#like veins beneath the town

[crossover-it-all]

Band Geeks Parody [Pt. 1] (Fandom-cross it all Story)

Kinito: is this the part where we start kicking?!

Jesse Thornhart: No Kinito, that's chorus line.

Oliver (FPE): Kicking?! Oh, i want to do some kicking!! *Kicks Toy Chica's butt*

Toy Chica: OW! Why... you...

*Toy Chica proceeds to beat up Oliver (FPE) and they both take it outside, with Oliver screaming and everyone stare blankly as Cuphead and Mugman hugs each other, Freya suprised while cover her mouth with hand and yeah... Jesse just shocked*

Oliver: *enters the building, stuffed in a trombone* Whoever is the owner of the white sedan, you left your lights on. *get back in his seat, tooting a music note out of his mouth*

Credits:

KinitoPET by Troy_en

Jesse Thornhart by @michaelathisten

Oliver (Fundamental Paper Education) by Kaatie

Toy Chica by Scott Cawthon

Cuphead and Mugman by Studio MDHR

[kitsunequeen1987]

More Kitsune x Jesse content 'cause it's been a while. ❤💜

[pospoets]

I have a side hyperfixation on this game

@michaelathisten THIS IS FOR YOUR AMAZING GAME

Also A fan oc below

I kind of tried to copy the game artstyle but it kind of failed?

[averagekindergartenfan]

Guys help i just spent minutes downloading Jesse Thornheart tweet images and I made an album for it. It has 32 images omfg

[susie-dreemurr]

Drawing backgrounds is the bane of my existence. Anyway, here’s Alice from TWSTM! I may have changed her outfit a bit, but it’s fine.

[luvsupa]

BUT YOU’RE A …VAMPIRE?!

terrible summary: fucking the towns hottest college student—a bonus. . . he’s a vampire!

tags: vampire!choso x fem!reader, choso and reader are in college, reader babysits yuji, heavily inspired by tvd 🙂‍↕️, lowkey long before smut scene sorryyy, smut (p in v), face sitting, mating press, blōod play, sqūirting, feral choso, sub!choso (a little), hes insanely fast and strong, errmm idk what else, mdni

w.c: 2.3k

a/n: 1. TY GUYS FOR 1.5K ???? THIS IS INSANEEE, 2. I hope u guys enjoy bc this is my first kinktober so I hope I satisfy y’all 🧟‍♀️

kinktober masterlist

“this movie’s not even scary,” yuji mutters from under the blankets, trying to hide the tremble in his voice. he begged you to play halloween, the most gruesome movie you’ve ever seen. maybe it wasn’t the best idea for a teenage boy—he’d probably have nightmares—but you just wanted him to stop whining. you giggle as he shrieks when michael myers catches a screaming woman, his eyes glued to the screen despite his words.

suddenly, the movie pauses, and you glance up from your phone, wondering why. “can you do my halloween makeup now? megumi’s coming soon, and we’re going trick-or-treating,” yuji asks, hopeful. you sigh internally, not because of him, but because this isn’t how you planned to spend your halloween. midterms are next week, and you haven’t even started studying!

you nod, grabbing your makeup bag already packed with halloween supplies. yuji sits in the dining room—where the lighting is better—facing the television. he’s jumpy as the movie resumes, flinching at every scare, ruining the makeup more than once. you’re just applying fake blood to his mouth to piece together the vampire look when the front door slams open, the sound deafening. you both scream, your heart pounding as your eyes dart toward the source.

choso.

you nearly drop the makeup brush, fake blood splattering the polished floor. choso’s laughter echoes through the room, and you stare at him in shock, your heart racing from the scare—and the sight of him. you haven’t seen him in nearly a year since he moved abroad for school. you thought your crush on him had faded, but now, seeing him again…he’s even more attractive. more buff. and is he dressed as a vampire? how fitting for the brothers.

choso brings in, a beautiful girl trailing behind him, her expression uneasy. you notice something odd—they’re matching.

“that wasn’t funny, choso,” yuji grumbles, pushing him away when choso messes up his slicked-back hair. but your attention is elsewhere, drawn to choso’s costume. the fangs look too real, and dried blood stains the corners of his lips. your stomach twists with unease.

“hey, choso, your costume is… really cool,” you manage to say, your voice catching as his gaze locks onto yours. his eyes—there’s a tint of red. it feels like he’s staring straight through you, searching for something deeper. and then, you notice the girl again, her pale complexion, her exhausted, haunted look.

and her neck.

multiple bite marks—no, fang marks—line her skin, and you swear you see blood trickling from one of them. who in the hell did their makeup?

“costume? oh no, we’re not—”

“teenage versions of dracula and draculara,” choso cuts in coldly, his gaze never leaving yours. your heart pounds, the tension in the room thickening. you know what dracula looks like and it’s not what he’s wearing.

the movie continues playing in the background as it fades into nothing. choso’s lips twitch as he stares at your neck, his eyes darkening when they land on the pulsing vein just beneath the surface. you feel a lump form in your throat, and yuji shifts awkwardly between you both, oblivious to the growing danger.

without another word, choso snaps out of it, pulling the girl upstairs in a hurry. loud, frantic footsteps echo as the door slams shut behind them. you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

after finishing yuji’s costume, the movie mercifully ends. you take a few photos of yuji with his plastic vampire fangs before megumi and nobara arrive in matching outfits. they thank you, and with a final warning to stay close to the block, you send them off. at last, you’re alone—ready to relax.

but when you return to the dining room, your peace is shattered. the mess from the makeup is worse than you remembered, and you groan. you huff as you start cleaning up, scrubbing the floor and tossing used brushes into the nearby sink. and then, you feel it.

someone’s watching you.

you freeze, a chill running down your spine. slowly, you turn around, your heart racing, and nearly scream again. choso is leaning against the staircase, his dark eyes fixed on you, an unsettling smile tugging at his lips.

“gosh, choso, you scared me,” you exclaim, clutching the counter for support.

“no need to be scared,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous as he walks closer following you into the kitchen. “i was just… admiring the view.”

heat rushes to your cheeks, but there’s a sinister edge to his words that makes you uneasy. still, you mutter a soft “pervert,” hoping to shake off the tension. but choso hears you clearly, his dark chuckle sending shivers down your spine.

you walk to the dirty dishes as you start cleaning up the previous mess, trying to ignore the growing sense of dread as he offers to help, standing too close for comfort. his presence is suffocating, his body radiating cold as he dries each dish you hand him. “so… you got a boyfriend?” he asks bluntly, and your breath catches.

“no… i’ve been busy with school,” you stammer, your heart pounding in your chest. his lips curl into a smirk, and you hear him whisper, “good girl.”

your knees weaken, and you squeeze your thighs together, feeling a surge of warmth between your legs. he knows. he can smell it. your mind spins as you struggle to focus on washing the dishes. when your hand accidentally brushes his, the icy coldness jolts you, your breath hitching.

you glance at him through the window in front of the sink. dread pooling in your stomach. no way…

the fangs. the eyes. the ice cold touch.

he’s a—

“c’monnn, you’re letting the water run too long,” choso interrupts, snapping you back to reality. you quickly apologize, shaking off the thought as you rinse off the next dirty dish. holding a tiny kitchen knife, you stare at your reflection in the window. choso stands impatiently, waiting for you to hurry up. biting your lip, you rinse the knife, but just before you hand it to him, you ‘accidentally’ slice the tip of your finger.

you watch the way his eyes darken, his pupils dilating as veins bulge beneath his skin. his lips part, his fangs elongating as he watches your blood dribble down with the almost animalistic hunger.

panic grips you and instinct kicks in, and you sprint for the front door, tears stinging your eyes, terrified of ending up like the victims in the horror movies. you twist the doorknob, but choso is suddenly in front of you, covering your mouth with his hand as he dragging you back inside, the door slams behind you with a deafening thud.

“shh, baby…I know, ’m not gonna hurt you,” choso whispers, his voice rough as he coaxes you to the couch. you tremble, tears blurring your vision.

“cho… you’re a—a vampire?” you manage to choke out, the words feeling unreal in your mouth. choso nods, his eyes fixed on the blood still oozing from your finger. something inside you shifts, your fear dissolving as something darker takes over.

fuck it.

“you want it, cho’?” you murmur, lifting your finger to his lips, smearing your blood across them. his eyes roll back, his fangs glistening as he lets out a desperate moan, his hunger consuming him.

you lean closer, your voice a seductive whisper, “then take it.”

and oh did you truly mess up. badly.

choso had never tasted anything as sweet and addicting as you—the sweetest he’s ever known since his transformation into a vampire. that’s why he has you sitting on his face, your pussy suffocating him as his icy hands pull you deeper against his mouth. your thighs tremble on either side of his head, fingers gripping the armrest for support. your eyes roll back as his slick tongue plunges deep into your pulsing walls, his nose brushing against your swollen clit.

“ch-cho’. . slow d-down..” you wail, trying to pull away from his inhuman tongue—but he growls. the wet, messy sounds of slurping and groans fill your ears as you’re losing yourself on his tongue. you can’t help it—you start grinding even deeper into his face, chasing that high as he hums against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your core. your nails dig into the armrest, knuckles white, as you glance down with glazed eyes—his brows are furrowed, veins pulsing under his skin, soft brown hair that was once tied up now sprawled wildly across the couch.

he’s slurping you up like you’re his last meal, completely lost in the taste of you. it’s like you’ve got him under some kind of spell, and he can’t stop. he pulls you deeper into his face until you’re sure you’ll break. your thighs shake uncontrollably, your stomach tightening as you feel your orgasm slam into you, broken cries spilling from your lips, soaking his tongue in your release.

“mmf— ‘m gonna—”

“not yet,” choso commands, lifting you off his face and tossing you flat on your back with a rough ‘oof’ escaping your lips. your mind is too foggy to register anything as he grabs your ankles, placing them on either side of his shoulders. your cunt spasms uncontrollably, slick dripping down as you whimper, watching him grip the base of his thick cock. his chubby tip parts your swollen folds, sliding up and down your dripping slit, teasing your twitching hole, not giving you what you desperately need. your gaze locks with his, and your heart skips a beat—his eyes fixed on the pulsing vein in your neck, his mouth trembling as his fangs grow longer.

“hahh— I need a t-taste,” he moans, the whites of his eyes turning black as he repeats the same words, over and over, to himself. before you can even respond, he slams into you, balls-deep, a broken sob tearing from your throat he’s stretching you so wide it hurts so good as his thick crown head bullies your sweet spot. your whole body jiggles with each brutal thrust, clenching down hard as his cock stretches you abnormally wide. he’s lost in the feeling, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you swear he’s leaving bruises, all while he keeps mumbling to himself, lost in a frenzy.

he’s completely feral, growling with every thrust, eyes locked on your neck like he’s about to tear into you, his cock stretching you wide as your body shakes from the sheer force of his inhumane thrusts.

“y-yes… cho’, have a t-taste,” you stutter, tilting your head to the side, exposing the throbbing vein he’s been eyeing with hunger. his eyes gleam with feral desire as he leans down, his thick cock still relentlessly jackhammering deep inside you. 

he groans into your neck, inhaling your scent, and your shaking hands pull him closer, legs wrapping tight around his waist, locking him in as your eyes roll back. the sharp sting of his fangs sinking deep into your neck pulls a guttural moan from you, his mouth latched onto your skin as he drinks, each slurp sending electric shocks through your body. his thrusts become erratic, vicious, slamming into your poor cervix as he drinks greedily from you.

“s-such a good vampire,” you pant, praising him as he pulls away from your neck, rising up to look at you—and fuck, he’s completely lost in it. his blacked-out eyes, mouth hanging open, dripping with blood, his chin smeared in a mess of fluids. his monstrous look beyond attractive you don’t even think—you grab him by the face and yank him down to your lips, moaning as the metallic tang of your blood touches your tongue. your lips move against his hungrily, tasting the mix of your blood and his spit as he pounds into your sloppy, swollen cunt that grips him so tight it’s driving him crazy. his thrusts become more brutal, more desperate, his cock throbbing as you cling to him, completely helpless under his inhuman strength.

he pulls away from the kiss with a growl, leaving you breathless, licking your lips as the taste of blood lingers. with no warning, choso grabs your thighs and folds you in half—ankles pressed right up against your ears. he fucks you deeper, so deep you swear he’s going to break you, every thrust harder, more punishing than the last as you whimper and sob beneath him.

“fuckkk— pussy’s suckin’ the s-soul outta me,” he groans, forcing your thighs deeper into your chest, bending you in half like you’re nothing. all you can do is take it, your body completely at his mercy, trembling under his brutal, inhuman pace. his cock pounds into you relentlessly, each thrust sending shockwaves through your entire body, your mind turning into a haze of desperate moans and babbled pleas.

and then, it hits—your orgasm slams into you, hard and fast, like a wave crashing over you. eyes rolling back as your walls clamp down around him, milking his cock, spasming so hard you’re seeing stars. your legs shake uncontrollably as you feel the hot rush of your release soaking both of you, dripping down your thighs, adding to the messy slick between your bodies. you’re screaming, but it’s incoherent—just broken sobs and moans, completely overwhelmed by the pleasure ripping through you.

choso feels it too, your pussy squeezing him so tight he can barely move, and with a deep growl, he spills inside you, thick, hot ropes of cum filling you to the brim. you can feel him pulsing inside you, filling you so full that it starts to leak out, your stomach bulging slightly from how much he’s pumped into you. your whole body trembles, completely spent, as your cunt flutters around him, milking every last drop.

“heyy pretty, c’mon—wake up,” choso coos, giving your swollen, throbbing cunt a hard slap. the impact makes you jolt, and the wet, sticky sound echoes through the living room as your mixed juices splatter everywhere, slick covering your lower stomach and seeping into the couch. broken moans slip past your lips, your eyes fluttering open just in time to see him towering over you, his cock still hard and dripping with cum, more spilling from his tip.

“we’re nowhere near done.” 

[dathen]

We’re so used to the sexual reading of the entire book of Dracula, which takes the sensuality of the early chapters and jams everything that follows it into the same metaphor no matter how poorly it fits, but I feel the segment we’re approaching works much better with a lens of chronic illness and disease.

Vampire legends are inextricably intertwined with disease. Many of them are said to have been birthed by burying victims of disease too soon, who later seem to rise from the dead. But what’s more is that Stoker and his family have deep-seated trauma over disease: his mother had to flee her hometown at the age of 14 because of a horrific cholera epidemic, and Stoker himself was bedridden as a child from an illness that no one could identify.

Found this quote from Irish Historian Mary McGarry:

Bram as an adult asked his mother to write down her memories of the epidemic for him, and he supplemented this using his own historic research of Sligo’s epidemic. Scratching beneath the surface (of this essay), I found parallels with Dracula. [For instance,] Charlotte says cholera enters port towns having traveled by ship, and can travel overland as a mist—just like Dracula, who infects people with his unknown contagion.

I bring this up because a lot of academic analysis insists that Lucy sleepwalking is proof of her being the Slutty Woman archetype that needs to be punished. This suggested symbolism is hilarious when put next to the text saying she inherited it from her father, but I’d like to suggest a different angle from the lens of disease suggested earlier:

Lucy’s sleepwalking is a condition that predates Dracula but makes her an easy target for him to prey on. Through the lens of disease symbolism, she now is someone with chronic illness or disability who is especially vulnerable to infectious disease. This becomes a cross-section of Stoker’s trauma regarding disease: his own mystery illness and his mother fleeing a plague.

To wind down my rambles with a bit of a soapbox, I feel this adds a very poignant layer to the struggle to keep Lucy alive. The COVID pandemic showed a horrifying level of casual ableism vs disabled and immunodeficient individuals, shrugging off their vulnerability and even their deaths with “well COVID only kills them.” There’s something deeply gratifying at seeing the way everyone around Lucy fights to the bitter end to protect her and refuses to just give her up to Dracula, whether it’s Mina physically chasing him away or the suitor squad pouring their blood into her veins or Van Helsing desperately searching for cures. The vulnerable deserve no less than this. They’re not acceptable casualties.

[23victoria]

𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔡𝔦𝔯𝔱𝔶 𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔱

*☾⋆･ﾟ pairings: 𝔰𝔢𝔟𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔞𝔫 𝔳𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔩 𝔵 𝔶𝔭𝔲𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯!𝔣𝔢𝔪!𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯

word count: 6.4𝓀

*☾⋆･ﾟ synopsis: you knew it was wrong, sneaking around with your dads best-friend, but you couldn’t control it…he was just too fucking hot, plus, his dick was big 𝔠𝓌!☠︎ age gap, corruption, semi-public sex, rough sex, car sex, fingering, anal fingering, oral (f & m), degradation, riding, body worship, daddy kink, overstimulation, size kink, belly bulge, dacryphilia, breeding kink, pregnancy talk, spanking, nipple play, dirty talk, pussy worshipping, cum play, cockwarming

authors note: there’s an age gap, age is not specified in here so you can control the age cap, it is father bsf so…yea, it’s just porn tbh, i kinda struggle with this idk why, kinda losing motivation (help me) but i hope you enjoyyy! ask, likes, and reblogs are appreciated!!

𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔞 𝔟𝔢 𝔞𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔶 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱? CLICK HERE!

*☾⋆･ﾟ f1 MASTERLIST KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

You sit at the small corner table in the cafe, legs bouncing with barely-contained energy. The gentle hum of chatter fills the space, the occasional clink of ceramic mugs and the whirr of the coffee machine adding to the background noise. But all you can focus on is the pounding of your own heart, the jittery, electric current racing through your veins as anticipation claws at you. You know it's wrong—everything about what you're doing today goes against what you’ve been taught, especially by your dad. He raised you better. If he knew…

You shake your head, trying to push the guilt away, but it lingers, gnawing at the edges of your excitement. God, the thrill and anxiety of it all is making it impossible to sit still. Your hands wrap around your coffee cup, fingers tapping against the ceramic as you bring the drink to your lips, trying to steady yourself. But the butterflies in your stomach refuse to settle, and you can’t deny that part of you loves the rush.

After all, how could you resist? His touches, those fleeting moments of eye contact, the way he smirks at you like you’re sharing a secret with just one glance—how could anyone resist? The fire that ignites in your belly every time you catch his gaze, the way his mere presence sets your skin alight with longing. It’s not like you planned for any of this to happen. It just…did.

Your parents had moved back to town when you were 18, and that’s when you first saw him—your dad’s best friend. Older, of course, but Jesus, the man was stunning. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a deep voice that made your heart flutter every time he spoke. You knew from the start that he was trouble, but back then, it was just a crush. Just harmless glances when he came over to hang out with your dad, harmless daydreams about what it would be like to be noticed by him. You were sure he knew, even then, but he never acted on it. Neither did you. Not until that night.

It was the night everything changed. You were 23, out with friends at a club in a different city, far enough away from your hometown to feel a sense of anonymity. The music had been loud, the alcohol flowing, and when you saw him across the room, your heart skipped a beat. You had been out of town, miles from anyone who could know or judge you, and when his eyes met yours from across the bar, you knew. This was your chance. The tension that had been simmering beneath the surface for years finally exploded. One drink led to another, and before you knew it, you were in his hotel room, breathless and aching, as he made you his in ways you could have never imagined.

God, you still get shivers thinking about that night. The way he touched you, how full he made you feel, how he whispered your name like a prayer while he pounded into you, hard and relentless. The way you screamed for him. No one had ever made you feel like that—no one else even came close. That night sealed everything. He was yours, and you were his, no matter the consequences.

And now, here you are, a year later, still sneaking around, still caught in the web of secrecy and desire. Every stolen moment feels more thrilling than the last. The guilt still eats at you sometimes, like now, sitting here waiting for him, knowing full well that it’s wrong. Knowing full well that he’s your dad’s best friend and that there’s an age gap that would make people talk. But fuck, how could you regret it? He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you, and you can’t bring yourself to walk away, no matter how much you try to reason with yourself.

You glance around the cafe, checking the time on your phone again. He’s late, but he always makes you wait, probably enjoying the fact that it drives you crazy. The need for him is clawing at your insides, and the week you’ve been away for work hasn’t helped. You couldn’t see him—only a few rushed phone calls and texts exchanged here and there. You missed his touch. You missed his lips on yours. You missed the way he made you feel whole.

God, you need him now. You shift in your seat, squeezing your legs together, trying to alleviate the ache between them, but it’s no use. Your mind is swirling with images of what’s going to happen when he finally gets here. You close your eyes, leaning back in your chair, letting your thoughts drift back to all the times you’ve been together, sneaking around like teenagers, fucking in every place you could find—his car, the back room of his shop, the bathroom at your parents' house during a party when no one was looking. There’s no shame left in it, only raw, desperate desire.

The door to the cafe opens, the bell above it chiming softly, and for a moment, your heart stops. Is it him? You open your eyes, trying not to be too obvious as you glance toward the entrance, but there’s no sign of him yet. You sigh and take another sip of your coffee, willing yourself to calm down. But then, you hear it—the unmistakable sound of his voice, deep and smooth, ordering a coffee at the counter. It’s the same order he always gets, but today, there’s an extra word slipped in—your secret code. A signal that he’s here for you.

Your heart leaps in your chest, and you quickly stand, grabbing your purse as you casually make your way toward the back exit. You don’t dare look at him as you pass by the register, knowing you’ll give everything away if you do. Instead, you focus on the door, slipping out into the alleyway behind the cafe. It’s quiet, the faint hum of the town’s traffic in the distance. The cool air hits your skin, making you shiver, though it’s not just from the cold.

You wait, leaning against the brick wall, your pulse racing as you stare down the alley. It only takes a few minutes before you feel him—his presence behind you, the warmth of his body pressing against yours as his hands slide around your waist, grabbing your ass possessively. His lips are on your neck in an instant, and you can’t help but moan as his teeth scrape against your skin.

"You always look so fucking good in this dress," he mutters, his hands impatiently gathering up the fabric of your sundress, sliding it higher until his fingers meet the skin of your thighs. "I’ve been thinking about you all week, baby. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you like this—squirming under me, so needy."

His words send a wave of heat through your body, your cheeks flushing as your mind spins with the memory of all the times you’ve snuck off together, the thrill of it never fading. But this time, after being apart for so long, it feels even more intense. 

"Fuck, I’ve missed that," he breathes, his voice gravelly, his hands tightening their grip on your hips. "I’ve missed you, baby. You have no idea."

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your mind clouded with lust as he pulls your panties to the side, his fingers teasing your entrance as he rubs you slowly, deliberately. "I missed you too," you manage to say, your voice thick with need.

He presses you against the brick wall, his body shielding you from view as he leans in, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss. His hand trails down your side, the warmth of his touch sending shivers up your spine, and you can feel the heat between you building with every second.

You gasp into his mouth as his hand slips beneath your skirt, his fingers finding their way to your core with ease. He doesn’t waste time teasing you; instead, he plunges two fingers deep inside you, his pace relentless from the start. The sudden intrusion leaves you breathless, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you try to steady yourself.

“Seb…” you moan, your voice barely a whisper as his fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that has your knees buckling. He smirks against your lips, his mouth never leaving yours as he continues to kiss you, his tongue sliding against yours in a dance that leaves you dizzy with desire.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters against your mouth, his voice rough and low. “You’re so fucking wet.”

Your only response is a broken moan as he picks up the pace, his fingers working inside you with expert precision, curling and twisting in just the right way. It’s too much, the pleasure building inside you too quickly, and you can feel yourself spiraling, your body arching into him as you claw at his shoulders, trying to hold on.

“Seb, I—” you start, but the words are lost in a gasp as he presses his thumb against your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. Your head falls back against the wall, your moans growing louder despite your best efforts to keep quiet. It’s impossible, though, not when he’s touching you like this, not when he’s pushing you closer and closer to the edge with every flick of his wrist.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” Seb growls, his breath hot against your neck as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you, his pace never faltering. “Come on, I want to feel you.”

It only takes a few more seconds before you’re falling over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you with a force that leaves you shaking in his arms. Your eyes squeeze shut as you cry out, your whole body trembling as you come around his fingers, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

Seb grins as he watches you fall apart, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he rides out your orgasm, drawing every last bit of pleasure from you until you’re left panting against him, completely spent.

“You taste so sweet, baby,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers from you and bringing them to his mouth. He sucks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours as he licks every drop of your release from his fingers. “Fuck, I’ve missed that taste.”

You can barely catch your breath, but the sight of him licking his fingers clean sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, and you bite your lip, trying to control the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

Seb chuckles, his hand cupping your chin as he leans in to kiss you again, his lips soft and sweet against yours. “C’mon, let’s get out of here before I fuck you against this wall.”

He pulls you away from the wall, his arm around your waist as you make your way toward his truck.

As you walk, Seb’s hand drops to your ass, giving it a soft smack. You yelp in surprise, shooting him a playful glare, but the smile on your face gives you away. “You’re terrible,” you tease, but there’s no real heat behind your words.

He just grins, his hand lingering on your ass as you reach the truck. “You love it,” he murmurs, and you do—god, you really do.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Once you’re both in the truck, Seb starts the engine, his hands resting on the steering wheel as you settle into the passenger seat. But you’re far from done with him. Leaning over, you press a kiss to his neck, trailing your lips along his skin, and you feel him tense beneath your touch.

“What are you doing, honey?” he asks, his voice thick with amusement, though there’s a hint of tension there, too—the good kind.

“Nothing,” you say innocently, your hand slipping down to rest on his thigh. You rub slow circles there, feeling the muscles beneath his pants twitch under your touch, and you hear him let out a low groan.

Next thing he knows, your fingers are unzipping his pants, freeing his already hard cock. Seb lets out a sharp breath, his eyes darting between the road and you as you wrap your hand around him, stroking him slowly. “Fuck…” he groans, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as his hips jerk up into your hand.

You lean over him, spitting on your hand before rubbing it up and down his length, your thumb brushing over the tip as you watch him fall apart beneath your touch. His head falls back against the seat, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before he forces them open again, trying to focus on the road.

“Fuck, baby, we’re almost there—let me concentrate,” he mutters, but he doesn’t finish the sentence, his words trailing off into a low groan as you bend down, taking him into your mouth.

The taste of him, salty and warm, spreads over your tongue as you bob your head, your hand still stroking the base of his cock as you suck him off. Seb’s hand flies to your hair, gripping it tightly as his hips jerk up into your mouth, and he lets out a string of curses, his voice rough and low.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, his fingers tugging at your hair. “You’re gonna make me fucking crash.”

You smile around his length, hollowing your cheeks as you take him deeper, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock. He moans, low and guttural, and you feel him twitch in your mouth, his whole body tensing as he gets closer and closer to the edge.

But just as he’s about to come, he slides a hand down to your ass, rubbing your clit through your panties before slipping his fingers beneath the fabric. His touch is quick, precise, as he fingers you while you continue to suck him off, and the sensation of it all—the taste of him on your tongue, the feel of his fingers inside you—is enough to send you spiraling again.

You moan around his cock, the vibrations making him groan loudly as he fucks up into your mouth, his hips thrusting harder now, chasing his release. “Fuck, baby,” he growls, his thumb circling your clit as his fingers pump in and out of you. “Come for me.”

And you do—your body tensing as your orgasm hits you hard, your vision going white as you clench around his fingers. Seb groans loudly as he feels you come around him, his own orgasm following quickly after as he spills into your mouth, his body shaking from the intensity of it all.

You swallow every last drop, licking your lips as you pull back, watching him as he tries to catch his breath. His hand slides from your hair to your cheek, pulling you up to him as he presses his lips to yours in a messy, breathless kiss. “Fuck, baby,” he mutters, his voice still rough. “C’mere and give daddy a kiss.”

You happily oblige, your lips crashing together in a sloppy, heated kiss, your bodies still trembling from the intensity of your shared release. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands gripping your hips as he kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your head spin.

By the time you finally pull apart, you’re both out of breath, your foreheads resting against each other as you try to calm down. The truck pulls to a stop outside your spot, it’s a hidden clearing in the middle of the woods, where the trees create a perfect circle of privacy, and the open sky above provides a perfect view of the stars at night. It’s secluded, untouched, and filled with the most intimate memories shared between you and Seb. He turns off the engine, his hand slipping back to your ass as he grins at you.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, honey,” he murmurs, his voice filled with amusement as he opens the door, stepping out of the truck. He reaches for you, his hands sliding beneath your legs as he lifts you out of the truck, carrying you like you weigh nothing.

You giggle, your arms wrapping around his neck as you press a soft kiss to his lips. “Maybe I like playing dangerously,” you tease, your voice soft and playful.

Seb chuckles, his hand smacking your ass playfully as he carries you toward the truck bed. “Two can play that game, honey.”

You moan as he kisses your neck laying you down in the back of the truck. A gasp escapes your lips as you feel the straps of your sundress being pulled down. Seb’s eyes are focused on you—dark with desire, his lips curled into a soft smile as he watches your reaction. His mouth dips lower, his lips brushing over the swell of your breasts, his tongue flicking over your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, as he pulls your sundress down further, exposing you to the cool morning air.

“Mmh,” you hum softly, the sensation of his mouth sending ripples of warmth through your body.

“I’ve missed you so much, honey. You and this sexy body of yours.” He switches to your other breast, his hands holding you firmly as he takes his time worshipping every inch of you. “God, your pussy… fuck, I love your pussy so much,” he groans, his words sending a fresh wave of heat pooling in your core. “The taste of it, the way it feels around my fingers, my cock… Just thinking about it has me so hard.”

Your breath hitches as his words sink in, a mix of arousal and anticipation building deep inside you. Seb always knew how to make you feel desired, cherished, and completely out of control with need. The way he talks to you, the way he touches you—it’s like every part of him is made to drive you wild.

His kisses trail lower now, leaving a path of fire down your stomach as he works his way between your legs. You spread them instinctively, knowing what’s coming next, your body already aching for him, needing his touch more than anything. He pauses for a moment, looking up at you with a smirk, his hands gripping your thighs as he pushes them further apart.

“So beautiful,” he mutters, his voice thick with lust as he kisses along the inside of your thigh. “And all mine.”

You moan softly, your hands tangling in the blanket beneath you as his lips get closer and closer to where you need him most. The anticipation is driving you insane, every second that passes feels like too much, but Seb knows exactly how to take his time, to make you beg for it without even saying a word.

When his mouth finally reaches your core, a gasp escapes you, your hips jerking up instinctively as his tongue flicks over your clit. The sensation is almost too much, the pleasure immediate and overwhelming as he starts to eat you out, his mouth relentless against you.

“Fuck, Seb,” you moan, your back arching off the blanket as his tongue swirls around your clit, sending wave after wave of pleasure crashing through you.

He growls against you, the sound vibrating through your core as he licks and sucks at your clit with precision, driving you higher and higher. “You taste so fucking good,” he mutters, his voice muffled as he buries his face between your legs, his tongue working magic on you.

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging at it as you moan loudly, your body already teetering on the edge. “Seb, oh my god…”

“You like that, baby?” he murmurs against your clit, his fingers sliding up to tease your entrance as he continues to devour you.

“Yes, yes,” you moan, your body trembling as he inserts two fingers inside you, curling them just right as he pumps them in and out, matching the rhythm of his tongue. The pleasure is too much, too intense, and you can feel yourself spiraling out of control as he pushes you closer to the edge.

Seb smirks, taking your moans as a yes, his fingers thrusting deeper inside you as he flicks his tongue over your clit with even more pressure. Your body responds instantly, your legs trembling as the pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak.

“Oh fuck, Seb,” you cry out, your head falling back as your body tenses, every muscle tightening as the orgasm rips through you.

Seb doesn’t stop, his mouth and fingers working you through your orgasm, his tongue relentless as he pushes you even higher. Your legs shake uncontrollably, your body completely at his mercy as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

When you finally come down, your chest heaving and your body trembling, Seb pulls his mouth away, but his fingers remain inside you, still moving slowly as he cleans you up, his eyes watching you intently.

“Feels good baby?” he teases, his voice soft but filled with pride as he watches you catch your breath.

You nod, still too breathless to speak, your body completely spent from the intensity of your orgasm.

Seb leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as his fingers slide out of you slowly, leaving you feeling empty and longing for more.

“God, I love you like this,” he whispers against your lips, kissing all over you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You’re still trembling, lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as Seb kisses his way back up your body. His lips are warm against your skin, grounding you, pulling you back from the blissed-out haze that has settled over you. The sun is rising higher, casting golden light through the canopy of trees surrounding your secret spot, but the world beyond the clearing feels distant—irrelevant. The only thing that matters right now is the heat radiating from Seb’s body, the way he presses against you, his hands roaming over your sensitive skin.

You can feel the shift in his energy—the tension, the need that hasn’t been fully satisfied yet. He kisses you deeply, and the hunger in that kiss makes your stomach tighten. You feel his hand sliding down your side, gripping your thigh as he positions himself between your legs. The tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, and your breath catches in your throat.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with desire. “You can’t be tired already. You can give daddy a few more, right?”

Your heart races at his words, at the idea of what’s coming next. Your legs are still shaking from the intensity of his touch, but as you nod your head, your body responds in ways that words can’t. “Yes… yes, Seb,” you whisper breathlessly, your hands resting on his strong shoulders as you brace yourself for what’s to come.

He smirks, a flash of something dark and teasing in his eyes as he shifts his hips, the tip of his cock sliding along your wet slit. The sensation sends shivers through you, your body hypersensitive, already craving him. You gasp, your fingers tightening around his arms as you feel him position himself at your entrance.

And then, in one slow, deliberate thrust, Seb pushes inside you.

A yelp escapes your lips as the stretch of him burns through you, the sensation overwhelming. He’s big, and the way he fills you—bottoming out until you’re impossibly full—takes your breath away. “Fuck,” you moan, your head falling back against the soft blankets beneath you, your eyes squeezed shut as you try to adjust to the intensity of it.

