#same with the shading at the edges but that's on me

[papasbaseball]

The Wizard x Reader (Wonderful Wonderful Girl) | Chapter 12

Pairing: Wizard x F!Reader

Rating: Mature (Next chapter switches to Explicit)

Warnings: Power Imbalance, Boss/Employee Relationship, Graphic Depictions of Violence

Summary: Being a maid in the Royal Palace of Oz is not half so bad. Despite the meager wages, everything else is provided for you for an honest day's work. It can be unnerving working for the most powerful man in Oz, but you are able to avoid him most of the time. This changes during Lurlinemas, your paths soon becoming inextricably intertwined.

Word Count: 2,652 of 32,210

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"What happened?" he asks, pulling me to my feet. "What's wrong?"

My legs shake and I try to catch my breath, feeling my nails weakly trying to grip the tweed of his jacket. "It's the conductor," I say. "Not the same guy."

The Wizard exhales a laugh at this. "Yes," he says. "We've been changing out conductors at every stop. Did you think it was the same man shoveling coal for the past three days?"

"N-No... but-"

"Look," he says, "why don't you get some rest? You’re tired from- What were you doing? Running?” He gives me a funny look as he tries to rearrange my wind-swept hair. “We've got a ways until we get to Rouncible."

The words he's saying seem right, but there's just something I can't shake about the conductor. I don't say anything as he takes my hand. I glance back at the Frottica station passing by as he helps me up the steps and back into the living compartment.

"I know that this week has been stressful and all, but I really need you to keep it together." He wraps the woolen blanket from the first night around me and guides me to sit in one of the chairs. "The cold can do funny things to the brain. You're... uh... It's going to be alright, okay?"

I nod my head once, staring out the window as we pick up a good and decent speed. Maybe now was the time to get religious. Maybe if I prayed hard enough then this whole war would be over and I would be free to go. A divine intervention.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry I snapped at you," he says.

"S'okay," I say, staring out the window. A light snow has started to fall, adding to the already heaping piles of the stuff that corridor the rail.

"We still haven't heard from Morrible, and she might be able to convince the Lord-Mayor to talk some sense into Thropp. That letter, it was only the first from days ago."

"Can you-" I stop, hesitating to ask. "Can we just sit together?"

To that, he doesn't say anything. The matching chair is dragged back over from the bedside. He sits down in it, holding my hand as I watch the snow fall, every flake a silent prayer that I would be able to see Fileah alive again.

______________________________________________

The light snow has turned to pellets of ice, giving the illusion that the roof of the train is being pelted with handfuls of rice. It’s been two, maybe three hours, and the sun has begun to paint the horizon in bruising shades of purple and indigo. The Wizard's hand is still in mine, keeping true to my request, even if I'm not really present. My gaze has been fixed on the pines that start as dark green blots of ink when they appear along the brass edge of the window, only to grow great and monstrous in size. It's the only place I can look. There was no way back, and the sooner I accepted my fate, the sooner I could plan my next move. Maybe there would be someone at the war council who pitied me enough to smuggle me back.

I've come to accept that my brain concocted the fear of the conductor as a way to stop me from leaving him. As we sit in silence, free from any pressure of time, I can see how ridiculous the idea is. The Wizard doesn't need someone to look after him. He is the Wizard of Oz, a grown man, more than capable of taking care of himself, capable of governing our great land even. I don't need him, and he doesn't need me. The next time I get the chance to get away, I won't hesitate.

I watch as the trees start to curve, cutting off the white path ahead. My free hand grips the wooden chair arm as I anticipate the slowdown that will lurch me. There wasn't always a warning – when I had spent that day out in the hallway I had taken to always having a free hand on the railing, especially with my nose in my book – but when there was, it was nice to know so I could stabilize myself. I wait, watching as the trees draw closer, but the slowdown doesn't come.

"Hey," I say, shaking the Wizard's hand. He had fallen asleep with the gentle rocking of the train but still managed to keep his hand in mine. "Hey!" I shake his shoulder.

He sputters to life, looking around. "Hmm? What? What’s going on?"

I say, "Something's wrong."

"Not the conductor business again. I told you-"

"No," I cut him off, "it's not that. The train. It's going too fast."

"Well the train is going to go fast," he replies. "That's what trains do."

I push up from my seat, pointing to the window. "No... No, look at the curve." The tree cutoff is even closer now.

The Wizard blinks sleepily as he cranes himself to get a better look. "I don't-"

A panic seizes me and I can feel my heart beat through every joint in my body as I pull him from the chair. "We need to- We need to-"

He must finally see the curve coming closer and closer, feel the way the train is not halting, because his muscles become taut under my grip. "It's not slowing," he mumbles.

I pull him one last time and this time, he comes away from the chair without effort. Our bodies tangle as we head for the exit, limbs both reaching for the door. He hugs me to his side, pressing my limbs against him as he throws open the door to the hallway.

"Something was wrong," he says. "You were right... God, you were right."

I slap my hands against his chest as he's carrying me down to the hallway. "Stop! We can't just go out there with no coats."

"Doll," he interrupts, "now is not the time to be worrying about co-"

I push out of his grasp, flying back into the living compartment to grab our coats. The thick wools in hand, he yanks me back out into the hallway and drags me down to the entrance steps. He throws open the door to the outside and the howling wind becomes deafening. The ice pellets that had sounded so gentle on the roof of the car are now flying past in a blinding wall of glass, the glitter of the snow along the tracks a deadly glimmer of shards that does not slow.

"We're-" the Wizard swallows, "We're going to have to jump."

I am doing nothing more than standing, but my heart can’t tell. "On the count of three," I squeak.

"One, two." I can't finish it.

"Three," he says.

We jump from the train in a dive and my stomach drops for the brief moment that we're flying from the car. The icy ground knocks the wind from me as we roll in the snow, tumbling to a stop. Everything hurts, and I can hear the Wizard groaning in pain. I try my best to push myself up, but yelp as my right wrist recoils from the blinding agony. Quickly, I'm cradling the injury to my chest.

"We have to-" I cough, surely drowned out by the thundering of the wheels. I try again, shouting as loud as my breathless lungs will allow me, "We have to get out of here!"

The train is still careening forward. I don’t want to be around when the wrought iron time bomb derailed and exploded.

"No-" the Wizard says, clutching his woolen coat to his chest. "Just five minutes, alright?"

I test my other arm, and satisfied with no pain, I push myself up. He's wallowing in the snow, swooped hair laden with wetness and fresh flake, eyes screwed shut in denial. I grab hold of him with my good arm, trying to ignore how the snow was already soaking into my clothes.

