, Maria, Luke—and Ellie and Dina. They had come to celebrate Joel’s 56th birthday.

A smile broke across your face as you waved them in. “Emma! Jack! Come here!” you called, your voice full of warmth. “Uncle Tommy’s here! Your sister’s here too!”

The children turned, their little legs carrying them toward you as fast as they could.

You scooped up Jack, his tiny hands clutching at your shoulders, while Joel bent to lift Emma, who squealed in delight as her arms wrapped around his neck.

“It’s Daddy’s birthday today,” you reminded them, your voice playful. “What do we say to Daddy?”

Emma and Jack turned their bright faces to Joel and shouted in unison, “Happy birthday, Daddy! Thank you for everything, We love you so much!”

Their tiny hands reached for him, planting sloppy, sweet kisses on his cheeks.

Joel’s expression softened, his lips parting slightly as he stood in awe of the moment, his hands gentle yet secure around Emma.

Ellie arrived just in time, stepping out of the truck with a teasing grin. “Here comes your favorite big sister! Who wants candy?”

Emma and Jack squirmed out of your arms and Joel’s, running to Ellie with the excitement only children could muster. You laughed, watching her kneel to their height, pulling candies from her pockets like a magician performing a miracle.

“Happy birthday, old man,” Ellie teased as she stood, turning to Joel. “Old as a fossil now, huh?”

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “Still got more energy than you, kid.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ellie replied, rolling her eyes, though her smile betrayed her affection.

As the others went inside, you heard Tommy has played Harvest Moon by Neil Young inside your house, full volume, as Joel saw him give him a wink and a thumbs up.

You laughs when you saw it, "This is our song," you said to Joel, as he wrapped you around his arm, "I can still remember those rides with you, baby."

You chuckles as you lingered with Joel, the two of you standing in the soft afternoon light. The air was quiet again, save for the rustle of leaves and the distant laughter from the house.

“Happy birthday, Joel,” you said softly, holding out a gift wrapped in simple paper.

He opened it slowly, his breath catching as he saw what lay inside. It was a photo album, filled with snapshots of your life together—the two of you, the children, Ellie, Tommy, Maria.

On the first page, written in the shaky handwriting of Emma and Jack, were the words: 

Happy birthday, Daddy. Thank you for everything that you've done for us, we are forever grateful for you, we love you so much! -With love, Always, Emma, Jack, and Momma.

Joel stared at the page, his fingers brushing lightly over the words. His throat worked as he tried to speak, but no words came. Instead, he turned to you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

He kissed you then, deeply, his lips pressing into yours with a fervor that spoke of everything he couldn’t say. When he pulled back, his voice was rough, filled with emotion.

“You’re the best gift I’ve ever had, doll,” he said. “You, this life, and these beautiful little minxes and the big minx we’ve got. I never thought I’d deserve this.”

Tears stung your own eyes as you cupped his face, your thumb brushing over the lines etched by years of sorrow and joy.

Once, you were just a preacher's daughter—raised in the shadow of a pulpit, where every word of faith felt like a heavy garment, protecting you from the world's harshness.

Your life shaped by doctrines, by prayers, by the weight of others' expectations, as though you were a vessel to carry their beliefs, not your own.

Yet, through the storms of confusion, there was always a flicker—a quiet flame deep within you, a seed planted by grace, watered by love.

You hadn’t always seen its roots, but God had always been there, gently guiding you when the world seemed too loud, when your faith faltered.

He had whispered your name in the dark, reminded you that you were never alone.

Now, standing here with Joel, the weight of the past felt lighter. The ghosts of old wounds, of the pain that once defined you, no longer reached into this space you and Joel had carved out together.

His calloused fingers, reminders of everything he had fought through, told a story of survival.

And yet, in the stillness of the twilight, his touch was gentle—a promise of love and safety, a love you had never dared to dream possible.

As the stars began to pierce the darkening sky, you and Joel stood together, watching the first one flicker into view.

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds—the verse that had carried you through your darkest hours, and now, you felt the truth of it wash over you.

Your heart, once shattered, was whole again.

Your soul, once heavy, was light with love.

Through all the loss and pain, God had been with you, guiding you through, and now you stood here, redeemed—not by your own strength, but by His infinite mercy.

“I love you,” you whispered, tilting your head to press a kiss to Joel’s cheek.

“I love you too, doll,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “More than words can say.”

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close as he rested his forehead against yours. “Don’t ever leave me, okay?”

You leaned into him, your voice a gentle promise as you whispered into his ear, “I’m always going to be right here. No one’s going anywhere.”

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, his breath warm against your skin. You leaned into him, feeling his strength, his warmth, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

In that moment, all that mattered was the two of you, standing in the soft twilight, wrapped in the cocoon of each other’s love. 