“It’s too much,” you whimper, your voice shaking as you grip his arms, your nails digging into his skin. “Seb, I—”

“Shh, baby,” he soothes, his lips brushing against your ear as he stills inside you, his chest pressing against yours. “Yes, you can. You can take it, honey. I know you can.”

You nod, gasping softly as he starts to move again, his hips pulling back before slowly thrusting forward. The drag of him inside you is agonizing in the best way, every inch of him stretching you, filling you, making you feel so completely his. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as his pace starts to pick up.

The tenderness melts away, replaced by something primal. His hips snap forward with more force, the sound of his skin slapping against yours mixing with your moans as he sets a relentless rhythm. Each thrust feels deeper, rougher, hitting a spot inside you that has your back arching off the blanket, your body completely out of control.

“Oh fuck,” you cry out, your voice breaking as the pleasure builds rapidly inside you, your fingers clawing at his back as he drives into you harder, faster. “Seb, I—”

He smirks down at you, his eyes dark and wild with lust as he watches you fall apart beneath him. “You like that, baby?” he growls, his voice thick with satisfaction as he thrusts even harder, bullying your body with every stroke.

You can only nod, your words lost in the overwhelming pleasure. He knows exactly what he’s doing, knows exactly how to push you to the brink. Each thrust is aimed perfectly, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you that has your vision blurring and your body shaking.

You feel yourself tightening around him, the pleasure too intense, too consuming. “Oh fuck, I’m—” you try to warn him, but it’s too late. Your orgasm crashes over you, your body convulsing as you scream his name, the pleasure so overwhelming it borders on painful.

Seb doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, his cock driving into you relentlessly as tears prick at your eyes, the intensity of it all too much to handle. Your legs are shaking uncontrollably, your body completely wrecked as he continues to thrust into you, prolonging your orgasm until you’re nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him.

“Aww, honey,” Seb murmurs, his voice thick with both affection and lust as he leans down to kiss the tear-streaked cheeks he’s caused. “You look so pretty when you cry. Gosh, you’re just perfect. Fuck, just look at you. So beautiful.”

His words make your heart race, and a fresh wave of heat surges through you as his pace increases, his hands gripping your hips tightly. He’s not letting up, not giving you a moment to recover from the intensity of it all. You gasp, your body responding to every thrust, every word, every touch.

“You feel so good on my cock, baby,” he growls, his voice deep and rough, sending shivers down your spine. “The way you squeeze me… fuck.”

Your eyes meet his, and the fire in his gaze makes your stomach flip. It’s almost too much—the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. You’re already breathless, on the edge, when he suddenly leans closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “I can’t wait to get you pregnant.”

A moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and Seb’s lips curl into a smirk against your skin. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with satisfaction at your reaction. “Oh, you liked that, huh?” he teases, his thrusts becoming even harder, even more deliberate. “You like the thought of me fucking you over and over again, filling you with my cum until you’re pregnant?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and all you can do is nod as the pleasure builds inside you. “Yes,” you moan softly, your voice barely a whisper.

Seb’s grip on your hips tightens, and in one swift movement, he hooks your legs up onto his shoulders, changing the angle as he thrusts into you with more intensity. You cry out as he goes deeper, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. “Yeah, baby,” he growls, his pace quickening. “You want that? You want daddy to get you pregnant? Have you nice and round, carrying my child, letting everyone know that you’re mine?”

“Yes!” you cry out, your voice breaking as his words push you closer and closer to the edge. “Fuck, yes, Seb!”

He grins down at you, his breath ragged as he pounds into you relentlessly. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air, mingling with your desperate moans. “You like that, huh? Want the whole world to know you’re mine. That you’re a slut for daddy, letting me fuck you pregnant,” he growls, his words sending shivers down your spine as your body tenses, the pleasure coiling tight inside you.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you scream, your nails digging into his arms as you teeter on the edge of release, your body trembling with anticipation.

Seb leans down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers, “Then cum for me, honey. Let me feel you cum all over my cock.”

With one final thrust, you’re gone. Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, your body convulsing beneath him as you scream his name, your vision going white from the intensity of it all. Seb doesn’t stop, his hips still driving into you, fucking you through your orgasm until you’re a trembling, moaning mess beneath him.

“Fuck, look at that pretty sight,” he groans, his voice full of admiration as he watches you come undone. “God, you’re perfect.”

You can feel his pace falter as he gets closer to his own release, and you cling to him, your legs still hooked over his shoulders as he drives into you one last time. With a deep groan, Seb spills inside you, his body shuddering as he collapses on top of you, his breathing heavy and labored.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Sebastian’s body presses against yours, his warmth surrounding you in the most comforting way as you lay there, side by side in the truck bed. He kisses the top of your head, his lips moving down the curve of your neck, soft and tender. Every touch from him sends shivers down your spine, and even though your body feels spent, there’s something about the way he holds you, the way he whispers against your skin, that ignites something deep within.

He pulls you closer, your back pressed to his chest, his hand resting on your hip as he lets out a soft sigh. “Honey,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with affection, “you think you can give me one more?”

You feel the flutter of anticipation deep in your belly at his words. Your body is exhausted, every muscle aching from the intensity of everything that’s already happened, but something about the way he asks, the way he coos at you, makes you want to give him everything you have left.

You whisper a soft, breathless, “Yes.”

Sebastian smiles against your neck, his lips grazing your skin as he pulls you even closer. “That’s my girl,” he says, his voice filled with praise. “Ride me, baby. I wanna get a full view of you, my beautiful girl.”

Your heart races at the thought, the idea of being fully on display for him, letting him watch you as you take control, sending a thrill through you. Slowly, you shift, moving to straddle him. Seb’s hands never leave you, his fingers tracing up your sides, helping guide you into position as you sit above him. His eyes are dark with desire, watching you with an intensity that makes your whole body heat up.

Your hands rest on his chest, his strong, broad frame beneath your fingertips as you steady yourself. He gives you a reassuring nod, his hands moving to your hips, gently guiding you as you reach between your legs to grasp him. You can feel how hard he still is, the tip of him pressing against your entrance, and you bite your lip at the anticipation of the stretch.

“Go slow, baby,” Seb whispers, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your waist. “I know it’s a lot, but you can take it. You always do.”

You sink down onto him, inch by inch, the stretch almost overwhelming after everything you’ve already been through. A soft whimper escapes your lips, and Seb tightens his grip on your hips, grounding you. “I know, baby,” he coos, “but look at you. You’re taking me so well.”

As you finally take him fully inside, you let out a soft gasp, feeling the familiar fullness, the way he stretches you like no one else ever could. Your head falls forward, your hands gripping his chest for support as you try to adjust. That’s when you hear Seb’s voice, rough with lust. “Fuck… look at that.”

Your eyes flicker down to where your bodies are joined, and you can see it — a slight bulge in your lower belly where he’s buried so deep inside of you. The sight of it, the visual proof of how full you are, sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, and suddenly, you’re moving on top of him, your hips starting to roll in slow, deliberate circles.

Seb watches in awe, his hands moving to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples as he groans. “That’s it, honey. Just like that. You’re so fucking perfect.”

His praises fuel you, and you start to pick up the pace, moving faster as the pleasure builds inside of you once again. Each movement draws soft gasps from your lips, and you feel yourself slipping further into that blissful haze where all that matters is the way he feels inside of you, the way his eyes are locked on yours, filled with so much adoration and desire.

“Faster, baby,” Seb urges, his hands gripping your waist now, guiding your movements. “I want to feel all of you.”

You obey, quickening your pace, but it’s not long before Sebastian starts to thrust up into you, meeting your movements with his own, the intensity increasing with each second. His hips drive into you harder and deeper, and you’re starting to lose your balance, your hands slipping on his chest as your body struggles to keep up with the relentless pace.

Seb notices immediately, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he takes over, fucking up into you with a rhythm that leaves you gasping for air. Each thrust jerks your body, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you that make your vision blur and your voice come out in broken moans.

“Oh fuck, Seb, too much—ahh,” you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders as you try to hold on.

But Seb doesn’t slow down. If anything, he thrusts harder, deeper, his pace almost brutal as he chases both of your releases. “You can take it,” he growls, his voice low and commanding. “You’re my good girl, right?”

“Yes,” you moan, your head falling back as the pleasure becomes too much to bear. “Yes, Seb, but—”

“Shh,” he interrupts, his lips brushing against your neck. “I know it’s a lot, but you can do it. I know you can.”

His words make your whole body tremble, the praise mixed with the roughness of his movements sending you spiraling. Your orgasm is building fast, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside you with each thrust, and you can feel yourself right on the edge.

Seb feels it too. “You gonna cum for me, honey?” he asks, his voice rough and breathless. “You gonna cum on my cock?”

You nod frantically, your words coming out in a desperate moan. “Yes, Seb, yes, I—”

“Cum with me,” he growls, his pace becoming erratic as he thrusts even harder, hitting that perfect spot deep inside you. “Now, baby.”

The command is all it takes. You shatter around him, your orgasm tearing through you with a force that makes you scream his name. Your whole body shakes as the pleasure overwhelms you, your vision going white as you convulse around him. Seb isn’t far behind, his hips slamming into you one last time as he groans your name, his release spilling inside of you, filling you so completely.

You collapse against his chest, completely spent, your body trembling from the intensity of it all. Seb’s arms wrap around you, holding you close as he catches his breath, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice soft now, filled with awe as he presses a kiss to your temple. “You did so good, honey.”

You’re too exhausted to respond, your head resting on his chest as you try to calm your breathing. Seb doesn’t seem to mind your silence, his hands moving soothingly up and down your back as he holds you.

After a few moments, he shifts slightly, still inside you, and you whimper softly at the overstimulation. “Let���s stay like this, baby,” Seb murmurs, his voice low and affectionate. “You gonna keep daddy’s cock warm, right?”

You can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips at his words, your body still too sensitive, but the idea of keeping him inside you, staying connected like this, sends a wave of warmth through you. “Yes,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Seb smiles against your skin, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks. “Good girl,” he praises softly. “Keep my cum inside you all day, so you can carry my child, right?”

You nod, too overwhelmed to do anything else, but the thought of it—of him filling you over and over until you’re pregnant—makes a fresh wave of arousal pool low in your belly. It’s a thought that would’ve terrified you once, but now, with Seb holding you like this, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Seb kisses your temple again, his voice soft and comforting as he murmurs, “You’re everything to me, baby. My perfect girl.”

You smile softly, your body sinking into his as you let his warmth surround you. Maybe there were doubts before, maybe there was fear, but here, in his arms, with the taste of pure bliss still lingering on your skin, you know you made the right choice. There’s no room for regret when it feels like this—when he makes you feel like this.

*☾⋆･ﾟ taglist! @ham1lton @ietss @animeandf1lover @nelly187 @heartsfromtaeyong @bloodyymaryyy @nor-4 @zacian117 @mel164 @uhhvictoria @hadidsworld @zabwlky1999 @sya-skies @lillysbigwilly @avengers-assemble123456 @santanasaintmendes @km-23mr @hookhausenschips @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @Ronpho @minekarina @aeongism @Formula1-motogpfa @slagclarens @aleexvqa @f1updates4you @booksandflowrs @chaostudee @winkev1 @strawblueberrys @Blakesbearblog @cel-b @perfumejamal @aykxz98 @pandora-08 @szalovebot @tellybearryyyy @exotic-iris13 @magixpracticality @oledoledoffen @pear-1206 @oliviah-25

copy right: © 23victoria 2023-24 I all rights reserved. do not republish, steal repost, modify, translate or claim my work as your own

[codnasties]

bull rider!ghost 👻

having an uni bestie that's from a small rural town as someone who was born and raised in a city has it's perks, like getting to experience things you had never experienced before. and i'm talking about going to a rodeo.

crowd roaring as a new rider sat on an angry bull and got tossed into the air as the animal bucked fiercely. the first few wild dudes that you had seen were interesting. you know, the attraction of something new that you had never really seen before. but after a handful of them it started getting a bit boring, but your friend was cheering on so loudly and seemingly enjoying that so much it would probably be rude to tell them that you weren't having so much fun.

trying to find some kind of entertainment, you told your friend you were going to go and get a drink, because at this moment a beer looked like it would bring you some semblance of entertainment.

but you were wrong, because as you make your way back to the rodeo grounds, your eye caught a rider that was different. he had a commanding and charming aura to him, something that impelled you to look at him. well, maybe it was more that just the way he carried himself.

it was the way those jeans seemed to hug those thick thighs of his, how, with the help of the chaps he was wearing, they left little to imagination, giving you a perfect view of his ass. and oh what an ass! and his shirt... the way his strong and built muscle seemed to flex and ripple with each movement that he made.

when you finally made it back to where your friend was sitting - which took you longer than the way to the bar because of adoring such a man -, this mysterious dude was now on the chute, lowering himself onto one hell of an angry bull.

while the rest of the riders had caught your eye, there was nothing but anticipation inside of you to see him try to tame that ton and a half bull. and he did not disappoint, the beast beneath him bucking trying to get him of.

it wasn't just the way he has holding on or how long those eight seconds seemed to last when it was him on the arena. it was the way his hips swayed trying to follow the bulls movements, the way the bicep of the arm he was using to hold on became impossibly bigger with the tension, the veins that were proptinding on the hand he had up in the air, the glimpse of tattoos on his forearm as the sleeve of his shirt got pulled by his muscles.

before you ever realised, the buzzer had sounded, indicating that the time necessary was over and that he could now get off the bull. and when he did, you became even more intrigued by him and how fucking tall he looked and how he, amazingly, had managed to keep the hat he was wearing on his head the whole time.

seeing how entranced you were by this one specific rider, your friend immediately gave you that information that you were unknowingly desperate to know. "his name is simon riley, but they call him ghost"

"ghost?", you asked them back.

"yup, because of the way he rides, breaks records and then fucking vanishes. the public doesn't really know much about him or his personal life. and it's also a know fact that is hard to even get to meet him and talk to him" they explained. "oh, an also he ghost every single person that he fucks'

"hmm interesting", you hummed, starting to get into your head that as much as this 'ghost' seemed attractive and got you horny just from looking at him, he was quite unreachable and maybe a bit of an asshole.

"yeah, the man's a beast at what he does", they exclaimed, cutting your thought process.

"i can see, you don't need me to tell me twice", you uttered back.

"and he's actually a cousin of mine! let me introduce you to him'" they gave you further explanation.

you couldn't help the immediate 'oh' that left you. because you actually had a chance to talk to this man an maybe, maybe try to cham your way into those tight jeans of his. because an asshole has his charm, you know?

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

hope y'all enjoyed that, i just pulled this out of my pussy.

no smut just pure hornyness. anyways, save a horse ride a cowboy or sum

[ruoshik0]

DP x DC: The al Ghul twins but with a twist!

Danyal al Ghul was- is a phenomenal actor. Always have been.

He was one of the best in the league for infiltration and espionage. None can deny that.

Along with his twin, Damian- whose skill sets are the complete opposite, they made for a terrifying pair of twins.

Ra's al Ghul saw that. He would have been a fool not to. The heir and his spare were talented in a completely different way.

So much so that Ra's decided to team them up. In the spotlight, Damian- the heir- would fight with raw strength and brutal power whilst Danyal- the spare- would strike from the shadows with amazing efficiency.

However, as much as they are better together, the twins must learn to be independent. To better themselves by being alone.

Relying on another encourages codependency after all.

And Ra's did not want such a pathetic thing to be a bigger problem than it is now.

So, he sent the spare to learn more about the Lazarus waters. A long term mission of infiltration and espionage. And while the League did not do such missions, he needed to learn more about the waters and it's properties to make better use of it. And simply forcing the two scientists to spill everything may result in a less than favorable outcome. Learning from the inside is better, really.

And whilst Danyal was away, he would further along Damian's training.

It was a good plan. Two birds with one stone.

And when Danyal arrived at his destination, he was a little worse for wear. Torn and dirty clothes, messy hair and acted beyond his years. He was in the alley right next to the Fentons' house when they first found him. They decided letting him spend a few days in their home to get ahold of a normal life before sending Danyal to the CPS was a good idea.

They quickly got attached to the cute and soft child beneath the always suspicious and hesitant orphan.

The Fentons immediately adopted him after deciding he would stay.

His name is now Daniel James Fenton.

Daniel was an average kid who acted like how you would expect an orphan who had lived on the streets for a long time.

His academic performance is above average in comparison to the other kids.

Even without the Fenton blood running through his veins, Daniel fit right in with the weird family.

As stated before, Danyal al Ghul is a phenomenal actor.

When he first arrived, he engineered a situation in which the scientists had no other choice than to take him in for a time.

When he was successful, he didn't stop to celebrate. Danyal immediately started working on making them warm up to him. Little gestures such as a hesitant hug and following them around like a little duckling worked like charms. Little giggles here and a little harmless prank there worked too.

Those psychology books and being near civilians more often helped him with these things. As well as the specialized training from the League.

When the child named Jasmine had fallen in his trap, it was easy to get the parents in too.