"Get up," I grit. "Come on, you can't just give up and die now. Get up."

"No-" the Wizard groans. "No this isn't such a bad way to go." The sun is now fully below the horizon and I know if we don't put as much distance between us and the train as possible, if it doesn't kill us, the lack of shelter will, and that will be impossible to find in the darkness.

I drop his arm and slap him across the face. That causes him to open his eyes. "It's not just you out here, asshole," I croak. My vocal cords are fried from the attempted screaming. "I'm not going to let you fucking die. Now, come on." I fall to the side of him, tugging his arm to at least get him onto his side.

The train is at the curve now, and my eyes cannot be torn away from the horror that unfolds. The terrible iron beast is jerked easily off of the track, like it were a toy in the hands of a child, sliding on its side as it twists and tumbles and turns. BANG! The sound is deafening, cracking through my bones and making me slam my sore wrist against my ear as a hundred yards away the locomotive explodes in a terrible bubbling cloud of fire infected with black vines of smoke. Parts of the engine sail sky-high as they are shot from the wreck like fireworks. My eyes trace the trajectory of one particularly misshapen piece.

"Move!" I scream, scrambling to my feet to drag the Wizard backward. I can’t drag him more than a few feet, but it's enough for the scrap of metal to miss him by inches. His chest rises and falls as he claws at my arm, scrambling to his feet away from the burning metal.

We stand there for only a moment, watching as the great roaring fire consumes what remains of the train we had occupied together for the last three days. I don't say anything, simply heading off to where I think south-east is. There was a cabin back that way I had spotted while I stared out the window not five minutes earlier, trying to forget that I had gone back for a man who didn't need saving.

___________________________________________________

The sun has fully set by now, a high and white moon rising in its place, lending a ghostly jade glow to all of the trees. We stop every few minutes as our boots fall through the powdery mix shielded by a thin crust of ice, the cold making even the easiest task of walking utterly exhausting.

I stay beside him, not trusting him to not give up and collapse back into the snow again. If I could, I would shoulder him, but both of our arms are gripped so tight to our bodies, trying to keep what little heat remains in us as the cold sucks the warmth from our faces and causes our noses to run.

It's when I'm ready to give up and let the icy mountain air steal the last of my warmth that I spy the house. It would be generous to call it a house, the moonbeams picking out the old and weathered boards that make up the shack. It can't be more than one room. I couldn't care less, letting myself bolt for it. Anything to get some kind of warmth back into me.

The Wizard calls out to me, but I ignore him. I'm sure he's worried that I'll trip and fall. If I do, I'll just drag myself to the house with the one good hand I have left. The front door is twenty feet away when I hear the growl that turns into a half-human yell. I turn to see the wild cat, his fur a shaggy sand that blended in well enough with the snow that you might miss the black tufts on his ears or the marigold eyes that are now trained on me. He must have been watching us from the thicket of trees to the left.

"Bleeding," he growls. "So far away and bleeding." An Animal, I think.

"Please," I breathe, trying to catch my breath in the thin air. "You don't want to eat me." I slowly walk backward, hoping that I'll get to the cabin and I can then shut the door on him. My eyes, flick to the Wizard and he's too far away. There's no way he'll make it to the cabin before the wild cat gets me.

"Not much to eat up here," he growls. "You, your friend..." He's struggling to form the words and I wonder how long he's been away from humans and society. "Food... month..."

"I can get you food," I say, backing up further. The lynx steps forward with each step I take back. The Wizard is closer, but not close enough. "You could feast like a king."

"Haven't eaten in days," he says. "Better to eat now..."

My legs hit the porch and I tumble, falling onto the rickety structure. The snow is so cold that it burns my hands as I crawl backward, belly up and ripe to be ripped open. I just need to get to the door. The Animal's shoulders are thrown up now, limbs bent and ready to pounce.

"Please," I whisper, knowing that it will do nothing. Maybe it is a prayer to Lurline that my death will be quick and painless under her watchful eye.

The animal yells and leaps but the blood-curdling scream is cut off by an explosion. The lynx tumbles to the side as if a supernatural entity had smacked it away. For a moment, I think Lurline has answered my prayers, and then I see the Wizard draw closer.

He is staggering in the snow, arm outstretched to the animal. The moonlight glints off something in his palm. It's shiny and silver and there is smoke rising from it. I'm not sure what to make of it as I watch the lynx attempt to rise from the snow bank it had been flung into. A second crack of thunder echoes through the valley and the lynx slumps. Blood melts the lifeless snow around him, staining it red with life.

Puffs of steam obscure the horror and I realize just how hard I had been breathing, the wool lapels of my coat rising and falling quickly like billows. I scramble to my feet, throwing myself against the side of the cabin. I want to scream, but I don't know why; the danger is gone. Tears are already wetting my cheeks as I realize how close I was to having my guts spilled into the snow.

The Wizard finally catches up to me, climbing the snow-covered steps to the porch. He's out of breath as he cups my face in his hands. "Are you alright? It didn't get you, did it?" he asks.

"Y-You." My teeth are clacking together, the cold thoroughly ravaging me. "You saved my life."

There are tears in his eyes as he brushes a thumb against my wet cheek. "Yes," his voice breaks. "Of course..." There is nothing else to say. No words can express the sentiment as he presses his lips to my forehead. A kiss, a promise of protection.

As he pulls away I can feel all of the layers of ice I had built up against him, the ideas I had told myself over and over to try and force them to be my reality, shatter and crack. He has nothing to say about saving my life because it has always been a given, even in the ballroom when he took my hand to run and took me on the train with him.

I stand there in the silence of the snow and moonlight and kiss him.

[notcloudstrife]

─── ❝Ｍｙ　Ｉｄｉｏｔ❞ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙙 𝘹 𝙛𝙚𝙢!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

─ 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩; 1.3k

𝙘𝙬; 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨

𝙖/𝙣; 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥

𝐓he evening sun cast long shadows over the familiar hills surrounding Nibelheim, painting the sky in shades of amber and crimson. You stood at the edge of the cliff with Cloud, the two of you silent as the wind whispered through the grass. It had been years since you’d stood here together, yet it felt like no time had passed at all.

Cloud’s gloved hand tightened around the strap of the massive sword on his back. He hadn’t said much since the two of you wandered up here, but that wasn’t unusual. Cloud Strife had always been more about actions than words, even as a boy. Still, the air between you was heavy, a tension that seemed to stretch with each passing second.