For once, you were free.

Free from the past. Free from the darkness that had once suffocated you. Free from the weight of the world, because here, in this corner of earth, you had found your peace.

This was no longer a dream—it was your reality. A life that had been rebuilt in the image of grace. More beautiful than anything you could have imagined.

Your life, once a patchwork of broken pieces, was now whole. A garden blooming after a long, hard winter.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours—built with love, nurtured through faith, and made whole through forgiveness.

And as you crossed the threshold of your home, the warm light spilling over the threshold, you realized this wasn’t just a happy ending.

It was your promised land. The life you had always longed for.

This was salvation.

With Joel by your side, the stars above, and the grace of God wrapping around you like the softest blanket.

You knew, truly knew,

That you had finally found your home.

－ＴＨＥ ＥＮＤ－

To the readers, Thank you so much from the deepest place in my heart for walking this journey with me. Your time, your attention, your willingness to explore this story with me means more than words can say. Writing this story, sharing these moments, has been a gift—a gift made even more meaningful by the space you've given to these characters, to their struggles, their growth, and their love. It is a beautiful thing to know that stories, like the ones we share, can find a place in someone's heart. I am forever grateful for you, for your patience, and for the grace you've extended to this narrative. You are the reason these words exist. I hope that, in some way, this story has touched you, made you feel something real, something true. If it has, know that my heart is full of gratitude. Thank you for being here. Thank you for being a part of this. Thank you for all the support and love from the beginning of it. and special thanks to Mother Ethel Cain, Hayden, your masterpiece change something inside of me. Until I see you in the next story. 🩵

With all my love, N.H xxx

[nina-ya]

Hellooo might I suggest Sanji + "The problem is, if I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop." ? 👀 ilu /platonic

A/N: you got me yearning for sanji you really have no idea what you've done Pairing: Sanji x Reder CW: None WC: ~700

You had offered to help Sanji with dinner preparations more often than not lately, finding any and every excuse to spend more time with him, to watch the way his hands worked with an elevated skill that was utterly captivating, and to lose yourself in the soft cadence of his voice as he hummed a tune under his breath. You sat at a nearby counter, your gaze fixed on Sanji as he moved with an almost otherworldly grace. 

Spices, cigarette smoke, and freshly baked bread that wafted from the oven all melted together to create a scent that can only be described as comforting. Each breath you took was laced with the essence of home, a sensation that settled in your chest and spread through your veins like liquid gold.

Sanji stood on the other side of the counter, opposite to you, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the defined muscles of his forearms. The light caught on his blond hair, gracing him with a halo effect. His fingers moved gracefully across the cutting board, the knife glinting with each pass through the vegetables. He briefly glanced up, catching your gaze, and that oh-so-charming smile spread across his lips, almost as inviting as the sunlight that filtered through the windows.

“You know, it’s dangerous to watch me like that,” he teased the words a soft caress that brushed against your senses. “A man might get ideas.”

You shifted in your seat, feeling the warmth of his attention spreading through your head to toe “And what kind of ideas are those?” you asked, your voice suggesting an underlying challenge that dangled between you two.

Sanji paused, setting the knife down on the counter with a small thud before leaning forward, hands braced on the counter, long springers splayed out, the distance between the two of you shrinking until it felt like the world was reduced to a small space that separated your bodies. “The problem is if I kissed you,” he said, voice low and smooth, “I don’t think I’d be able to stop.”

You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, the quickened thump thump thump reverberating through your head as you held his gaze, feeling as if you were standing right on the precipice of something profound- something that had been simmering beneath the surface since the first night you’d stayed late to help him with the dishes. 

“What if I don’t want you to stop?” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, the words that spill from your lips an indirect confession that hung between you two like a secret finally unveiled.  

A slow smile spread across Sanji’s lips, and he never once broke eye contact as he rounded the corner with long strides, and in only a moment, he was at your side. He reached out and you felt gentle fingers on your chin as he tilted your head up. “Then we might have a bit of a problem,” he murmured, leaning down to capture your lips in a gentle and consuming kiss. He tasted of cigarettes and the wine that he’d been sipping on as he cooked, a rich flavor that you want to taste over and over again. The kiss deepened, his lips coaxing yours to part and his tongue brushed against yours, sending a shiver down your spine as you let out a breathless whimper into his mouth. 

His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers anchoring you to him, refusing to let this moment slip away. You melted against him, your own hands finding purchase against his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his clothed body beneath his touch.

You felt the world blur as everything else faded away until there was only the taste of his lips, the heat of his body, the soft sighs and noises of contentment that escaped your throat as he kissed you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

You both knew that dinner preparations were long forgotten, but neither of you cared. This is what mattered, this single moment, and the knowledge that neither of you would ever want to stop.