After getting adopted, although not before getting him a legal identity, he immediately started working who exactly he wanted Daniel to be and how people saw him.

A scared little child who jumps at any loud noises and a big interest in space and stars. Mostly because Danyal himself was a big space nerd and it's hard to fake enough interest to seem real.

Then he had gotten himself friends. A quaint life in a quaint town meant having less than 5 friends.

Samantha Manson and Tucker Foley were both viewed as weird and should be avoided. The new kid in town has befriended both and thus should be avoided by association.

He did not want to deal with even more obnoxious kids.

Danyal had lived a fake life with a fake personality. He trained whenever he can, and helped in the lab other times.

Weekly written reports to the League.

And learn as much as he can.

That was then. Now, Danny was no longer as alive as he was. And while it's a nuisance, his ghostly powers brought a lot of advantage.

When he first became Phantom, he fought ghosts. Acted like the wimpy yet still brave Danny in front of his friends.

Every few days, he would complain about the vigilante life and every other day he would use make up to worsen his appearance. A little darker dark circles and messier nest of a hair.

And while Danyal got the hang of his new abilities in a few days, Danny took a few weeks.

He purposefully dropped his grades because Danny couldn't find the time to study and Danyal knew Sam and Tuck would get suspicious if his grades remained the same.

Weeks and weeks after, learning more about the Lazarus waters, ghosts, and it's properties at a faster rate than ever before, Danyal decided that his little engineering and sciencing hustle should end. And by that, he means he should end the mission. So he started working on the last phase of his plans.

(He got too attached. Oh Ancients, he got too attached. He wanted to stay there and actually live like a normal person. He wanted to but- but... what about his brother...? He had to leave. Leaving means more suffering for them. His... friends and family.

He is so gonna miss the cat and mouse chase with the Fentons. He is gonna miss everyone. He hopes everyone forgets him so that he can leave feeling a little better)

First step, making those who are in the know about Phantom, warm up to the idea of him leaving vigilantism behind.

Every few weeks, he would joke about quitting as Phantom. That turned into months and Danny started looking even worse than when he first became Phantom. Danny wouldn't have a future if he didn't study more. But he couldn't because of vigilantism. And the stress caught up to him.

16 year old Daniel James Fenton decided he should stop when he was finally convinced by his two friends and two sisters.

(He hated how much he engineered these situations)

And while Danyal knew Danny didn't have a future, Danny himself didn't and thus acted like it.

It was hard trying so hard to rebut his circle of people when he just wanted agree right then there. It all ended in a messy and teary situation Danyal would have liked to avoid altogether.

(His tears were real. He didn't want to admit that he was crying. Mourning his loss before it happened)

The things he does to stay character.

Phantom quit after loudly announcing he was moving to another place to haunt.

And Danny's grades slowly went up to what it used to be before the ghost nonsense. He was finally relaxing again.

He was anxious. Anxious to the point of tensing. His League training thrown put the window)

Few months after, Daniel James Fenton went missing with little to no clues as to why.

Everyone mourned him. His ghostly core was happy when he had caught a glimpse of his grave while he was... visiting, for a lack of a better word.

(Finally, he was being mourned. Because he did die. Death touched him and he didn't even have a grave before this)

Now Danyal al Ghul returned from his long term mission. He could finally be himself again.

(Somewhere along the way Danny had become Danyal's real personality)

The League of Assassins was exactly as he had first left it. There were a few very glaring issues though.

First, Damian isn't here. He had left. Left Danyal alone. It took quite the willpower to not go out and track wherever Damian had gone to.

Second, Ra's al Ghul wasn't here. Grandfather had died and his body was nowhere to be found.

Third, Mother was leading. While it is not that much of an issue, Danyal is to be the heir and shall by crowned the leader in a few weeks time. Which is a big issue. Mostly because he was supposed to be in the shadows. Danyal decided that he did not want to be in the limelight like his brother.

Plus, he was already the Eventual King of another dimension. A rather infinite one might he add.

Ugh, more responsibilities.

He decided that he would greet his brother on their seventeenth birthday. A little terrorizing never hurts anybody.

Till then, he'd have to train his ass off.

(He’d do just about anything stop himself from thinking about Amity Park and its residents)

Sigh...

[reilemon]

Beneath the Collar

♡︎ synopsis: What do you tell yourself when you develop a crush on a hot priest? 'It'll pass.' But what if it doesn't?

♡︎ pairing: priest!Zayne x fem!reader

♡︎ cw: personal sacrilege, mutual masturbation

♡︎ word count: 13k

♡︎ a/n: the fifth story for kinktober 2024. i know i wrote something else as a prompt for this story, but it kinda didn't fit into the vibe. I hope you'll still like it.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @cafekitsune

You’d been absentmindedly wiping down the counter, eyes flicking to the clock every couple of minutes. You were anticipating the weekend as if it was your lifeline. The shop was nearly empty, just a couple pastries left. You could already taste the freedom that awaited once you locked up. Saturday nights were your escape. You’d head out of town and finally let loose with your old friends. You couldn’t wait to slip into a tight dress, feel the beat of music thrumming through your veins, and drown the stress of your quiet life with a few too many drinks.

You loved the buzz, the way you could disappear into the crowd. It was so different from the slow, predictable pace of this town—so different from the way you had to be here, composed, calm, responsible. You could already imagine the way your friends would greet you with shrieks and hugs, the taste of sweet cocktails on your lips, the feel of someone’s hands on your waist as you danced the night away.

You hadn’t realized how tightly wound you’d become until you started thinking about it. The endless days of baking, of small talk with customers who didn’t really know you, of going home to an empty apartment. This wasn’t the life you’d imagined.

The chime above the door rings, pulling you back from your thoughts. You straighten instinctively, slipping back into your practiced routine, eyes flicking up with a tired smile ready—until you see him.

The man who steps in isn’t like any customer you’ve seen before. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark, understated clothes. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the stark white collar around his neck—the unmistakable sign of a priest. Yet you can’t help but stare at his features - his sharp jawline, the raven-black hair falling slightly across his forehead, and those intense green eyes. He looks cold, distant, his gaze hard and unreadable as it sweeps the room before landing squarely on you.

You can feel your heart pound as your breath catches. You aren’t supposed to feel this way. He’s a priest, for God’s sake. Yet here you are, rooted in place, unable to tear your eyes away from him. You shouldn’t be thinking about how strong his hands look, or how his lips might feel if they ever touched yours. Guilt twists in your gut, making you flush with shame.

You swallow hard, the professional smile faltering for a second as your thoughts race. What is a man like him doing here? He doesn’t look like the type to indulge in something sweet.

He steps forward, approaching the counter, and the closer he gets, the more you can feel your façade slipping. You force yourself to break eye contact, focusing instead on the pastries.

You need to say something, anything to break the tension. “Good evening,” you finally manage.

“I’m sorry for coming in so late,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, instantly making you feel butterflies. “I was hoping to grab something before you closed.”

You nod, trying to keep the conversation professional, though your mind is anything but. “Of course,” you reply, forcing yourself to meet his gaze again.

His eyes flick over the display case before returning to you, making your heart flutter. “Macarons,” he says after a moment. “Do you have any left?”

You blink, thrown off by the unexpected request, by how he knows exactly what he wants. “Ah—no,” you stammer, shaking your head. “Sorry, they sold out earlier today.”

He nods once, but doesn’t seem disappointed. You half-expect him to say something more, maybe ask about the next batch or try one of the remaining pastries. But he doesn’t. His eyes flick to the empty spot where the macarons should’ve been, then back to you.

"Thank you," He doesn’t smile, just offers a polite nod before he turns and walks toward the door. The air feels lighter the moment he steps out, but your heart is still racing, your mind still tangled in thoughts you shouldn’t have.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what just happened, your hand still resting on the counter as if anchoring you back to reality. Slowly, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

‘What the hell was that?’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

Later that evening, you stand in front of your mirror, smoothing your dress down over your hips, but your thoughts are miles away. You’ve been looking forward to this night all week— but now, you can’t stop thinking about him.

As you spray the perfume on your neck, your mind drifts back to the way those cold green eyes had fixed on you with such unnerving intensity. You replay the interaction over and over in your head as you fix your lipstick, each swipe of color across your lips bringing back the memory of his deep, steady voice.

You grab your heels and slide them on, trying to push the image of him away. It’s your night - you should be thinking about the friends you’ll be laughing with, the strangers you might flirt with, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. And that damn collar, the way it stood out against his sharp jaw, mocking you.

You sigh, frustrated with yourself as you grab your clutch and head for the door. Tonight is about fun, freedom. As you step outside, you convince yourself that by the end of the night you will forget all about him.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You stand just outside the church, a box of macarons clutched in your hands. The crisp autumn air hits your face, cooling the remnants of your hangover. You wince slightly as the last pulse of your headache throbs behind your eyes. But it’s nothing compared to the nervous energy swirling in your stomach. The night before is a blur of music, laughter, and drinks—too many drinks—and yet, through it all, he was still there. No matter how hard you tried your mind kept circling back to the priest.

You woke up early this morning, despite the dull ache in your head, the need to see him again pulling you out of bed far earlier than your body wanted. You spent more time than usual getting ready, trying to make yourself look presentable. Like you hadn’t spent half the night dancing under neon lights, sweat mingling with perfume. Like you were fresh and composed, not some hungover mess delivering macarons to a man who probably didn’t even remember you.

Now, as you stand outside the church, watching as the last of the congregation trickles out from Sunday mass, you can’t help but feel a bit ridiculous. ‘What the hell am I doing?’ You glance down at the box in your hands. Last night, you’d come home and found the extra macarons sitting in your fridge—fresh, untouched. And somehow, in your alcohol-soaked brain, you’d convinced yourself that bringing them to him would make sense. That maybe, just maybe, seeing him again would clear your thoughts.

Inside, you hear the faint echoes of voices, the last goodbyes being exchanged. Your pulse quickens, the nerves settling in deeper now. ‘What if he thinks I’m crazy?’ You glance up at the church doors as they swing open again. More people spill out, some of them familiar faces, regulars from your shop. You offer a small, polite smile to those who glance your way, though the last thing you want is to be seen here, holding this box like some desperate girl with a crush.

The crowd thins, and finally, you see him. He steps out of the church, tall and composed, his dark coat catching the cool breeze as he exchanges polite nods and handshakes with the remaining parishioners. Your heart stutters in your chest when his eyes land on you, sharp and focused, just like yesterday. His gaze flickers with confusion as he approaches. The contrast between the two of you couldn’t be more stark. He’s the picture of calm and control, while you feel like a bundle of frayed nerves.

"Good morning," he greets, his voice low and even, though there’s a hint of curiosity in it. His eyes drop to the box in your hands, and then back up to meet your gaze. "I didn’t expect to see you here."

You force a small smile, suddenly feeling foolish again for showing up like this. "I, um..." You glance down at the box before awkwardly extending it toward him. "I brought these... for you. Macarons. I had some extras, and I thought..." Your voice trails off as you realize how ridiculous you sound.

He hesitates for a moment, clearly taken aback by the gesture, his brow furrowing slightly as he looks between you and the box. "That’s very kind of you," he says after a beat, his tone polite but still laced with confusion. He takes the box from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through you. "But I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why bring them here?"

You feel your face heat up, the embarrassment creeping in again as you try to explain. "I just... yesterday, you asked about the macarons. And I had some left at home, so I thought..." You trail off again, unsure how to finish without sounding completely absurd.

His eyes soften slightly, the confusion changing into something more like understanding. "I see," he says quietly. He looks down at the box in his hands, then back at you. "Thank you. This was... thoughtful."

There’s a long, awkward pause before you gather the nerve to ask, "Have you visited my shop before? I mean, you knew we sold macarons, but I don’t remember seeing you."

He glances away for a moment, then returns his gaze to you, his tone still measured and calm. "I have stopped by a few times, yes. But more often than not, my colleagues bring me your macarons. They speak highly of your pastries." His lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile, but the closest thing you’ve seen from him. "They’ve made sure I know where to find the best sweets in town."

You blink, processing that information. ‘So, he has been there.’ A strange mix of relief and disappointment washes over you—relief that he’s not a complete stranger to your shop, but disappointment that you missed those visits. Still, knowing he’s tasted your work fills you with a sense of pride.

"I see," you murmur, nodding. "I wasn’t sure, since... well, you don’t seem like the type to indulge in sweets."

He raises an eyebrow. "I do, on occasion," he says, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "Especially macarons."

Another silence falls between you. The cold morning air feels sharper now, the quiet around the church almost too loud as the last of the parishioners filter away, leaving just the two of you standing there.

You feel the urge to say something, anything. "I hope you enjoy them," you say quickly, nodding toward the box in his hands.

His eyes linger on you for a moment longer than feels comfortable. "I’m sure I will," he replies, his voice softer now, though his serious demeanor never wavers. "Thank you again. This was... unexpected."

You nod, unsure what else to say, and suddenly, the weight of what you’re doing—standing outside a church, hungover, giving a priest macarons—hits you all over again. You swallow hard, feeling the need to leave before you make things even more awkward.

"I should probably go," you blurt out, taking a small step back. "I didn’t mean to interrupt your morning."

He watches you, his gaze steady, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s going to say something to stop you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he simply nods. "Take care,"

You turn and start walking away, your heart pounding in your chest, the cool air biting at your skin. You feel a little silly, a little reckless, but something about the way he looked at you, the way his eyes softened just a fraction when he accepted the macarons... it stays with you.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Sunday arrives quicker than expected, and this time, you're determined to play it cool. You still went out the night before, but you kept it light—a couple of drinks, no wild partying. The ache behind your eyes this morning is faint, nothing like last week’s pounding. You’d woken up with enough time to fix your hair and choose an outfit that’s both casual and appropriate, though you spent longer than you’d like to admit deciding on it.

As you step inside the church, the scent of old wood and candles washes over you, calming your racing heart just a little. The crowd is larger than you expected—families, couples, elderly regulars. You quietly slip into a pew near the back, hoping to blend in.

You settle in, your eyes scanning the front of the church, seeking him out. There he is, standing at the altar in his robes, his presence as commanding as ever. He’s facing the congregation, his expression stoic, speaking in that calm, steady voice that fills the room with reverence. At first, he doesn’t notice you. He’s focused on his sermon, his attention on the crowd as he guides them through the service.

And then, as if he can sense you watching him, his gaze flickers toward the back of the church—and locks onto you.

For a moment, the rest of the congregation fades into the background. It’s just you and him, his eyes lingering on you longer than they should. There’s no surprise in his expression, but his gaze isn’t the distant, detached look you remember from before. Your breath catches, and for a second, you’re not sure what to do. You glance down at your hands, trying to steady yourself, but when you look back up, his eyes are still on you. He’s quick to recover, though, returning his focus to the sermon, but the brief connection leaves your pulse racing.

The rest of the mass is a blur. You try to listen, to follow along with the prayers, but all you can think about is the way he looked at you. The quiet intensity of his gaze, the way it felt like he was seeing more than just another face in the crowd.

As the mass ends and people begin to rise from their seats, you remain seated for a moment longer. You watch as the crowd shuffles toward the exit, murmuring quietly amongst themselves, offering their thanks and farewells. For a second, you think about slipping out quietly and disappearing before he notices you again. It would be the easiest thing to do—walk away, avoid any awkward conversations.

But just as you start to stand, your eyes find his across the room. He’s still speaking with a couple of elderly women near the front, but his gaze shifts—briefly, unmistakably—back to you. And there’s something in that moment that makes it impossible to leave. Before you know it, you’re moving toward him, your pulse quickening with each step.

You tell yourself it’s only polite to say hello, maybe thank him for the sermon. It’s what people do, right? But the truth is, you haven’t attended a church service in so long, you’re not even sure how you’re supposed to talk to a priest. What do people even say in these situations? Your mind races as you approach, trying to figure out what you’re supposed to say.

When you reach him, he finishes his conversation with the elderly women, offering them a polite nod before turning his attention to you. For a moment, you stand there, unsure of how to start, but before you can stumble over a greeting, he speaks first.

"Good to see you again," Zayne says, as he offers you a barely visible smile. It’s subtle, just a small upturn at the corner of his lips, but it’s enough to make your heart race. "I don’t recall seeing you here before last week."

You blink, feeling like you’re caught red handed. You fumble for a response, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Oh, no, I—I haven’t been here before," you admit, glancing down at your hands before looking back up at him. "I mean, I used to go to church when I was younger, but... it’s been a while." You force a small smile. "I’ve been in this town for a few months now, but I guess I still feel kind of... new. I’m trying to, you know, be a part of the community."

It’s a half-truth, but close enough to reality.

Zayne listens intently, his expression thoughtful as he considers your words. "It’s understandable," he says after a moment, his voice softer now. "Moving to a new place can feel... isolating." His gaze lingers on you. "I’m glad you’re finding your place here."

You nod, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest. "Yeah, I think I’m making some progress."

You’re unsure of what to say next, but Zayne is the one that speaks next. "Those macarons you brought last week," he begins. "There was one flavor I hadn’t tried before—rose, I believe?"