“Cloud,” you finally said, breaking the quiet. “You’ve been acting strange ever since we got back. Did something happen?”

He turned his gaze toward you, his mako-blue eyes catching the fading light. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he let out a quiet sigh and looked back at the horizon.

“No, nothing happened,” he replied, his voice low and rough. “I just... I’ve been thinking.”

You crossed your arms, your brow furrowing. “Thinking about what?”

Cloud hesitated, the faintest blush creeping across his cheeks. It was rare to see him flustered like this, and it only made your concern grow. You stepped closer, placing a hand gently on his arm.

“Hey, you know you can tell me anything, right?”

He flinched slightly at your touch, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he finally turned to face you fully. The vulnerability in his expression caught you off guard. This was the same Cloud who had stood against impossible odds, who had faced monsters and soldiers without hesitation. And yet, here he was, looking almost as though he were afraid.

“I…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. His gloved hands balled into fists at his sides. “I’ve been trying to find the right time to say this. For years, really. But every time, I… I choke.”

Your heart began to race, a mix of worry and curiosity surging through you. “Cloud, whatever it is, just say it. I’m here.”

He let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as if your words had given him courage. He met your gaze again, his voice steady despite the tension in his jaw.

“I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember,” he said, the words spilling out in a rush. “Even before I left for Midgar, before everything that happened with Shinra and Sephiroth… it was always you.”

The confession hung in the air between you, the weight of it sinking in as the wind carried the faint scent of wildflowers. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. His words were raw, unpolished, and yet they hit you with a force you hadn’t expected.

Cloud looked away, his cheeks burning. “I know I’m not the best at saying stuff like this. And I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes. But I—”

You cut him off by stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. He stiffened at first, clearly startled, but then his arms came up to encircle you, holding you just as tightly.

“Cloud,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

He rested his chin on your shoulder, his voice muffled but full of emotion. “I was scared. Scared that you didn’t feel the same. Scared I’d ruin everything between us.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands resting on his chest. His blue eyes searched yours, still filled with uncertainty. Smiling softly, you reached up and cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing against his skin.

“Cloud Strife, you’ve always been an idiot,” you said, your tone teasing but affectionate. “But you’re my idiot. And I’ve loved you for just as long.”

His eyes widened in disbelief, his lips parting as if to say something, but no words came. Instead, he let out a shaky laugh, the tension in his shoulders melting away.

“You really mean that?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your smile widening. “Every word.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, the world around you fading into the background. Then, slowly, Cloud leaned down, his forehead resting against yours. His breath was warm against your skin, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palms.

“I’ll never let anything happen to you,” he said, his voice firm despite the emotion in it. “No matter what, I’ll always protect you.”

“I know,” you replied softly. “But you don’t have to carry everything on your own anymore. We’ll face it all together, okay?”

He nodded, a small but genuine smile tugging at his lips. It was a rare sight, but it made your heart swell with warmth. And then, without hesitation, he closed the remaining distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and passionate.

The wind picked up around you, carrying away the weight of years of unspoken feelings. In that moment, under the fading light of the Nibelheim sky, everything felt right. For once, the quiet between you wasn’t filled with hesitation or doubt—only the promise of a future where you would no longer walk alone.

© NOTCLOUDSTRIFE — do not copy, translate, modify, or plagiarize my work. reblogs are appreciated!

[esme-yaleal]

Worm, Plague 12.4:

The tattoo stretched from beneath the waist of her low-rise jeans and up the length of her back. The centerpiece was a large festering heart, done as realistically as any tattoo I’d ever seen. It was all in shades of green, covered with ulcers, sores, patches of rot and live maggots. The surrounding tattoos gave the appearance of torn skin revealing the bone and organs beneath, rats and roaches lurking behind ribs and atop her kidneys. Framing the entire thing were words, not done in any elaborate script, but in scrawled letters that looked like they’d been carved into a surface with knives: epithets and invectives.

[...]

The first became clear as her skin stretched. There was depth to the tattoos that you didn’t get with a two-dimensional image. Her skin had been scarred and flensed to raise edges and give the images and words a permanence that simple ink wouldn’t have.

[...]

More tattoos and scars covered her chest, just as expansive, just as unpleasant to look at. Two nude women, their entwined limbs like the broken legs of a squashed bug, neither attractive in the slightest. One was emaciated, the other morbidly obese, and both were old. More tattoos of rotting and torn flesh framed the scene, and the words forming the border of the tattoos on the front were the opposite of the others, almost worse in their irony and desperation: ‘Take Me’. ‘Please Desire Me’. ‘Want Me’, and more vulgar variations of the same.

i considered making a seperate option for "actually the tattoos make her more attractive" but im not gerrymandering my poll. just know that if thats what youre thinking, i see you

[darkdragon768]

🦷 Toothless 🦷

A Dragon a Week 8/52

[umblrspectrum]

how familiar

[unnaturalceilings]

POV: you tried to insult Lena Luthor and her superpowered girlfriend showed up like this

[reidhalstead]

He should know nothing but the taste of blood in his mouth. Transfigured from satisfaction — the flesh against flesh, of bodies pressed close; sacrificing inhibitions, and life and death — to a bitter, vile thing that he's still spitting out of his mouth. Droplets of red decorated the carpet, his chin; his clothes. She wants the god of war, the newly crowned Kratos that has wrath and conquest imbued in his skin, painted the same shade of crimson. She's drawn his blood, with nails and bullets. Reid's still her canvas, but her inspiration is a shifting reckoning force.

What did you think would fucking happen? The fuck does he know? He hates himself plenty, and he doesn't need her knowing he's thinking of something as pitiful as I thought you saw something else; I believed you when you looked at me like I wasn't a monster. But he is, and it's his own fault that a shred of hope had convinced him that he might not always be. Towing the line of hope and loss, like it wouldn't crush him in the very end when self-loathing had a chokehold on him.

His head snaps to the side before he might formulate an answer, cheek blossoming warm for a second too long. The taste of metal is fresh in his mouth. He's slow to turn his gaze back to see the fury in mossy hues where only shortly ago, there had only been another kind of heat swirling within.

Reid doesn't want to fight, even if the shortfall of his condition says he should. Survival instincts whisper to him that she's vulnerable; bulletless, with a recklessness he knows too well. No. He can't. He won't — don't make me.

But he knows the brutality of Anika and her mutilated soul; she calls herself a hunter, to fill the gaping cavern of loss, and grief. Nothing alike. Nothing alike. Physical pain waterfalls right off the cliff edge, shrouding the cave that's behind; a hidden cove only those who brave the waters dare ever find.

She's banging her fists against the stone, shoving him as he flinches with each unpleasant crack of her own hand, his ribs, whatever weak, vulnerable part of his body she'd ripped open and stuck her fingers into. She's a feral coyote — hyena, screaming where laughter once was. There's a flash of colour, when her feet slam into his chest and have him losing balance completely. He hisses — he feels defeated, whether it's by her hand or his own surrendering. The monster desires to remind her, what she's provoking (and how quickly she's drained him of everything; a kicked animal bites back after so many beatings).

His hands snap up to catch hers when fists dare try to crash against his bare chest again; they're coated in his blood. "Stop pushing!" A snarl of a sound that crosses the threshold of pleading, but only enough so that he can tighten his hold on her wrists, to confirm the severity of his warning. Reid forgets how hard he shoves, when he forces her back, feeling the weakness threatening his muscles; the verbena stings where it's refusing to flush out of his system. A slow-acting poison that he's sure he'll succumb to soon enough so Anika can finish him off. He wonders if she'll give his family the news, or punish him even after his final end by telling them a lie. He doesn't know if he can stomach that.

Booker's flying back, smacking the rear of the sofa on her route. Reid's mouth opens instinctively when he realises his fangs have slipped and he's baring them at her. "Enough, Anika. Fucking, enough." It's too late to pretend he's anything but exactly what she sees him as. Bloodshot eyes have his vision darkening and he's looking at her whilst feeling every gruelling injury she's inflicted; from the bullets to numbness in his thigh, where a moth punished him once — the ghostly pressure at his throat, where another insect had fluttered against the flesh. He can't falter now, don't hurt her, he says to himself as he watches how easily she'd been sent backwards. Even with all those wounds he's contending with. Reckless. They both were. He follows after her, light steps of a killer wrought to the surface. Kill her. He winces when his movements become staggeringly fast. They're sloppy in his tattered form and there's no wall to act as a crutch, just the healing body of a vampire, facing a hunter scorned. No, don't. Some part of him just wants her to hurt a little when he wraps an arm back around a waist that doesn't want to be close, and a hand tightens a stiff claw beneath her chin, clasping the top of her throat, drawing her near. Monsters don't ask; he'd asked her all night the right things when he'd gained her permission to taste her skin the first time; that memory is lost to the void, a fever dream now; a delusion.

That self-loathing is spiralling right into the innate self-preservation that she's coaxed out with every violent press of a trigger.

"This, is what you want, isn't it?" He squeezes below the sharp of her jaw; he doesn't need a trigger to take the wind out of her. She wants it all to feel like she's hunted him down and it's an execution, right? Reid's given her all the opportunities to dust him and spit on his ashes. He's simply stood there and taken it. Broken and hateful. But he's done with this. If she needs an excuse to feel whatever trivial peace, he'll convince himself he owes her that. Regret is a burning pyre set alight between the points of his ribcage. He'll form the half-lie in his hunger; blinded by the beast, because she has all that he needs in her veins to numb it all. It's her that's got them here, as much as it's him. Sourly, in his gravelly harshness, he tells her, whilst the sun teases his periphery again, "It's on you, that you didn't notice the signs." A tch weaves past his teeth, "That's what is truly pathetic. But I think you know that, princess." It's why she's coming at him so hard, without a final strike.

Loss and lost remain to be the crashing waterfall they're drowning beneath, there's no hope of finding the hidden caves in the rocks behind when they're so familiar with the cool, aching familiarity of what it feels like to be adrift in the deep.

Finish him. It wasn't her voice, but another, in the forefront of her mind. Whispers that turned into screams in her ears. The familiar echo of a sound she knew too well; a familiar ring to each scream, chanting to end his life. And a promise, she swore to keep. Her hands twitched and shook, when the last bullet found his skin and then the floor leaving bloody evidence of a barrel all lost on a beast she couldn't kill. A promise. she swore to keep, but couldn't. Not because she didn't want to, but because her hands did not feel like her own, and her face — numb and pale, did not feel like her own, and her heart slamming uncontrollably against a fragile cage, did not feel like her own. She'd never felt her body more alive; every nerve set on fire, skin hot to the touch. Before him, her heart was as fucked up as his was; black and motionless.

Anika couldn't remember the last time she let a beast walk away from her. The last time she granted somebody her mercy. Pity wasn't something she felt — not for someone like him, not for anybody.

Every man she'd ever met had been nothing but cruel. When was the last time someone pitied the woman who had to kill parts of herself to survive? When was the last time a beast showed her mercy?

Because it was monsters like him that had taken everything from her. And yet, her eyes were filled with sorrow for the dead man on the floor, squirming in agony, twitching violently, gasping for air. She only stood over him, with a gun long empty. The sharp blade of her self-hatred glided across her throat, threatening to rip at the skin with every moment passed that allowed him time to heal.

All those bullets meant nothing, when not one of them punctured his heart. Not one of them rid her of him. He was still alive, in the most monstrous way. Dragging himself upwards, struggling to keep his body straight, to become once again a worthy opponent, a punching bag for her to use and then dispose of. She was supposed to dispose of him, not the other way around. I regret you. No, no — not the way this was supposed to be. His fault. This was his fault. His fault, for giving an abandoned hound like her attention, because now she wanted nothing but.

She hissed through gritted teeth: "Good." What a terrible time to be given something she didn't want to lose. What a terrible time to be given something that would completely shatter her to watch turn to ash. What a cruel fuckin thing to give her, when she had decided a decade ago, that she would rid herself of wants and needs, and stupid things like finding comfort under someone else's covers, the only person she'd trusted enough to fall asleep next to, wake up next to — their own little fucked up, domesticated, mundane universe, in which she was blind and foolish, and he was alive and warm. And they were both free — of self-hatred, and pain.

She watched that world disintegrate, while it spat them out into the vast cosmos. And back so quickly, into a world familiar and dark, deadly and completely ravenous where he was a monster and she was his executioner. Only she couldn't swing the axe high enough to slice his head clean off, instead uncertain, trembling hands got the weapon stuck half-way — not letting him die, but not letting him live either. "That's your fucking problem now, isn't it? At least I didn't fucking know, but you did. And still — what did you hope for here, huh? What did you think would fucking happen?" bitter tongue spun cruel words into existence, fabricated them from lies to truths.