You hadn’t expected him to bring it up. "Oh, yeah," you say, a giddy smile creeping onto your lips. "I like to experiment with new flavors in my free time. I wasn’t sure if anyone would like that one."

He nods, with a faint smile. "It was... different. Unexpected, but in a good way."

Your smile widens at that, unable to contain the warmth blooming in your chest. You hadn’t realized how much his opinion would matter to you. "I’m always experimenting," you admit, feeling more at ease now. "Sometimes I stay up late trying out new combinations."

The air between you feels lighter, warmer. "I can tell you put a lot of effort into it."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you’re not sure how to respond. But before you can say anything, Zayne shifts the conversation slightly. "We’re hosting a bake sale next week," he says, "It’s for a local charity. I was wondering if you’d have the time to volunteer."

Volunteer? At the church? You’ve never done anything like that before. But the idea of working with him, of contributing in some way—it tugs at you, and before you can think it through too much, you find yourself nodding.

"Yeah, I’d love to," you say quickly, the giddiness from earlier still bubbling beneath the surface. "I mean, I’m sure I could make time."

His gaze softens, and there’s that almost smile again. "Good," he says. "I think your talents would be appreciated."

You nod, feeling strangely content. Working with him, even if it’s just for something simple like a bake sale—seems like a small step forward, a way to stay close without pushing too far.

As the crowd continues to thin, you realize you’ve lingered long enough. You take a small step back, your heart still racing from the interaction. "I’ll see you next week, then," you say softly, offering him a final smile before turning to leave.

"Yes," he replies. "Next week."

You can feel his gaze on your back as you exit the church, the weight of it lingering long after you step outside into the cool autumn air. And though you try to tell yourself that it’s just a bake sale, just a way to be part of the community, you can’t shake the excitement simmering beneath the surface.

Next week couldn’t come soon enough.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The bake sale was a success. The air was filled with the scent of baked goods and laughter, but you hardly had time to enjoy it. Zayne, ever the center of attention, had been pulled away in a dozen directions the entire day. When you’d arrived early that morning, hands full of pastries and stomach full of butterflies, you barely got a chance to exchange more than a quick greeting.

He had smiled at you, brief but warm, though his attention was quickly snatched away by people needing his assistance, asking for advice, or organizing last-minute details. Of course, he handled everything with calm efficiency. You watched him navigate the chaos with admiration, though a part of you ached for more than those fleeting glances you stole throughout the day.

Now, as the sun begins to set and the crowd dissipates, everything is finally winding down. The tables have been mostly cleared, the leftover baked goods packed up, and most of the volunteers have either left or are chatting amongst themselves. You’re still tidying up, folding a tablecloth when you feel a presence beside you. Zayne.

"Need any help?" he asks.

You offer him a small smile, shaking your head. "I’ve got it," you say, too aware of how close he’s standing. "But thank you."

"You did a lot today," he says quietly. "The bake sale wouldn’t have been as successful without you."

The compliment, though simple, warms your chest, and you can’t help the slight flush that rises to your cheeks. "I’m just glad I could help," you reply, glancing at him, and there it is again—his gaze, lingering just a fraction too long.

"Will you be attending mass tomorrow?" he asks after a pause, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

For a moment, you’re not sure how to answer. Attending Sunday mass on a regular basis was not something you imagined for yourself when you moved here. But neither was the crush on a priest. You tilt your head slightly, offering a small smile. "I might," you say. "But... I’d be more than happy to help out around the church too. If you need extra hands for events or... anything else." The offer hangs in the air.

Zayne’s eyes hold yours for a moment longer, before he nods, his lips curving into that barely-there smile that always makes your heart race. "I’ll keep that in mind."

As you both finish the last of the cleanup, the weight of the day settles over you. The connection between you and Zayne feels more real.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

Days pass after the Sunday mass, and your mind is restless. You had hoped—foolishly—that this crush would fade. That the flutters in your stomach and the lingering heat in your chest, and somewhere else, would disappear. But it hasn’t. If anything, it’s grown stronger. It’s more than just attraction now—it’s curiosity, fascination, a desire to know him beyond the surface.

You had gone to mass that Sunday, and the entire service, your eyes had found his. After the service, you exchanged pleasantries as usual, but there was something beneath the surface. The way he smiled at you, as if holding back. And then, before you left, he had handed you his phone, suggesting that you exchange numbers, “in case there’s any more help needed with events.”

It was a perfectly reasonable request, and yet, your hands had trembled slightly when you typed your number in. A simple exchange of phone numbers shouldn’t feel like this, but you couldn’t shake the thrill it gave you.

Now, days later, you’ve been staring at his name in your phone for what feels like hours. Your fingers hover over the screen, your mind spinning with a thousand excuses you could use to text him.

‘Just invite yourself over.’ Tell him you’ve been working on new desserts and want to share them. It’s innocent enough—after all, you’ve done it before, and he was more than happy to accept. Why should this time be any different?

You lean back, the phone still in your hand, your thoughts a tangled mess. ‘It’s not wrong to want to see him, is it?’ When you’d exchanged numbers, had there been something in the way his hand brushed yours? Something more than just casual contact?

Your thumb hovers over his name on your phone, heart pounding in your chest. ‘One message. That’s all. Just one message to bring him something.’ It’s innocent. Harmless.

You begin to type. “Hey, I’ve been experimenting with some new dessert recipes. Thought you might like to try them. Could I drop some by?”

Before you can second-guess yourself again, you hit send.

The message disappears, leaving you staring at the screen, your heart racing.

Your phone buzzes a minute later, and you can hardly breathe as you open the message.

“That sounds great. I’d love to try them.”

His reply is simple, casual, but the effect it has on you is anything but. You glance around your apartment, suddenly feeling the weight of what you’ve done. You’re going to see him again, and this time, the meeting will be more personal, more intimate. ‘Just you, him, and those damn desserts.’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You close the shop with shaky hands, flipping the sign to "closed" and locking the door behind. You try to calm your nerves as you walk toward the church.

‘Why am I doing this?’ you ask yourself for the hundredth time. You always shared your new recipes with your two employees—they were your taste-testers, your go-to feedback. So why now? Why are you heading to a priest, of all people?

‘He’s the customer experience,’ you remind yourself, a weak excuse at best. However, if anyone could give an honest opinion, it would be him—level-headed, composed, with that quiet seriousness that always unnerves and excites you. It’s just an opinion, nothing more. You repeat it like a mantra as you approach the church.

The doors creak open as you step inside, the familiar scent of incense filling your senses. The church is mostly empty, the soft glow of evening light filtering through the stained-glass windows. As you enter, you spot Zayne standing outside the confessional. He’s speaking quietly with an older woman, but his eyes flick up as soon as you walk in. The moment he sees you, his expression changes for a split second, barely noticeable, but it’s enough to make your heart skip a beat.

The woman finishes her conversation, offering him a polite smile before heading toward the door. Zayne watches her go, and when she’s gone, he turns his full attention to you.

His lips curve into a subtle smile. "Good evening," he greets you with that calm authority that always makes you feel both at ease and strangely vulnerable at the same time. "Thank you for coming. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble."

You shake your head, trying to keep your voice steady as you return his smile. "No trouble at all. I just closed up the shop, so... it worked out."

He nods, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before gesturing toward the back of the church. "Shall we?" He leads you down the quiet hallway, until you reach his office—a small, private room tucked away from the rest of the church. The walls are lined with bookshelves, a modest desk in the middle, and a soft lamp casting a warm glow. Zayne closes the door behind you, and for a second, the air between you feels thicker than it had before.

You sit across from each other at the small desk. You set the box between you, showing a display of your latest creations. Zayne’s intense green eyes take in the array of sweets.

"These look incredible," he says as he leans in. He reaches for one, pausing as if to savor the moment. "Shall we start?"

You nod, your voice wavering as you describe the little creation.

As he finishes the first dessert, followed by more praise, his eyes drift over the others in the box. His eyes linger on a small orange-tinted one. His brow furrows slightly, and he glances up at you. "Is that… carrot?" he asks, with reluctance in his tone.

You laugh softly, "Yes, it’s a mini carrot cake," you say, your voice light and teasing. "I’ve been thinking about adding it to the menu."

Zayne’s smile tightens just a little. His fingers hover near the pastry, but he doesn’t reach for it. "Carrot cake... that’s..." He trails off, clearly searching for the right words, though his discomfort is obvious. "I’m sure it’s delicious," he adds, his tone strained with effort.

You can’t help but chuckle softly at his expression, the idea of Zayne being uncomfortable with something as simple as a carrot cake is both endearing and amusing. "You don’t like carrots, do you?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at him with a grin.

Zayne shifts slightly, his ears tinged with a faint blush as he gives a sheepish smile. "I’ve never been... fond of them," he admits.

You laugh again. "That’s completely fine," you say, shaking your head. "You don’t have to try it if you don’t want to. I won’t be offended."

Relief washes over his face, and you can’t help but find it charming. "Thank you," he says with a smile, his voice more relaxed now. "I’m sure it’s wonderful. Just... not for me."

You nod, smiling back at him as you make a mental note not to add the carrot cake to the menu after all. Who would have thought Zayne, of all people, would have such a small but specific dislike?

As you both settle into a comfortable rhythm of tasting the remaining pastries, the earlier tension eases, replaced by the easy conversation and laughter that flows between you. There’s something natural, almost soothing, about this—sharing these quiet moments, watching his reactions as he tries each new flavor, the occasional teasing smile crossing his lips.

You hesitate for a moment, then decide to push the boundary just a little. “I won’t ask what made you become a priest at such a young age,” you begin, offering a shy smile to lighten the weight of your words. “But I have to admit... I do wonder what you do when you’re not here. What’s Zayne like when he’s not... well, Father Zayne?”

Zayne’s lips twitch slightly at the question, as though he’s surprised but also amused by your boldness. He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxing a bit.

“Well,” he begins, a faint chuckle escaping his lips, “I don’t have much free time, to be honest. Between the church, the community events, and my other responsibilities, it’s hard to find a moment just for myself.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “But when I do get some time, I like to read. Mostly fiction—novels, stories that take me somewhere else for a little while.” His voice softens with a hint of something like nostalgia. “I also try to visit new restaurants when I can. There aren’t many options in this town, so sometimes I take trips to the city just to try something different.”

There’s something so relaxed, almost vulnerable, in the way he talks about it that makes you feel like you’re seeing a side of him that few people do. A side that isn’t weighed down by the responsibilities of his role, but is simply... Zayne.

He shifts the conversation, leaning forward slightly as he looks at you. “What about you?” he asks, his voice warm with genuine curiosity. “When you’re not experimenting with food, what do you do in your free time?”

“Well,” you begin, shifting in your seat, “when I do take a break, I like to drive out of town, too. I’d meet up with old friends, go out for a drink or two... but honestly, I like the quiet here. It’s different. Calming, in a way.”

Zayne nods, his expression thoughtful. “I can see that. There’s something peaceful about being here, away from the noise. But I imagine it must get lonely sometimes.”

His words strike a chord in you, and for a moment, you feel a vulnerability creeping in. You hadn’t expected him to understand, but somehow, he does.

“Yeah,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “It does.”

You glance at him, and for a moment, you feel like you’re seeing him in a new light— as someone who, like you, is navigating his own struggles, his own desires.

The rest of the evening continues with light topics and soft laughter. But as you glance out the window you see it’s pitch-black outside. You glance at your watch, feeling a pang of reluctance as you realize it’s time to go.

“I should probably head out,” you say softly, not wanting to break the moment but knowing it has to end.

Zayne nods, though there’s a hint of something in his eyes that shows he feels the same reluctance. He stands, walking you to the door of his office. “Thank you for the desserts,” he says, his voice feeling more personal now. “And for the conversation.”

You smile. “Thank you for listening. And for the... honesty.” There’s a moment of hesitation before you step toward the door, the space between you suddenly feeling too close. He opens the door, and as you step out into the quiet hall, you glance back at him one last time.

His eyes linger on you. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice low, and for a second, it feels like there’s more he wants to say, but the moment passes.

“Goodnight,” you reply, turning to leave, your heart still racing from the quiet intimacy of the evening.

As you walk out into the cool night air, you can’t help but feel that this connection—whatever it is between you and Zayne—has deepened. And as you head home, your thoughts linger on him, wondering where this path will lead.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next day, your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen, and your heart skips a beat. It’s a message from Zayne.

“The desserts were incredible,” it reads. “You have a real gift for combining flavors. Thank you again.”

You smile, rereading the message a few times before typing out a casual reply. His words, the thoughtfulness behind them, mean more than they should. You tell yourself it’s just feedback—he’s just being kind, just acknowledging your work—but the fact that he took the effort to write this message... it lingers in your mind.

Days pass, and the messages continue. They’re not frequent, but every other day, you’ll receive something from him—a thoughtful comment on one of your desserts or a small exchange that feels more personal than before.

One evening, your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a picture—a grainy snapshot of a small, scruffy-looking cat sitting outside the church doors.

“This little guy hangs around the church sometimes. I think he’s starting to expect me to feed him,” the message reads.

You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself as you look at the picture. You quickly type out a response: “He’s adorable! Have you tried petting him yet?”

A minute later, Zayne replies: “I’ve tried. He runs away every time I get close.”

You smile to yourself, finding the image of Zayne—a man so composed, so in control—being outwitted by a stray cat endearing. You imagine him, kneeling down, trying to coax the little creature closer, only for it to scurry away. There’s something so human about it, so... normal.

“That’s adorable,” you reply, the smile still on your face. “Keep feeding him, and he’ll come around eventually.”

The conversation carries on like that—simple, easy exchanges that make you feel more connected to him in ways you hadn’t expected. But with every message, every small insight into Zayne’s life outside of his role as a priest, the ache in your chest grows. The attraction you’d hoped would fade has only grown stronger, and now it’s not just about the way he looks or the way his voice makes your heart race. It’s about him—his quiet strength, his thoughtfulness, the way he seems to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders but still finds time to send you a picture of a stray cat.

You know you shouldn’t feel this way. He’s a priest, and you’re well aware of the boundaries that are supposed to exist between you. You’ve tried telling yourself that it’s just a crush, something that will pass.

But it hasn’t.

Late at night, you lie in bed, staring at your phone, your thumb hovering over the screen as you reread his latest message for the hundredth time. You feel a warmth spread through your chest, a soft ache blooming alongside it—a gnawing longing.

Your set the phone beside you as you exhale, closing your eyes. The ache doesn’t go away. The thought of him consumes you. Every night, it’s the same. You tell yourself not to think about him, not to let your mind wander to those places where it’s dangerous to go, but you’re powerless to stop it.

You imagine his hands—strong yet gentle—the way they would feel against your skin. You think about his lips, how they’d taste, how they’d move against yours, how they’d trail lower. Your body heats at the thought and before you can stop yourself, your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties. The room feels too quiet, too still, as your breath quickens, and all you can think of is him.

Every night, you touch yourself to the thought of him. It’s become your secret ritual, a way to chase the frustration and desire that builds up inside you. You picture the way his body would feel pressed against yours, the way his breath would hitch as he gives in, as the control he fights so hard to maintain finally snaps. You can almost hear his voice—low, rough with need—as he murmurs your name, telling you how much he’s wanted you, how long he’s been fighting it.

Your fingers move faster. And just as you reach the edge, teetering on the brink of release, you whisper his name into the darkness, your voice barely audible.

When it’s over, you lie there, breathless, your heart pounding in the silence of your room. The guilt creeps in, just like every night.

During the day, at the shop, you go through the motions—serving customers, smiling, chatting. But your mind drifts back to him, and you wonder –

‘Does he ever think about me like that?’

You think of him during the slow afternoons at the shop, when the world feels like it’s moving on without you. You wonder what he’s doing, if you cross his mind in those rare moments when he’s alone. Or if you’re just another parishioner to him, someone he texts about cats and pastries and nothing more.

The next time your phone buzzes, and you see Zayne’s name light up the screen, your heart skips a beat, followed by that all-too-familiar flutter in your belly. He’s sent another picture of the cat, this time with a playful caption:

“Still no luck with petting him. I think he likes to torment me.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. Warmth spreads through your chest, but the ache follows closely behind.

You type out a response, light-hearted to match his tone. “Maybe he’s playing hard to get. He knows you’ll keep trying.”

The response comes seconds later, “You’re probably right. I’ll keep trying. Maybe one day he’ll trust me.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Sunday mass comes, and you sit quietly in the back, as you’ve grown accustomed to. Zayne stands at the altar, delivering his sermon with the same calm and captivating demeanor. The words, though meaningful, drift over you like a gentle breeze—comforting, yet distant. You can’t help but let your mind wander, your gaze occasionally flitting up to meet his. Each time your eyes find his, there’s a momentary spark, a flicker of something that passes between you.

At first, it’s subtle—a glance, nothing more. But as the moments pass, the weight of his attention seems to grow heavier. His gaze lingers on you for just a heartbeat longer than it should. The words coming from his mouth slow for the briefest second, just enough to notice, before he corrects himself and continues. But the flicker is there, a momentary lapse in the composed, unwavering Father Zayne.

You feel a rush of heat rise in your chest. ‘Is he losing focus because of me?’ The thought sends a thrill through you, though you immediately try to brush it off as wishful thinking. But then, it happens again.

Zayne’s sermon flows smoothly as usual, but this time, when his eyes find yours again, there’s a subtle shift in his expression. His voice falters, just slightly, as if he’s momentarily forgotten his place. He pauses, clearing his throat, his gaze quickly flicking away. You feel your heart pound in your chest, and you know he felt it too—his usual calm shaken, if only for a moment.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. A pair of elderly women seated a few pews ahead of you exchange a glance, their heads turning slightly as if they’re trying to figure out what—or who—might have caused the good Father to stumble. They lean toward each other, whispering quietly, but you can’t make out what they’re saying. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, a mixture of excitement and guilt flooding through you.

Zayne continues, his voice steady once more, but you can see the subtle tension in his posture now—the way his hands grip the edges of the lectern just a little tighter, the slight crease between his brows as if he’s fighting to regain control. You try to focus on the sermon again, to pull yourself out of this strange, charged moment, but it’s impossible.

When the service ends, and the last of the parishioners trickle out, you step forward, your heart still pounding in your chest. Zayne looks up, and you can tell he’s still unsettled from earlier.

But he smiles. "Good morning," he says, his voice quieter now. "I—uh, hope you enjoyed the service."

You nod, offering him a small smile in return. "I did. Though, I have to admit... I still don’t understand most of it."

Zayne chuckles, "As long as you’re here, that’s what matters," he replies, and for a moment it seems as if there’s more he wants to say but can’t quite find the words.

Before either of you can speak again, you glance toward the doors and realize that, during the service, the skies outside have opened up. Rain pours down, tapping against the windows with a steady rhythm. You curse softly under your breath, realizing you hadn’t brought an umbrella.

"Looks like I’m stuck for a while," you murmur, half to yourself, half to Zayne.

He follows your gaze, then turns back to you with a thoughtful expression. "You don’t have an umbrella?" he asks.

You shake your head, feeling a bit foolish. "No, I didn’t think it would rain today."

Zayne pauses for a moment, as if thinking about something, before he speaks again. "I could walk you home," he offers. "I have an umbrella, and I need to head out anyway. We could talk about the next bake sale on the way."

Your heart skips a beat at the prospect of walking alone with him.

"Are you sure?" you ask, though you already know what his answer will be.

Zayne nods, that soft smile returning to his lips. "Of course. It’s no trouble."

And just like that, the decision is made. You follow him to the coat rack near the entrance, where he retrieves a large, dark umbrella. He opens it with a swift motion, then gestures for you to step under it with him. As you do, the two of you step out into the rain, the world around you suddenly feeling smaller.

You walk side by side, the umbrella barely covering both of you, forcing your bodies to press close together. His arm brushes against yours every few steps, the warmth of his presence almost too much, making it difficult to focus on what he’s saying. The scent of rain mingles with the faint hint of his cologne, and it makes your head dizzy.

At one point, your eyes meet again, and for a split second, Zayne’s step falters, just slightly. His words stumble as he’s explaining something about the church’s plans for the sale. He catches himself quickly, but when you glance up at him, there’s a flush of color in his cheeks. And in that moment, you wonder – ‘Is he affected by this as well?’

As you walk, the rain begins to lighten, turning into a soft drizzle, but neither of you rush to part ways. The conversation continues, easy and unhurried, and for a moment, you forget about everything else—the church, the responsibilities, the complicated emotions swirling between you. It’s just the two of you, walking in the rain.

When you finally reach your street, Zayne stops in front of your building.

"Thank you," you say with a smile.

Zayne smiles, that familiar softness in his eyes again. "It was my pleasure."

There’s a brief pause, and for a moment, it feels like something hangs in the air between you. But before either of you can break the silence, Zayne steps back, offering a small nod.

"I’ll see you soon," he says, his voice quiet.

You nod, watching as he turns and walks away. As you head inside, you can’t shake the feeling that the space between you and Zayne is growing smaller with every encounter. You wonder if the boundary between friendship and something more is becoming increasingly blurred.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next day, you couldn’t stop replaying it all in your head. The way he had looked at you, the subtle hesitations in his words, the fleeting touches. You found yourself waiting for a message from him, hoping for a hint that he felt something.

But the message never came.

You tried to brush it off at first. ‘He’s busy.’ The church had its demands, and the bake sale was coming up soon. He probably had a hundred things to take care of. But as the days passed, the silence grew heavier. Each time your phone buzzed, you found yourself hoping it was him, only to feel that familiar stab of disappointment when it wasn’t.

When you finally couldn’t stand the silence any longer, you sent him a message, keeping it casual. You told yourself that it wasn’t a big deal, that he’d reply, and everything would be fine. But when his response came, it was short, almost curt.

Your stomach sank as you stared at the screen. You told yourself you were imagining things, that maybe he was just having an off day. But the pattern repeated itself. Another message from you, another short, impersonal reply from him. It was as if a wall had gone up between you, growing taller with every passing day.

And then there was the shop. Zayne had always made a point of visiting at least once a week, stopping by for a quick chat and dessert. But that week, he didn’t come. Each day, you glanced toward the door, half-expecting to see him walk through it with that quiet smile, but the door never opened for him.

The absence weighted on your mind, leaving you questioning everything. ‘Did I do something wrong?’ you wondered, replaying your last conversations over and over in your head.

You tried to focus on work, on the bake sale preparations, but your mind kept drifting back to him. You thought about sending another message, something more direct. But each time, you hesitated. ‘What if he’s distancing himself on purpose?’ The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest.

By the time the weekend approached, the doubt and confusion had hardened into something else—hurt. You couldn’t understand why he had gone so cold, why the easy warmth between you had turned into this frigid distance.

And as you stood behind the counter of your shop, watching the door and waiting for a familiar face that never came, you realized something. ‘He’s avoiding me.’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Saturday, the church is buzzing with activity. Tables are set up along the hall, covered in pastries, cakes, and breads that you had carefully crafted over the week. The sight of them should be enough to fill Zayne with excitement. He usually enjoyed events like these. Always eager to chat with volunteers, admire the work of the community, and, if he was honest with himself, look forward to seeing you.

But today, as he scans the room, his gaze lingers on the table where your pastries sit, beautifully arranged and ready to be sold. He can feel a flutter of anticipation. ‘She’ll be here.’ he thinks to himself, hoping to see you among the busy volunteers. You hadn’t come to last Sunday’s mass, and even though he had tried to keep his distance, part of him had been looking forward to seeing you today. He hadn’t realized how much he missed your presence until you weren’t there.

But as the minutes tick by, his eyes sweep over the table again, and something unsettling clicks into place. You’re not here. Instead, your two employees are standing behind the table, chatting with customers, offering samples and smiling as they go about their work. The sight of them, rather than you, feels like a punch to the gut.

Zayne takes a deep breath, as he walks over to the table. He exchanges polite greetings with your employees, but his mind is racing. ‘Why didn’t she come?’ He expected you to be here, after all the work you had put into the preparations. He glances around the room again, hoping maybe you’re somewhere else, mingling with the other volunteers. But you’re nowhere to be seen.

The knot in his chest tightens. For the first time in days, the weight of his own silence, his distance, hits him with full force. ‘She didn’t come because of me.’ His guilt, which he had been trying to push down, now rises to the surface. This time, for a different reason. He remembers the unanswered messages, the short replies, the way he had deliberately pulled away, thinking it was the right thing to do.

He moves through the rest of the bake sale with that guilt gnawing at him. Every time he passes your table, he feels the weight of your absence, the emptiness it leaves behind. And though he tries to focus on the event, shaking hands and exchanging small talk with parishioners, his mind is elsewhere—on you, and how he pushed you away with his silence.

As the crowd thins and things begin to slow down, he can’t resist any longer. He approaches your employees again, keeping his tone casual.

“She did an incredible job with everything,” Zayne says, offering a small smile as he glances over the leftover pastries. “I was hoping to thank her in person, though. Is she around?”

One of your employees, a young woman with a friendly smile, looks up at him. “Oh, she’s not here,” she says. “She’s actually out of town right now. I think she’s with her friends for the weekend.”

Zayne’s chest tightens. ‘Out of town?’ ‘With friends?’ The information feels like another blow. He hides his reaction, nodding politely.

“Ah, I see. Thank you both for participating,” he says, his voice a little more strained than he intends.

As he walks away from the table, the guilt intensifies. The thought of you spending the weekend elsewhere, with your friends, leaving the bake sale in the hands of someone else, feels like a quiet rejection. ‘She didn’t want to see me.’ The guilt twists in his chest, tighter and heavier than before.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You stood in your kitchen for a few minutes, debating what to do. You weren’t planning on attending tomorrow’s Sunday mass—again. The thought of sitting there, with Zayne at the altar, pretending everything was normal, made your stomach twist. But the tablecloths. They needed to be returned, and the idea of just dropping them off quickly, quietly, without having to see anyone—without having to see him—seemed like the easiest solution.

You didn’t expect the rain. The sky had been calm when you left, but halfway to the church, the clouds burst open. Within seconds, the rain comes down in torrents, soaking through your clothes as you clutch the tablecloths tighter, your feet pounding against the wet pavement.

By the time you reach the church, you're drenched, the fabric in your arms heavy and useless. Gasping for breath, you push open the door. Your shoes squeak on the stone floor as you step inside, water dripping from your clothes and pooling beneath you. You wipe a hand over your face, trying to gather yourself.

"Hey," a voice calls from deeper within the church.

Your heart skips a beat. You recognize that voice immediately. Of course, it had to be him.

You’re standing there, dripping wet, trying to catch your breath and your bearings when Zayne steps closer, his eyes scanning over your soaked clothes. There’s a flash of concern in his expression, though he quickly tries to mask it with something lighter, a smile playing on his lips.

"You really don’t like carrying an umbrella with you, do you?" he teases softly, trying to ease the tension, and it works—just for a moment. You chuckle, shaking your head.

"I guess not," you manage to say, a small smile tugging at your lips despite your shivering.

His smile fades slightly as he takes in the sight of you, soaked and visibly trembling. “You’re freezing,” he says, his voice gentler now, more serious. “Why don’t you come to the rectory? You can dry off and change into something warm.”

The idea of going to the rectory, the space where Zayne lives, feels like crossing a line, a line you’ve been tiptoeing around for weeks. You shake your head, stepping back slightly. “I’ll just call a cab. I’m just here to return these,” you say quickly, you murmur, gesturing to the tablecloths. "I don’t want to intrude."

But Zayne steps forward, his brow furrowed as he looks you over. "You’re not intruding." he says, his voice more insistent now. "You’ll get sick if you walk back out like this. Please, just let me help."

You look up at him, the concern in his eyes stirring something deep inside you, something you’ve been trying to suppress. The rain outside is relentless, and despite your instinct to retreat, you find yourself nodding. "Okay," you whisper.

Relief flashes in Zayne’s eyes, and he nods, stepping aside to lead the way. "Good. Follow me."

Zayne leads you into the rectory, the warmth of his home. He guides you toward a small bathroom. “Take a hot shower,” he says, “I’ll put your clothes in the dryer, and I’ll leave some of my pajamas for you to change into.”

You nod, stepping inside the bathroom and closing the door behind you.

As the hot water runs over your skin, you feel the tension in your body begin to ease, the heat chasing away the lingering chill. You try to focus on the steam rising around you, on anything but the fact that you’re in his home, about to wear his clothes.

When you finally step out of the shower, you glance at the folded set of Zayne’s pajamas waiting for you on the bathroom counter. You slip into them, the soft material comforting against your skin, and can’t help but take in the smell of his fabric softener – fresh, floral scent. As you step out the bathroom, suddenly you’re self-conscious, aware of the fact that you’re not wearing a bra. The loose fabric brushes against your skin with every movement.

You walk timidly toward the living room, your heart pounding in your chest. As you step into the room, you find Zayne waiting for you, seated on the far end of the sofa. He’s placed two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table. The room feels intimate, almost too intimate, with just the two of you here, the rain still tapping against the windows outside.

Zayne looks up as you enter, and for a moment, his breath seems to catch in his throat. His eyes widen slightly, and a blush creeps up his cheeks as he takes in the sight of you in his clothes, fresh from the shower. He clears his throat, his gaze quickly dropping to the tea in front of him, but the redness on his face betrays him.

You feel your own cheeks burn in response, suddenly hyper-aware of the way the loose fabric hangs on you. You move quickly to the far end of the sofa, sitting down with careful distance between the two of you.

"Thank you... for the shower," you say. "And for letting me stay while my clothes dry."

Zayne glances at you, his eyes flickering briefly over you again before he focuses on his hands resting in his lap. "Of course," he murmurs, his voice a little strained.

You give him a small smile, wrapping your hands around the warm mug of tea, grateful for something to do with your hands.

Zayne speaks first, before the uncomfortable silence could stretch, “I heard you were out of town,” he says, his voice soft but probing. “What are you doing here?”

His question catches you off guard. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up so directly.

“I was supposed to be,” you say quietly, your fingers tightening around the cup of tea, the warmth barely grounding you. “But... the friend I was supposed to go out with caught a cold. She cancelled last minute.”

The explanation hangs between you, and even though it’s true, it feels flimsy. You look down, staring into your cup. ‘I shouldn’t have come here.’

Zayne’s gaze remains fixed on you, as if he’s waiting for something more. Then, he continues. “And the bake sale?” he asks, “You didn’t come.”

The question lands like a blow. You know why, of course. Your throat tightens as you try to form a response.

“I—uh, I got caught up,” you say, your voice faltering.

You know how weak that lie sounds. But he doesn’t push.  Instead his gaze softens as he looks at you. "I’m glad you’re here now," he says quietly.

You stare at him for a moment, his words sinking in, and a small, ironic chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it. "I find that hard to believe,"

Zayne looks at you, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, his brow furrowing slightly as he waits for you to elaborate.

"I thought..." you begin, but then pause, biting your lip as you glance away, trying to gather your thoughts. "I thought you didn’t want me around."

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence.

Your eyes find his and the vulnerability in them makes your chest tighten.

"I’m sorry," he says softly. "For keeping my distance. For... pulling away."

The apology lingers between you, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. You can feel the weight of his words, the sincerity behind them, but also the pain. He’s struggling—just as much as you are, maybe more.

"I thought..." he starts, his voice faltering for a second. He pauses, his hand moving to the white collar at his throat. "I thought keeping my distance would help, that it would protect both of us. But it only made things worse."

You swallow hard as you watch him. His fingers linger on the collar for a moment longer before he drops his hand, his eyes filled with a quiet regret. He takes a deep breath before continuing. "I started hearing things. Rumors. People talking about... us." The words make your heart skip a beat. "It was like a wake-up call, a hard one." His fingers brush the collar again, this time more deliberately. "That I’m a priest. And I took vows. Vows I can’t break."

You want to say something, anything, to ease the guilt you see in his eyes, but before you can, he continues, his voice even softer now. "But no matter how much distance I try to put between us, you’re always on my mind." He looks away for a second. "Everywhere I go, everything I do... I can’t stop thinking about you."

You don’t know what to say, what to do. Zayne’s vulnerability, his confession of how deeply you’ve affected him, makes the tension between you almost unbearable.

His eyes meet yours again. "You’re everywhere," he whispers, his voice almost breaking. "And I don’t know what to do about it."

Zayne’s words linger in the air, pulling at your heartstrings. You want to say something, to ease the pain, and you don’t know if you can. Not when you’ve been feeling the same way.

"Zayne..." you say softly, "I don’t want to be the reason you’re struggling," Zayne’s gaze drops to the floor, shoulders tense. Seeing him like this makes your chest tighten, but you can’t stop now. There’s too much unsaid.

"But I can’t stop thinking about you either," you confess, your voice trembling slightly. The words make you feel exposed, but it’s the truth you’ve been holding in for so long. "You’re in my thoughts all the time. It’s like... no matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, I just want to be near you."

Zayne looks back at you, and you fight every fiber in your body to close the distance between you.

"I care about you, Zayne," you whisper. "And I hate seeing you like this. But I can’t pretend that what I feel isn’t real."

He’s quiet, his breathing shallow as he processes your words. Neither of you has the answers, but in this moment, it’s enough to know that you’re not alone.

"I’ve tried to ignore it," you continue, your voice shaky but honest. "I’ve tried to stay away, to give you space, but..." You take a deep breath, gathering the courage to say what’s been burning inside you for so long. "It’s not just the little things. It’s all of it. The way your touch lingers... even when you barely graze my skin. I keep thinking about it, imagining more, wishing you would... touch me, hold me.”

Your cheeks burn as the words leave your lips. This is it. There’s no turning back now. You’ve held this in for so long. And now, it’s out there between you, impossible to ignore, to pretend it doesn’t exist.

"I want to feel you," you confess softly. "I want to feel your hands on me. I can’t pretend I don’t need this anymore."