Cruel, and despicable things were her lies. Cruel and despicable like putting him on her path and expecting her not to fall for the touch against her spine that whispered safety, the brush against her arm that grounded her — offered her trust, the kind that urged her heaviest burdens, and her heaviest losses to spill out of her. The ones that twisted her, and bent her out of shape, that made her less mortal man and more his kind of beast. The kind of tenderness she hasn't known for years, and had to give up after only a moment. She couldn't mourn the loss, not when she could do something better, something familiar, that was very much her, the version of her that she'd built for years, only for him to turn into dust over a couple of months. It was him holding the stake over her, buried deep into a hollow chest. That sorry excuse of a heart that only he— Don't be fucking ridiculous, Anika.

She wanted his fury, and his hatred. Let's see how far that regret go.

Her hand swung at him, backwards with the sharp metal of the gun slamming into his cheek. Stop fucking talking. His head almost unscrewed itself right off. Burning eyes, like a forest on fire, screamed at him — to be seen, to be acknowledged for the raging disaster it was, "Fight back!" spat out, as if an order. Then she banged small, but mightily fists into him; across his chest, and over his face. Pushing him into the corner of the room, right against his door. "Fight back—" louder, like a beast. She wanted to take every broken whisper, every trusted word, every shared weakness and shove them down his throat. She wanted to fuck him over, like he had. Those kicks to the gut came quicker and harder. "I said— fight the fuck back." Anika would relish in his hate. He was right. It was better, easier— than to mourn the loss of his love.

[lucalicatteart]

A few little sketches of some possible school uniforms for mage schools/learning centers for magic/etc. :0c Though because Nanyevimi is so scattered and disconnected, it'd actually vary much more by region (like not everywhere would have a cultural concept of what a suit jacket or neck tie looks like lol), so it's probably unrealistic for so many of them to follow too many traditional Uniform Conventions from cultures in our world, etc. But, still, fun to mess around with designs, and think about which would be most fun to wear/what school you'd go to just based off the clothing lol~

[tequatls-favorite-spoon]

my art from the na vs art party!! took me a lil bit cuz i wanted to color it and that meant cleaning up the sketches and then i wanted to shade them and hajsksldhaflk

the characters from left to right:

Quinn Teeling - @sunsrefuge

Ambrose Wolfsbane - @commander-gloryforge

Finnegän - @pinecone-enthusiast

Astrëllä - @ohpollenpowder

[sqtorux]

love makes a man tender— the same could be said for a monster.

sukuna sits patiently with his daughter on his lap while she applies various colours on his face he finds so hideous.

her small little hands pat the products into his skin, a bit too aggressively for his liking but he lets her regardless, not without a few grunts and huffs of annoyance though.

"pick another one" sukuna says in an irritated tone when she brought a bright pink blush close to his face.

the child only pouts "but 'ts pretty!!" now if you must know, sukuna dislikes pink; hates it even. it looks lively and soft — the exact opposite of who he was. (also maybe because a certain someone aka his least favourite niece has the exact same hair colour but the girl doesn't need to know that).

despite that, sukuna finds himself giving into that stupid pout he somehow catches himself adoring. all four of his eyes roll "get on with it then."

the giggles that follow after almost made him want to paint all of himself pink. almost.

however, what drove him to the edge was when he was asked to close his eyes so she could apply yet another colour onto them.

being the kid she is, she does it a bit sloppy— accidentally poking his eyes once or twice. "brat that hurts" sukuna growls but makes no move to stop her.

he thinks the foolish eye pokes were worth it when a light peck lands on each of his eyes "sorry daddy!" the child chuckles and sukuna opens his eyes.

one of his four hands make their way to her lips stained with a faint black— which he guesses were from his eyes, and wipes them away gently. "you look stupid."

the girl ignores his half assed words and brings yet another bright shade and begins applying it onto his lips. he sits obediently.

"there! you're done. you're so pretty daddy!!" the child squeals in excitement and brings a mirror to her father's face.

sukuna stares into the mirror and frowns "how horrifying."

"do you not like it?"

sukuna scoffs and places the mirror down "i have always wanted to look abominable."

"yes you look adorable!" the girl giggles while clapping her tiny hands together happily. sukuna doesn't correct her.

later when she sleeps and you're talking the makeup off for him, sukuna complaints.

"this is the result of the small brat's assault."

you only laugh in response and his eyes stare up to you. "i am being very serious."

"then why didn't you stop her?"

sukuna doesn't have an answer to that because that would mean he had to admit his affection for yet another person after you.

"that's right, you'd do anything for her won't you?" your chuckle makes all four of his eyes roll. he seems to do that a lot lately.

"the small brat and the big brat love tormenting me."

you raise a brow at this, "and do you have a problem with that?"

sukuna huffs but the soft expression replacing his usually grim one betrays the act of annoyance he puts up.

"i wouldn't have it any other way."

[xitsensunmoon]

HOW TO GLAZE YOUR WORK WITHOUT A GOOD PC(or on mobile)/TIPS TO MAKE IT LESS VISIBLE

Glaze your work online on:

Cara app. It requires you to sign up but it is actually a good place for your portfolio. Glazing takes 3 minutes per image and doesn't require anything but an internet connection compared to 20-30 minutes if your pc doesn't have a good graphic card. There IS a daily limit of 9 pictures tho. Glazed art will be sent to you after it's done, by email. It took me 30 minutes to glaze 9 images on a default setting. Cara app is also a space SPECIFICALLY for human artists and the team does everything in their power to ensure it stays that way.

WebGlaze. This one is a little bit more complicated, as you will need to get approval from the Glaze team themselves, to ensure you're not another AI tech bro(which, go fuck yourself if you are). You can do it through their twitter, through the same Cara app(the easiest way) or send them an email(takes the longest). For more details read on their website.

Unfortunately there are no ways that I know of to use Nightshade YET, as it's quite new. Cara.app definitely works on implementing it into their posting system tho!

Now for the tips to make it less visible(the examples contain only nightshade's rendering, sorry for that!):

Heavy textures. My biggest tip by far. Noise, textured brushes or just an overlay layer, everything works well. Preferably, choose the ones that are "crispy" and aren't blurred. It won't really help to hide rough edges of glaze/nightshade if you blur it. You can use more traditional textures too, like watercolor, canvas, paper etc. Play with it.

Colour variety. Some brushes and settings allow you to change the colour you use just slightly with every stroke you make(colour jitter I believe?). If you dislike the process of it while drawing, you can clip a new layer to your colour art and just add it on top. Saves from the "rainbow-y" texture that glaze/nightshade overlays.

Gradients(in combination with textures work very well). Glaze/nightshade is more visible on low contrast/very light/very dark artworks. Try implementing a simple routine of adding more contrast to your art, even to the doodles. Just adding a neutral-coloured bg with a darker textured gradient already is going to look better than just plain, sterile digital colour.

And finally, if you dislike how glaze did the job, just try to glaze/shade it again. Sometimes it's more visible, sometimes it's more subtle, it's just luck. Try again, compare, and choose the one you like the most. REMEMBER TO GLAZE/SHADE AFTER YOU MADE ALL THE CHANGES, NOT BEFORE!!

If you have any more info feel free to add to this post!!

[lalunanymph]

KITTEN, BEHAVE ☆

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ there are consequences to teasing your biker boyfriend...

⋆｡°✩ semi-public s/ex, fem!reader, biker!sylus, reader wears a skirt, reader's a nasty gal <3, undertones of dom/sub (sylus is one kinky mf), finger sucking, finger gagging, petnames (kitten, baby), fucking on his bike (hehe), c/um countdown, unprotected s/ex (wrap it up babes), sylus matches our freak perfectly, based on this thot i had

⋆｡°✩ dawn says: i've been a nasty girl ive been a nasty girl nasty nasty (sorry zayne)

Sylus isn’t one to find beauty in the mundane but the wind whipping past his frosty locks and your arms wrapped tightly around him makes him feel like he’s on cloud nine.

“Kitten, are you alright?” he calls over the lashing breeze. 

His leather jacket is ridiculously thick, but even through the material, he can feel the heat of your cheeks seeping through.

You always flush whenever he calls you your favorite pet name, and Sylus forgets that just like a kitten, you can be just as playful. 

A slender hand tipped with French nails slides down his torso, leaving blistering heat in its wake. The thin compression shirt he’s wearing under his jacket can barely fight off the warmth of your palm bleeding past the material and onto his skin.

His heart doubles in speed, and in response, he revs the N-907 Ultrabike, its wheels kicking up more dirt and dust. Linkon City speeds into a blur, White Coves’ beaches in the distance and to his right, Bloom Forest spreads her velvety green arms open for adventurous outdoor lovers to play in. 

Your hand trickles down his abs, stealing his attention back to your whims, and he smirks behind his visor when he feels your dainty, pretty little palm resting on the front of his pants.

Looks like the little kitten wants to play a dangerous game.

Two can play the same. 

Sylus pretends to ignore you, and he can tell it only frustrates you more when he remains stone cold and unmoving; a statue you’re trying to thaw.

Your free hand creeps under the hem of his shirt, and thank fuck the wind is too loud because a groan slips past his clenched teeth—it would be absolutely embarrassing if you heard it. His mind works doubly hard to focus on not crashing the bike, maneuvering it down the winding steep roads.

“I thought you said you wanted to take me for a ride,” your voice touches his heated ears, innocent and alluring. 

“Isn’t that what we’re doing, kitten?” He tilts his head back slightly and hears your snort. 

Your antics will never cease to amaze him. Whatever possessed you to be bold also eggs you on to be audacious. Your hands travel further up his shirt, pressing right onto his broad pecs and you smirk when you feel the bike wobbling slightly under his control.

“Kitten,” he hisses. “Stop it.”

But, you don’t listen to him. You never do. 

This insolent prey. He tries his damndest not to buck his hips when you start to rub his bulge, merciless with your teasing. Your other hand reaches up to his neck, where his favorite leather collar sits prettily on his defined clavicles, and tug on it, earning another hiss.

The bike skids to a stop and you’re not sure how you ended up pushed against the pillion seat, Sylus looming over you. He kills the engine and kicks down the stand, the sudden deafening silence exacerbating your heavy breathing. 

“Wait,” you squeak, and he shakes his head.

“No more waiting. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

Looking around in a panic, you notice that he’s parked the bike under a secluded shade of trees, next to an empty strip of road. 

This was the same route you took to the edge of the N-109 when you were given the mission to retrieve Sylus a few months ago. 

“Familiar, isn’t it?” He reads your mind with a dark chuckle. 

Those ruby red eyes bore into yours with the grace of a predator provoked, and you, his favorite prey, will finally get what you’ve been asking for. 

“I think it’s high time we recreated some memories from the first night we both saw each other,” he drags his palm up your bare thigh, making you shiver. “It’s a good thing you’re in a pretty little skirt, kitten,” he hums, pushing the hem of your leather mini skirt—a gift from him—out of the way. 

Sylus inhales sharply when he notices the micro thong you’re wearing which barely covers anything, his nostrils flaring.

“Insufferable.”

“Sy,” you whine, unsure what he's waiting for. It's never like him to play with his food.

The press of his bigger body on top of yours cages you to the pillion seat, the friction burning when he unceremoniously drags you closer to him. 

Those intense eyes seem to devour you, and for the first time since you’ve been together with him, you see a shadow of his villainous evil in them. 

“Is this what you wanted?” 

Is this what you’ve been begging for? 

Sylus wraps a hand around your throat in broad daylight, not caring for morals or decency when he squeezes. Hard.

Your eyes roll back into your head, regret streaming in for how you teased him earlier. 

“A-ah—” you choke lightly. “Was jus’ tryna play around.” 

Sylus ignores your whimpers, a bored look on his face as he loosens his fingers, letting you suck in a wheezy breath. 

“Little hunters never learn their lessons, do they?” 

He smirks unexpectedly. 

“Remember that night you tried to tame me during our interrogation? In the end, I was the one who had you screaming, didn’t I, kitten?” 

You did remember—of course, you did.

The shine of your boots spreading his kneeling thighs apart. Leather collar around a pale strip of throat you just wanted to suck on and leave a mark. His smug leers, those glowing ruby eyes that shone like dying embers when he finally snaps off the handcuffs you placed him in and pins you to the ground for a taste of your own medicine.

As much as you hate to confront the truth, it stares you down with an impassive face and dark eyes—a truth that breaks the delusion that you were the one in control when it came to Sylus. 

He touches your thighs, spreads them further. Bright sunlight speckles through the trees, casting webs of shadows across his crooked nose and high cheekbones. 

Sylus takes his time to peel your thong off, and you bite down on your lip to muffle a whimper.

“What? Don't tell me you're all shy now?” 

He snorts in amusement at your attempts to be innocent, prying your lower lip free, stroking the curve of your plush mouth with his thumb until you relent and suck on his digit docilely. 

While you’re not inexperienced when it comes to such carnal submission, it’s the first time you’re doing it outside of the bedroom where anyone could stumble upon the both of you. 