For a moment, Zayne doesn’t move. His breath is shallow, his eyes locked on yours as his fingers flex slightly against the fabric of his pants. You wait, breathless, watching him.

"I want to touch you," he whispers finally. "I’ve thought about it more than I should. About how it would feel…” Then, his expression falters, frustration flashing across his face. “But I can’t."

The empathetic side of you understands him completely, and you don’t want to push him. But at the same time, you can’t just let this moment slip away.

Your hand moves instinctively, slowly sliding down your chest in a deliberate motion. "You don’t have to." you murmur.

You don’t wait for him to respond as you reach up, your fingers tracing the top button of the shirt. Then, one by one, the buttons come undone, exposing your skin to the warm air of the room. You hesitate for just a moment, your breath catching in your throat as you look at Zayne. His gaze is fixed on you, the unbuttoned shirt, eyes betraying everything his words deny.

Your fingers slide along the edges of the unbuttoned shirt, and, with a steadying breath, you shrug your shoulders slightly, letting the material slip down your arms. The shirt falls away, delicately sliding off your skin. Your skin is bare now, exposed under the dim light, your chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. Your nipples are hard as the air brushes over your skin.

Zayne’s reaction is immediate. His eyes widen, and you can see the deep flush flood his cheeks and ears. His gaze roams over your body, taking in every inch of exposed skin, his pupils dilated. He’s stunned, frozen in place, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing—what he’s allowed himself to see.

His hand twitches, as if he wants to reach out, to touch you, but he doesn’t. He’s rooted to the spot, his body betraying him with how tightly he’s gripping the sofa, the knuckles of his hand turning white from the force of his restraint. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—he’s completely consumed by the sight of you.

Without another word, you let your hand slide down, your fingers brushing against the waistband of your pants. Zayne’s eyes follow your movements. You pause for a moment, savoring the anticipation. Zayne lets out a ragged breath, his body tensing as he watches you, helpless to do anything but stare. Your fingers tremble as you hook them into the waistband of your pants, eyes never leaving Zayne’s. You push the pants down slowly, the fabric sliding over your legs and pooling at your feet, leaving you sitting in just your underwear.

For a moment, you hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. You give him one last chance to stop you, to pull back before things go any further. "If you want me to leave," you say, your voice low, "you should say it now."

Your words hang in the air, the final chance for him to take control, to push you away. But Zayne says nothing. His lips part slightly, but no words come. He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t tell you to leave. Instead, his eyes stay locked on yours, his silence a wordless plea for more.

That’s all the confirmation you need.

Your hand slides down slowly, Zayne’s eyes following every move. You let your fingers brush over the front of your underwear, and you know he can see the obvious damp spot, his presence alone having you already soaked through the fabric.

His pupils dilate as he watches, and for a second, you think you hear him let out a soft, involuntary sound—something like a groan—but it’s barely audible. His chest heaves, and his grip on the sofa tightens even more, as if he’s hanging on by a thread.

"I think about you all the time, Zayne," you whisper, your voice trembling. "And when I do... this is how I touch myself." Your hand presses down on the damp fabric. "There’s nothing wrong with this," you continue, your voice silky and sweet. "Not if you just watch."

The words feel like a challenge, a tease. Zayne’s face is a mixture of conflict and desire, but he doesn’t stop you. His eyes are glued to your hand, to the way your fingers move against the fabric of your underwear, his gaze filled with hunger he can’t hide anymore.

Your hand moves in slow, deliberate circles over your underwear, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through your body, and you let out a soft moan. The sound makes his jaw tighten, and he shifts in his seat, clearly aroused but still holding himself back. His gaze flicks back and forth between your eyes and your body, torn between wanting to pull away and being unable to look anywhere but at you.

Then, finally, his voice breaks the silence. "Take it off," he rasps, his voice trembling with the weight of his words. His eyes meet yours, and there’s no mistaking the command in them now. "I need to see... all of you."

His words send a rush of heat through you, making your entire body tingle. There’s no hesitation in his voice this time. Without a word, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear, your fingers trembling slightly as you slowly slide the fabric down your hips. The underwear slips down your legs, falling softly to the floor, leaving you completely exposed before him. You sit there, vulnerable, your skin glistening with arousal. You can feel his gaze on every inch of your body, lingering on your thighs, your hips, and finally, on the slick wetness between your legs.

"You’re... so beautiful." he breathes, his voice barely audible, filled with astonishment and desire. Zayne swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries to steady himself. "Show me," he says, his voice low, trembling with desire. "Show me how you touch yourself... when you’re thinking about me."

Your heart races, your entire body flushed with heat as you slowly slide your hand down your stomach, your fingers grazing over your slick skin. You let out a soft moan as you begin to touch yourself, your eyes fixed on Zayne. He’s completely captivated, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he watches you.

Your fingers move with a growing urgency, sliding over the slickness between your folds. The sight of you touching yourself, moaning softly, has him teetering on the edge of his restraint. You’re watching him just as intently as he watches you, and you need to see more.

"Touch yourself too," you whisper softly. His eyes snap up to yours, stunned. "It’s not so bad," you add. "You’re not touching me. We’ll just… watch each other."

Zayne’s jaw clenches. His eyes are locked on yours, a storm of guilt and desire brewing beneath the surface. But then he slowly reaches up and unclasps the white collar at his throat.

For a moment, he holds it in his hand, his fingers trembling as he looks down at the small strip of fabric. Then, with a quiet exhale, he sets it aside on the table beside him. His hands move to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, each motion slow, as though he’s still hesitating at the threshold. When he’s halfway down, Zayne pauses, then pulls the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, slipping free, leaving him bare from the waist up.

The muscles beneath his shirt are more defined than you had imagined. Your eyes roam over every line, every curve of his body, taking in the way his chest moves with each heavy breath. He sits there for a moment, shirtless, his collar gone, his identity as Father Zayne falling away along with it.

He’s just a man now—just Zayne.

You swallow hard, your fingers still moving, your own arousal building with each second that passes. "Please," you whisper. "I want to see you. All of you."

Zayne’s hesitation doesn’t linger for long, before he undoes his belt, his eyes never leaving yours. Your pulse races as the pants drop to the floor, leaving him in nothing but his underwear, his arousal straining against the thin material. His eyes flick to yours, searching, almost pleading. He’s asking without words—asking if this is what you want, if this is what you’re ready for. And you are.

You nod, biting your lip, your body trembling with anticipation. With a shaky breath, Zayne hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, and you can see the tremor in his hands. But he doesn’t stop. He slides them down slowly, the fabric falling in one fluid motion, leaving him completely naked.

Your breath hitches, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as you take in the sight of him. His erection stands thick and heavy, the tip glistening with need. Every inch of him is raw, masculine, breathtaking. He’s stunning, more than you could have imagined, and for a moment, you’re lost in the sheer power of him—his vulnerability and strength laid bare before you.

Your fingers slide over yourself again, the slick heat of your arousal making you moan softly, your body shuddering from the touch. Zayne’s erection throbs visibly as he watches you. His hand twitches at his side, his body screaming for release, but he waits for you to give him permission, waiting to be told it’s okay to let go.

"Touch yourself," your voice is breathy, filled with need. "Please, Zayne."

His eyes flick between your hand and your face, but then, slowly, he wraps his hand around his length. The sight of him finally surrendering, of his strong hand gripping himself, sends a surge of heat straight to your core. You can’t help the soft whimper that escapes your lips as your fingers move faster.

Zayne lets out a low groan, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he strokes himself. The room is filled with the sound of your combined breathing, the soft moans that slip from your lips, the slick sound of your fingers slipping inside your wet entrance. You’re both completely lost in each other now, and there’s no going back.

Zayne’s hand moves slowly, rhythmically over his length, his breathing heavy and uneven as he watches you, his eyes filled with a hunger so intense it makes your pulse race even faster. His breath catches in his throat, and you know he’s still holding back.

“Relax,” you whisper, your voice shaky but filled with warmth. “It’s okay... I want this. You don’t have to hold back.”

Your words seem to wash over him, his eyes flickering with something like relief. His gaze is locked on your body, the way your fingers are soaked with your wetness, the slick sound filling the quiet space between you. His jaw clenches as he tries to steady himself, his hand stroking his length with increasing need.

"You’re... beautiful," he murmurs, his voice hoarse, barely more than a breath. "God, you’ve been... in my head... in my dreams... almost every night."

His confession makes your squeeze around your fingers, a soft moan escaping your lips. The raw honesty in his voice, makes your body tremble as you teeter on the edge. Your fingers press harder, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you feel the tension in your body building, coiling tight, ready to snap.

You can see he’s close too—his hand moving faster, his body tense with the effort of holding on. But even now, even with his own release so close, his eyes are locked on you, filled with a hunger.

"I want to see you," he whispers, his voice low and rough. "I want to see you... let go. I want to hear you... Please..."

That’s all it takes. His voice, thick with need, and the sight of him on the brink, unravel you completely. Your breath hitches, turning into ragged gasps as pleasure overtakes you, your fingers moving faster, desperate to prolong the sensation as wave after wave crashes through you, each one more intense than the last. And all the while, Zayne watches, his hand moving faster, desperate to join you in the release.

Your breath steadies, your hand still resting on your wet folds, the space between you now feels too wide. "Come closer," you whisper. "I want you closer... please."

The raw need in your voice, the tenderness of your plea, draws him toward you, erasing any hesitation. He hovers over you, kneeling between your legs, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel his breath on your skin. His arousal still hard and throbbing, inches away from you, his gaze filled with so much want that it makes your own body heat up again.

"I’m... I’m so close," Zayne gasps, his voice shaking, laced with desperation.

"Let go," you whisper, your voice soft but unyielding. Your eyes lock with his, your breath hitching as you speak. "Let go on me, Zayne."

His eyes widen at your words. He looks conflicted for a moment, as if he’s about to argue, to get up and find something else—a tissue, anything to keep from crossing that final line. But the hunger in your gaze, the trembling of your body beneath him pulls him back into the moment. The sight of your hand sliding over the slickness between your thighs seals his fate. His hand tightens around himself, his strokes quickening as his control shatters.

"Please," you whisper, your soft plea the final push he need.

And then, with a deep, shuddering breath, he finally lets go.

The first hot spurt of his release hits your belly, warm and wet, the sensation eliciting a soft gasp from your lips. His body trembles violently above you, his muscles taut and shaking as his hand moves over himself with desperate need. He groans deeply, the sound raw and primal, as more of his release follows, thick and hot, landing between your thighs, coating your skin. His breath hitches, his body tensing with each spasm of pleasure as he watches the way his release paints your skin. His hand continues to pump his length, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, caught in the overwhelming force of his orgasm. 

Zayne closes his eyes as the last drops land on your flushed skin, his body still above yours.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The air is thick with the weight of what just transpired, but there's no guilt, no regret. His breath is still ragged, your own chest rising and falling with the same uneven rhythm.

When Zayne opens his eyes, they’re soft with awe—filled with pure, unguarded admiration.

"You..." he whispers, his voice rough and shaky, barely able to finish the thought. His eyes trace the glistening trail of warmth he’s left on your stomach, the way it pools between your legs, marking you with the undeniable proof of how far you’ve both fallen. "You’re... perfect."

A soft, breathless smile plays on your lips. "So are you," you murmur back.

For a moment, Zayne just stares at you, his eyes filled with something deeper than words can express. Then, he leans forward, pressing a soft, featherlight kiss to your forehead. The gesture is so tender, so filled with affection, that it takes you by surprise. It feels fragile, like something you both need to hold onto, if only for a little longer.

When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours again, and for the first time, there’s a sense of peace. Just the quiet aftermath of something real—messy, complicated, but undeniably real.

And for now, that’s enough.

[kitsunequeen1987]

If I had a nickel for every time I've gotten a comment on a Kitsune/Jesse ship drawing with the person telling me they were jealous because they simp for Jesse, I'd have four nickels.

Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it's happened that many times.

Like what am I supposed to say to that? What is the appropriate response?

[mayasaurusss]

I love your writing.Pls, can u do jinx gets reader to try out a lingerie 🙏

It fits you just right

Contains: suggestive themes but not exlicit smut, soft Jinx.

"Babyyy, I've got you something!" Jinx's loud voice echoes inside her hideout, catching your attention.

She has been gone for a couple of hours at least, having told you that she was going to do some of her usual mischief in Piltover. You bet she painted that town blue from head to toe.

She walks in on the helix, humming a made up song and carrying big patched sacks on her shoulders.

You get your from the couch and push away the book she so kindly took -stole- for you, following her small bouncing with your eyes. "Jinx! What have you..." she throws the bags on the ground just before your feet, their contents spilling all over the floor.

Trinkets of any type, scraps of dull metal, old cupboard sweets and clothes overflow from the linen sacks, tinkling resonating inside the room. You marvel at the many trinkets she got, turning over their glass shells and admiring the many colors reflecting on their metal surfaces. "Jinx!" you say while stuffing your hands inside the creases of a brand new coat, "where have you gotten all this stuff?!".

Her silence is enough to make you understand what she did before she even opens her mouth. "What?! They took everything from us, I'm just repaying them the favor" she moves around you and watches as you intently examine every object she took -stole, again-.

"I told you to me and to me again, you gotta stop steal-" you are rudely interrupted by her exasperated voice, "Yeah yeah I get it! I know".

Silence fills the space again, something that doesn't usually happen while Jinx is there. You look up to see her usual pale skin tone replaced by a faint pink. Her bottom lip is pressed beneath her teeth and her eyes avoid yours. You can already feel a bit of annoyance at her almost childish ways taking their place on the sides of your brain, "What is it?". A small choked sound comes from Jinx's throat, she rocks in the balls of her feet for a moment before you see her taking in a deep breath, closing her eyes and pushing a paper bag towards you. You blink your eyes a few times, surprised by her, before you take the paper bag and open it.

Inside it sits a small brown packet. The way it's nearly stored gives away that whatever is in there must be special to Jinx's standards. The brown paper is adorned with Jinx's signature drawings, colorful traces of crayons depicting small characters -mainly you two holding hands- , scenarios and hearts all over it. A pink ribbon ties everything up, completing the picture.

"Jinx, what is this?" you ask her, earning a whine from her blushing figure. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, no?".

She watches in anticipation as you unite the ribbon, carefully peel the paper back and...

A set of lingerie sits in front of you, all embroidered and neatly stored. "Do you like it? It's even in my color..." Jinx's words make you realize that the set is a deep navy blue.

You snort at her words. "Really? You steal a pair of lingerie and your first thought is to search for blue ones?" she would have reacted shyly if she hadn't seen the playful smirk on your lips. "I-I mean... It's important, you know?" you walk closer to her, making sure to sway your hips as you do.

"Why? You like seeing me all pretty for you, in your favorite color?" as if she wasn't red already, blood starts to pump even faster into her veins, making her look like a tomato.

"Y-yes I do! N-now put these on!" she roughly shoves the pair against your chest, much to your amusement. "Alright, just wait here, cutie" the way your voice drags over the last word makes something inside of Jinx move, pumps blood in her heart and in her hips.

A few minutes pass by, Jinx's mind already finding new things to think about, when she hears your sing songy voice "Cominggg".

A gasp leaves her when she sees you wearing the lingerie on your skin. It's just perfect, emphasizes every curve of your body, every scar, mole or freckle visible through it: and most importantly, it's her color.

"Wow..." Jinx sits up from the couch, reaching her hand to touch your shoulders, then traveling to grab at your hips. "It fits you just right..." her eyes are glazed and cheeks pink as the ribbon she used to tie your little present up.

"Sooo? Do you like it?" you let out a gasp as her grip on your hips tightens, making you suck in a sharp breath. The way she has you at her mercy makes something pull at your heart strings.

And Jinx? She looks like an absolute mess. Pretty flushed cheeks, eyelids heavy with desire, mouth open and heart full of desire. "Like it? I fucking love it" her nose presses against the cease of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. "You look so good in this..." she starts to press kisses, electric against your skin. "How did I ever find someone as perfect as you?" her words come out as hot as molten lava, as sweet as honey.

"Jinx..." your breaths are heavy against the unnatural cold of your home. Jinx slides her hand up to your neck, hugging you closer to her. All her newfound confidence suddenly blurs and you can feel her heartbeat through her chest on yours. Again, that shyness she harbors for you and you alone resurfaces, making her look so small against your body. She pushes her lips outwards, pouting a bit before she asks something of you.

"Could we...you know..." her voice is hoarse, creacking here and there. Deep violet eyes stare at yours, assessing if you understand her and silently waiting for an answer. "Could we...what?" you already know what she wants to ask you, but you are having far too much fun teasing her. Her eyes widen for a moment and she swallows hard, before looking at her boots. "You know...you know what I mean...".

You still aren't satisfied with your teasing, waiting for her to admit what she truly wants with words instead of embarrassed chocked sounds. "I don't think I do" that dumb smile of yours only makes Jinx feel more and more embarrassed, tempted by your lips but pulled back by her shyness. She can't do it anymore. With an exasperated whine, Jinx strengthens her grip on the back of your neck and pulls you down towards her, kissing your lips fiercely.