The thought makes your thighs tense and your needy pussy clench down on thin air, something that Sylus doesn’t miss.

“You like this, huh? Being slutted out so publicly… it turns you on to be so open to me.” 

He continues to push his thumb around your mouth; pressing down on your gums, flicking the tip of your tongue, inspecting the ridges and juts of each pearly white tooth. Intentionally drawing out your humiliation. 

Satisfied with the oral inspection, he removes his thumb, swiftly stuffing your protests with two thick fingers. 

“You say ‘no’, but I can smell that sweet little cunt getting wetter,” he murmurs, flitting his dark gaze right to your folds flushing readily with need; right to that cleft which houses his favorite hole.

Lewd doesn’t begin to cover how Sylus can treat you in bed. Outside the sheets, he’s content to play the role of your partner and friend, tagging along on your adventures and explorations. 

But the second he has you trapped in his bed, he becomes a different person. 

Meaner. Assertive.

Downright cruel. 

“Do you want me to touch you?” He goads, locks of silver hair falling across his damp forehead. Sweat dews across your chest, and you feel the heat of shame rising in you.

Sylus, I was just joking, you try to argue, but he’s not hearing it. 

“Didn’t seem like a joke when you were pawing at my cock earlier, kitten,” your lover hums, unable to take his half-mast red eyes off of you.  

He slots a hand between your thighs, and you swallow a cry when he drags your thong to the side, spreading your wetness around roughly with his thumb. Sylus rubs tight circles on your aching clit, forcing you to slap a hand over your mouth to muffle your moans.

“Ssh,” he whispers when you give a tiny, choked cry. Sylus takes this chance to nuzzle your neck, inhaling your scent like a starved man. “We don’t want anyone to find us out, don’t we, kitten?” 

Evil, evil man. You bite on the inside of your palm to keep quiet when he lifts one leg to wrap around his narrow waist, effortlessly tugging his zipper down and freeing his cock. 

“One single sound and I will stop, do I make myself clear?”

There’s no choice but for you to nod. Sylus doesn’t waste a single second once he’s got you all nice and wet for him, grasping the base of his girthy and veiny length, stroking it a few times to make sure he’s hard and ready for you.

The thick tip breaches past your tight ring of muscle, and you bite down on a sharp gasp, squeezing your eyes close.

His breathing is getting heavier, and he curses the second he bottoms out in your tight heat. 

The bike begins to shake with every clean stroke, his thrusts making your toes curl and heels dig into his back. Luckily, the pillion seat is wide enough to accommodate your shaking bodies; never imagining for a single second that your lover would be boldly fucking you on it in the middle of a dangerous zone.

But, Sylus has always been like this—addictive, painful.

Dangerous. 

How he fucks you is no different. 

The blunt head touches the deepest spot inside of you, and you’re helpless to do anything but cling onto him like second skin, muffling your whines into his broad shoulder.

“Looks like the little kitten is enjoying her cream,” he murmurs, trailing his gaze down your body taking him so well. 

The veins on the back of his hands stand out, drawing your attention to him dragging the front of your blouse down, tucking your bra cups under your heaving breasts. 

Sylus’ mouth wraps around one turgid bud, sucking it till it’s shiny with his spit and throbbing from oversensitivity. 

He repeats the same motion on your neglected nipple, savoring your hitched breaths and muffled whines. 

Your thighs start to shake, and you turn your head to the side. 

Look at you, he coos and grabs your chin, forcing you to gaze at the spot between your thighs where he’s fucking into you. Look at how well you’re taking me. 

You’re so wet that droplets of white are trickling down your inner thighs, frothing into stickiness where his cock is rutting shallowly inside of you. 

“Sy,” you moan softly, eyes glossing over with tears of pleasure.

He loves how needy and pathetic you look for him with your swollen, parted mouth and tight nipples just begging to be pinched or flicked.

A furrow creases between his brows, drops of sweat trickling down his jaw. 

You surprise him by leaning forward, flattening your tongue and lapping it right up, shameless in your desire for him. 

“Naughty girl,” Sylus purrs, his red eyes darkening to an impossible black until you’re sure not a shred of your sweet boyfriend remains. Two thick fingers part your mouth open, sliding down your welcoming throat until he’s knuckle-deep in you.

Sylus chokes you out as his other hand trails down your body towards your clit, rubbing the flushed nub until your hips buck and you cry out; a master at bringing your body closer to the pleasurable brink. 

The tears beading in your lash line finally freefall down your face, triggering his devilish satisfaction. 

Returning the favor, Sylus licks them clean, chuckling cruelly at the arousal turning you cross-eyed. 

He loves it when you look this fucked out, and one day when you’re comfortable enough, he hopes you’ll relent to him taking a picture of that messed up, pretty face for his safekeeping.

Baby, you gurgle around his fingers. I’m close… 

Yeah? He goads. Gonna break for me? Come on this cock? Make a mess? Fuck—do it baby. Mess me up. Make me feel so good because that’s all you’re good for, huh? 

He grits his teeth, fighting back the cresting pleasure, needing you to come first.

Come on, baby. Come with me. Five… four… three… that’s it, baby. You’re so close, aren’t you. Don’t come until I reach zero. Fuck—that pussy’s so tight. Two… one… fuck, fuck. 

High strung keens are escaping past the cracks of his fingers stuffed in your mouth, your entire body shaking violently that Sylus thinks you’re being wrecked by an internal earthquake.

Zero. Zero. Fuck, baby. Come for me. Come on, give it to me. Give me that sweet cum. Yeah, that’s it, that’s it—

He grunts, his patience breaking, flooding inside of you in waves of heat; filling you up to the brim.

In this moment of weakness where anyone targeting him can put a bullet right through his head, Sylus thinks that if he dies right now, he would do so happily in your arms.

His forehead gently thumps onto yours and you must be as fucked up as him because you push his hair back, scratching his scalp lightly.

Your sculpted, 6’2 menace of a lover who’s seen death and destruction since the day he could speak, groans and nuzzles your cheek like a weak puppy. With every version of Sylus that you have seen before, this will always be your favorite one—where he’s comfortable enough to kiss you affectionately, bringing you down from the high.

He hums. “Satisfied?” 

Sylus would never say he loves you out loud—that’s not in his nature.

But, his actions scream louder than words when he adjusts your rumpled clothes and gives you a peck on your cheek.

“Do you still want to visit that mad scientist or should we scrap it for another day?”

The implicit invitation tempts you. 

A boring lecture or a whole day spread out on my sheets, kitten?