The kiss is all teeth and tongue, all sighs and touches, leaving you breathless and yearning for more. You pull back from her, lips wet, feeling blood rise up from your veins into your cheeks. "Woah...I guess that was enough" you say, giving her a knowing smirk and earning a sigh from her, before she brings you back to her lips. "Oh shut up toots".

[averagekindergartenfan]

UHMMM HELP?? WHY AM I SMILING WHILE LOOKING AT JESSE THORNHEART STUFF?? THAT MF IS EMO

SOMEONE HELP ME I THINK I ALSO HAVE SOMEWHAT ODD TASTE (atleast to me)

Also Jesse Thornheart belongs to @//michaelathisten (IM SO UNSURE IF I SHOULD ACTUALLY TAG THEM HELP)

[cameronsprincess]

— summary: zach is the best boyfriend you’d ever had, he loves you, cares about you, he’s gentle with you.. but his twin brother, rafe, tempts you one night, and you can’t help but fall for it.

— warnings: smut! 18+ cheating!!! drunk!reader, aggressive!rafe, throat fucking, unprotected sex, choking, smacking, praise, degrading, iii think that’s all.

— note: @rafesthroatbaby is the fucking devil for sending me this ask she got for this idea 😩🥵 as always- likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated 🩷

❥ boyfriends brother — r.c

zach. he was the sweetest, most loving man you’d ever had the pleasure of knowing.

he was sexy, captain of the men’s soccer team at your college, he had a good job lined up for him after graduation, he was everything you could have ever dreamed of and more.

but his brother… oh his twin brother, rafe.

rafe was zach’s polar opposite, no interest in sports, or working, he wasn’t sweet, he wasn’t kind or loving, but he was definitely sexy.

it was something about rafe’s mean demeanor that had you soaking your panties anytime he was around, anytime he’d throw a mean remark your way, or anytime he and zach would be arguing, you couldn’t help but ache. the sight of rafe angry, veins bulging in his neck and hands as he shouted the harshest things at his twin brother, it made you feel ways you knew were wrong.

you’d swore you’d never act on your feelings for rafe, swore you’d never let him tempt you. there was no way you’d ever sleep with your boyfriends brother.

and to be fair, you’d kept that promise… until tonight.

zach was out of town for the weekend, celebrating with his team for winning the biggest soccer game of the season. you had been staying at the cameron household for weeks, and this weekend was no different, you were used to being left at their home when zach wasn’t around.

you’re sat on the couch, downing your tenth glass of wine, head buzzing from the alcohol that was coursing through your veins. you were getting ready to call it a night, standing from your spot on the couch when a familiar low and raspy voice says your name, making your muscles tense, arousal already beginning to soak your panties.

“what’re you doing? drinking all by yourself?”

you glance up, eyes meeting rafe’s bright blue ones. he was wearing nothing but a pair of baby blue sweatpants that hung low on his hips, his perfectly tanned and toned chest and abdomen on display.

you shakily move your hand to grab your wine glass and the half drank bottle from the table, stuttering out a response in the process. “uh… y-yeah. i- the alcohol helps me.. uh- it helps me sleep”

rafe takes a step toward you, his head hung low before he slowly lifts it back up, eyes scanning the length of your body. you suck in a shaky breath, rolling your head from side to side as you try and gain your composure.

“yeah? you know what helps me sleep..” he pauses, taking a few more slow steps toward you until he’s standing directly in front of you, his large hands making their way to your face and pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “sex.. yeah it uh, it helps me sleep”

you tense underneath his touch, the feeling of his fingers brushing over your skin sending a shiver down your spine.

you swallow thickly, dropping your gaze to the floor beneath you, “uh, yeah.. that uh, that’s a good way to sleep too”

rafe places his index finger and thumb on your chin, lifting your head back up, forcing your eyes on him. you feel your breathing accelerate, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest you were sure he could hear it.

he dips his head down, lips ghosting over yours. you press your palms firmly against his chest, trying to shove him back, but he grips at your wrists with his free hand, shoving them back down to your sides, “don’t try and tell me you don’t think of me in the ways i think of you, i know you want me. zach doesn’t know how to properly take care of a girl like you, a fucking whore. you need to be fucked like the whore you are”

“r-rafe. i-i can’t. i.. this is wrong, i-i love zach”

rafe chuckles darkly, his hand wrapping around your throat and squeezing tightly. he pushes you down onto your knees, his free hand shoving his sweats and boxers down his legs, his large cock springing free.

“i love zach” he mocks, “i know you don’t fucking love him, if you did, you wouldn’t give me those desperate ‘fuck me’ eyes every single fucking time you see me. now, be a good fucking girl, and suck my cock, yeah?”

you glance up at him, his normally bright blue eyes now dark, glazed over with lust. he releases his grip on your throat, his hand making its way into your hair and tugging. you swallow thickly before spitting down into your palm, slowly wrapping your hand around his thick length. you begin slowly pumping at his cock, pulling low groans from him.

you dip your head down, licking a long stripe up the underside of his shaft, leaving soft kisses to his swollen head, licking up the precum that had leaked from the tip. you hum in satisfaction when you taste him, finally wrapping your lips around his head and swirling your tongue around it. you slowly push more of his throbbing cock into your mouth, a slow and steady pace made as you bobbed your head up and down his length.

rafe tightens his grip in your hair, shoving himself fully down your throat and keeping you stuck, nose pressed against his pelvis. you begin gagging around him, his dick lodged deep in your throat pulling tears from your eyes, drool running down the sides of your mouth and his balls.

he harshly pulls your head back, his cock slipping from your mouth with a loud pop. you begin gasping for air, sucking in deep breaths. he grasps at his cock, slapping his tip against your cheek before slowly sliding himself back into your mouth, hips harshly thrusting in and out of your mouth, his swollen head beating at the back of your throat.

he continues his harsh thrusts, the sounds of your gagging and his low groans bouncing off the walls of the living room. his thrusts grow sloppy, dick pulsing in your mouth, signaling his impending release before he quickly pulls himself from your mouth.

you whine, the need of wanting to taste him strong, “raaaafe! why’d you do that? wanted to taste you” you pout.

he lands a harsh slap across your cheek, your neck snapping to the side. your hand flys to your cheek, rubbing at the spot as tears filled your eyes, “wh-what was th-” you begin to ask, but your words die, a squeal pulled from you when rafe yanks you off your knees.

his hands fly to the waistband of your silk sleep shorts, pulling them down your legs along with your panties. he grips at your thighs, giving a light tap against your ass, “jump” he demands, and you quickly obey.

your wrap your legs around his hips, his hard cock pressing firmly against your clit. rafe places one arm completely underneath your ass, keeping you upright while he free hand forces its way between the two of you, grasping his cock and sliding his head through your arousal slick entrance.

you begin whimpering, the head of his cock pushing into you slowly and then being pulled right back out. you gasp when he finally sinks himself inside of you, his tip stroking at your gspot, cock splitting you in half.

“holy fuck! rafe!”

he buries his head into the crook of your neck, mouth attacking at the skin as he starts fucking himself up into your pussy.

you’re a moaning mess, strings of curses and shouts of his name falling past your lips as he walks you toward a wall, your back being harshly pinned against it. rafe uses both hands to hold you upright, his palms tightly gripping at the plump flesh, his cock relentlessly pounding into you.

“fuck! feel s’good, tell me, who fucks you better? hmmm? me or my fucking brother?”

you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, tears pricking at your eyes as the realization of what you’re doing finally hits you. this was your boyfriends brother.. you were betraying zach, he would be heartbroken if he ever found out.

tears begin streaming down your face, a mix of pain and pleasure rushing through your body. rafe’s demanding voice and hand squishing at your cheeks has you snapping back into reality.

“fucking answer me! who fucks this pussy better?”

you whimper, “i-i.. fuck! rafe! i can’t”

rafe slows his thrusts, his mouth finding yours and leaving a hot, searing kiss to your lips. he pulls himself back, continuing his slow and sensual thrusts inside of you, “go on, fucking say it. i fuck this pussy better than zach. s’not that hard, little fucking slut loves being fucked by her boyfriends brother”

you whimper when he harshly thrusts up, your inner walls clenching around him tightly as your orgasm threatens to burst from you.

“say it!” rafe shouts, his brutal thrusts picking up in pace.

you let your head fall forward, face buried in the crook of his neck as you shout, “fuck! you fuck me better than zach! fuck rafe, ‘m gonna cum!”

rafe chuckles, “fuckin’ knew it! go on baby, soak my fucking cock, be a good fucking girl f’me and cum all over me”

the mix of his harsh thrusts and his words have you tumbling over the edge, your arousal squirting out of you and soaking rafe’s cock and thighs.

he continues fucking himself up into you, his hips stuttering and dick pulsing, “fuck, gonna fill you up with my cum, you fuckin’ want that? wanna have my cum inside your greedy little pussy?”

“y-yes! please cum inside me, rafe! i need it so badly!”

his hips stutter, his dick twitching inside you, the thick white ropes of his cum spilling inside you and painting your inner walls.

his thrusts slow, slipping his now softening cock from inside you and placing your feet back onto the ground. the room is silent, rafe turning on his heels and making his way toward his discarded sweatpants.

you awkwardly make your way toward the couch, grabbing your panties and shorts off the floor and pulling them up your legs. you watch as rafe makes his way into the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing himself a water.

“uh… rafe-” you begin, but he cuts you off.

“you don’t want zach to know, right?”

you awkwardly chuckle, “uh.. yeah. please, zach can never find out about this.. i- i really do love him”

rafe takes a quick sip from his water, pulling the bottle from his lips and smirking at you, “that’s fine. under one condition”

you narrow your eyes in confusion, your head slightly tilted to the side as you wait on him to finish.

“i get to fuck you whenever i want”

your eyes nearly pop out of your head, was he fucking crazy? there was no way you would do this again, no matter how badly you wanted to.

“what? rafe, we can’t ever do this again!”

rafe takes two long strides toward you, his hand making its way onto your cheek, “that’s the rule baby. i get to fuck you whenever i want, and zach never finds out”

you nervously chew at the skin on your bottom lip, contemplating what to say.

“i- fine! fine, if that’s what it takes.. but rafe.. i- this isn’t right, he’s your brother!”

rafe snorts out a laugh, “and? i don’t give a fuck, you’re mine now. mine to use, mine to fuck. whenever i want. night princess, i’ll see you tomorrow”

he makes his way toward the spiral staircase, disappearing up the stairs and leaving you dumbfounded and confused. what had you gotten yourself into?

RAFE TAGLIST: @ivy-34 @rafeism @thelomlisrafecameron @rafegirly @f4ll-for-you @drewstarkeyslut @starkeypankowsbae @m-1234 @dilvcv @thewitchesofart @rafesgfxo @unsaidjaelinrose @abbybarnesstuff @itsmytimetoodream @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles @r1vrsefx @alexisbaumann2004 @yourfavborderhopper @moremaybank @rafetopia @mel119g @rafemotherfuckingcameron @jade-is-jaded @jjmaybankisbae @lexasaurs634 @lyndys @softlilacarrest @fayerite @exhaustedbutelated @urmyslxt @sierraluvz @presleyanswrites @carma-fanficaddict @rafescokenostril @madzzz0797 @slytherhoes @jscameron @jjsmarijuana @ijustwanttoreadlols @luversgirl @sugarcoatedstarkey @skyesthebomb @nirvanaissogood @stvrkey @vhour @emma77645 @rafeinterlude @superlegend216 @mannstarkey @digitaldiary111 @spideysimpossiblegirl @redhead1180 @crgirlsworld @personalfavsthatarerandom @carolinaxvz @maybankslover @bigslay86 @buckyisveryhot @cantstoptherecs @pradabambie @slut4ani @urbestieboo

rafe cameron masterlist | taglist form

[2kiran]

❛ 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐄 ❜ ➖ ch1.

series masterlist | ghostface x reader | nsfw

syno. ◜˚꩜.ᐟ —— IN WHICH HALLOWEEN is in a few hours, the day that gathers mischievous children and adults alike. They’re all stupidly uncaring of the terrors that await them outside. Maybe it’s a good thing you weren’t invited to the equally stupid party; the bitterness is slipping from your mind—until the phone rings.

content: male!ghostface, male reader, stalking, he touches himself over his clothes, use of he and they pronouns for ghostface, 800+ words, canon timeline genre: dark | v.ao3

October 30th, 11:42 P.M.

Viridescent chlorophyll pigmented leaves rustle aimlessly from the zephyr, manifesting solace amidst the looming witching hour. The perpetual snicking of the timepiece compensated for the lack of engaging noise of your residence, one that is adjudged to be prone to jeopardy. You presumed you’d be drinking away your misfortunes along with your ‘friends’ by now, fulfilling the engraved void of your body with a sense of halcyon.

Alas, you neither inherited the glory of bosom friends nor a staunch invitation. You’re compelled to isolation, idly switching from channel to channel on the television. Majority of programs transmitted great terrors and deaths occurring around your town, doubtlessly emitting dread from your neighbors. One snatches your surveillance in particular, the news anchor no other than Gale Weathers.

“Woodsboro, California was devastated last night when two young teenagers were found brutally murdered. Authorities have yet to issue a statement but our sources tell us—”

Your telephone begins to ring.

Short-sightedly, a twinge of assumption that your friends are calling to address their regret engulfs you in a disposition of sprint. You hasten to answer, stumbling over items scattered across the ground. With palpitating hands, you manage to grab the cordless communicator.

“Hello?”

A saccharine yet mechanical voice lacerated the echoes of silence. “Hello?”

You detect a billow of unfamiliarity, the silk-smooth tone unregistered. You lay your weight against the counter behind you, planting your free hand on the top. “Who’s this?” You interrogate without close scrutiny, tasting displeasure on your tongue from the thought of the other one on the line being a childish prankster.

“What number is this?” The stranger questions in return, downright shrugging off yours. There’s a subtle ascent in timbre, as though they were exhilarated by the odd conversation. Sounding virtually like they were arranging a scheme with you as the heart-rending target. However, you knew better than to generate bland speculations, didn’t you?

This did not mean you possessed the generosity of extending your patience for a mere individual whom you’ll most-likely never meet. Your brows crease, lips twisting downwards into a sullen frown. Glancing towards the clock, it currently read 12:26. You’ve already misused your valuable time. Great, your week’s ending with several scowls. With an aggravated sigh, you decide on a conclusion which is probably the smartest one—or rather the stupidest, but you don’t know that just yet—you’ve made for the past few days. “You have the wrong number.”

You return the handset to the device. You’re able to take only a couple of steps before it rings again.

This day is truly testing your patience. You snatch it, still having the decency to attempt upholding the tender exterior. “Hello?” You repeat, your jaw twitching with intelligible strain.

“I’m sorry. I guess I dialed the wrong number.”

You scoff lightly, not daring to feign anything else besides mild amusement. Frustration began to simmer beneath your skin, fluttering a stream through your veins. “Why’d you dial it again, then?”

“To apologize.”

That one promptly eased the seethe waiting to plunge straight out of your chest. At least this person sustained a quarter of a functioning brain, unlike those you’re unfortunately acquainted with. “You’re forgiv—” You begin, subconsciously lowering the object once more, but they abruptly interject while they’re still within earshot. “Wait, wait. Don’t hang up.” The words were exhaled through a tight breath. They were shamelessly pleading.

“Why?”

“I wanna talk to you for a second.”

You husk out a laugh, dropping your head as your shoulders tremble upwards. Oh good deity above, you’re awfully oblivious to how attractive your appearance is. Ghostface squeezes his thighs shut together, rocking forward to soothe the irritating ache. He’s ridiculously camouflaging behind an ancestral, greening tree. His eyes steadfastly rake over the valleys and dips of your body, your clothes endowed with the ampleness of tease to let his imagination maunder. Finally, he hears your sweet, sweet melody.

“You’ve got a hundred of numbers for that.”

So he’s been well-informed. “Oh, I know,” His gloved palm mindlessly cascade down to his groin, gently rutting to pursue the chase for friction he’s been pining for all these dull, prolong hours. “But I want you.”

They’re flirting with you. Out of every-color-draining people. It’s surreal; the sensation of heat skulking to your face, the pinkish, vibrant hue dusting your cheeks, and the bare bite of adrenaline caused interest to emerge and sweep you right off your rationality. “Right...” you find it skeptical, rightfully so, and yet you’re incapacitated of hanging up this time. “Uh, I’m going to watch a video.” Your nose scrunches from how you spoke the sentence, and in return he hums a low, distorted tune.

“Really? What?” You really weren’t.

“A... just some scary movie.”

“Do you like scary movies?” It must be sleep-deprivation but you cross your soul he sounds sinister. Uncanny and phantom-like but concomitantly mortal.

“Sure.”

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

2knote. unfortunately, I’ve been terribly busy so I didn’t have the chance to completely write this chapter out. 1.1 (continuation) will be posted in a few days.