“Let’s go home,” you choose the latter, and Sylus tries his hardest to hide his smug smile when you refer to his penthouse as your own home.

“Of course. But, for the sake of not violating any more public decency laws, you better keep your paws to yourself until we get home, kitten.”

Proving your disobedience and your unwillingness to learn your lesson, you sink two fingers under his collar, dragging him close enough for your lips to touch. 

“That depends on if you can get us home fast enough, Sy.”

He takes it as a challenge, a grin touched with a hint of lunacy splitting across his face.

“Is that a challenge, sweetheart?” 

“No, I—”

He pulls you into a kiss, devouring your breaths until your lungs are filled with nothing but him, him, him. 

His fingers in your hair, an arm wound tightly around your waist so his favorite prey can never escape him. Sylus breaks off the kiss, ruby eyes like two bloody pools when he stares at your warm cheeks and puffy mouth. 

“You should know I always—always—win our petty bets.”

— feedback and reblogs are appreciated luvs <33

©️ lalunanymph. do not copy, repost, or translate to another site

[gfguren]

pro hero!bakugou x fem!reader | fluff, suggestive, husband!katsuki, katsuki implied as being taller than reader, implied age (~late 20's, early 30s~), light-hearted bickering, an excuse to write more domestic!kats, 1.8k | cw: cursing, suggestive

-your husband comes home late, soaking wet and a little bit handsy-

Katsuki is late; you hope traffic isn't too bad. Outside your window the sky is overcast, steely shades of grey over a slate canvas. The roads are dyed an inky charcoal, pooling at the surface where rain drip-drip-pours in endless streams.

You've taken up residence in the foyer, between the linen closet at the end of the hall, and the umbrella Katsuki left by the front door this morning. The very same one you reminded him to take with him at breakfast, and twice again before he left in the evening. If you loved him a little bit less, he might listen to you one day.

But you do—love him—right down to his bad habits and stubborn disposition.

So you wait for him the same way you have for years; perched at the breakfast nook in the corner with a warm cup of tea and a paperback that's been gathering dust for half-a-year now at least. The bar table is worn at the edges, legs wobble if you lean too far forward—frankly, you should have gotten rid of it years ago—but it was the first belonging that wasn't yours, or Katsuki's, but ours; a piece you thrifted when you were both still twenty-something and broke.

The years have changed a lot—our table, our bed, our house, our life. Your Katsuki.

—His wife.

The band around your finger is white gold; it clinks when you put the mug to your lips. Honey, ginger. Sweet. Rain hits the window and falls; two trails meet at the middle, and stick to each other like glue. Katsuki would laugh if he found you right now, smiling into your tea like a lovestruck fool.

You let the ceramic rest, turn to page thirty-or-something of a book that you totally-intend-to-finish. An hour passes before you hear the telltale rumble of an engine.

You spot his headlights first, misty pools of sunlight spilling onto the pavement when he pulls into the driveway. It's well past midnight now; Katsuki is a shadow against the porchlight, long strides and a hand over his crown. You have half a mind to bring the umbrella to him, but he's quicker, ascends the four steps to the veranda in two big leaps; you barely register the rustle of keys before he's stepping into the house, pooling rainwater at the welcome mat.

He's soaked at the shoulders, a grumble in his throat when he kneels to unlace his shoes—black leather, designer and sharp, same as the suit jacket around his shoulders. Tailored to fit him just right.

Katsuki's always been handsome, even as a hero in training renting hand-me-down suits from the little mom-and-pop shop down the street. But it really strikes you just how beautiful he is when you look at him now, dressed to the nines. All the years of hard work paying off in more ways than one.

You go a little fuzzy when he lifts his head to catch you staring; red eyes kindling the air and making it hard to breathe. He's the spitting image of a number two hero, just returned from a long night at some fancy-pants gala; sometimes you forget that's exactly what he is. Even more dumbfounded that, somehow, he's yours.

"I know," he grumbles, moving his shoes to the cabinet and meticulously hanging his jacket over the chair to dry. He briefly eyes the umbrella. "I f'rgot, kay?"

So have you, suddenly.

There's a pause and—"I didn't say anything."

He meets you at the table, one hand at the surface and the other at the knot of his tie. "Y've got that look."

You tip you chin to glare at him playfully. "And what 'look' is that, Bakugou Katsuki?"

"Like y'r about t'chew me up." He pulls the fabric strip from around his neck in one fell swoop, pops the first button of his dress shirt with his thumb. Your eyes fall for only a moment—barely a second—but Katsuki grins with the self-awareness of a man who's known you half his life. "Or about t'jump my bones, hah?"

He looks entirely impish in his revelation, ego flaring to rest in his cheeks; you have half a mind to nip at them like candy floss, instead you reach for the cuffs of his button-up, tidy the sleeves one fold over the other until the rainwater and well-kept muscles catch at the seams. You feign a sigh when his stare becomes too insistent to ignore, hand falling to rest at the peaks of his knuckles. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah." A spark of firelight flashes in his eyes, deep carmine and coy; teasing him was so much easier a decade ago. "I'd let'cha."

You roll your eyes. "You're so unsexy, y'know that?"

"Hah," he barks with all the disbelief in the world. "What? Want me t'do that dirty talkin' shit instead? Jump y'r bones right here at the table? D'n think she'll hold up, baby."

He lets a fraction of his weight fall against the corner and the old wood immediately cries out, splintering oak and creaking hinges and the real, immediate threat that the poor thing might actually collapse at your feet.

You spring up defensively. "Katsuki!"

A once neatly-folded towel tumbles from your lap to land at your toes. His gaze falls; grin widens.

"Said y're gonna make me 'deal with it' next time I forgot the stinkin' umbrella, didn't'cha?" His fingers pinch the fat of your cheeks teasingly. "Love me that much, hah?" Your eyes narrow, fingers dive with intent for the space beneath his ribcage. He's quicker, wraps five fingers around your wrist and pulls you in with a hand at the back of your neck. He breathes, warm against the top of your head—"Missed y'tonight."

You hum against his chest, damp fabric sticking to your cheeks, flush and warm with surprise. You can count the number of times he's been this blunt with his affection on one hand; at least twice being in the presence of an empty champagne glass, or five. "Did you drink?" He gruffs at that—the only indication that he heard you at all. "Katsuki?"

"Come with me next time."

You tilt your chin, brow creasing. His head dips at the sight of the first wrinkle, the way it always does when he's trying to change the subject, or sweeten you up, or get his way in any way, really—a habit you must have taught him because you let him get away with it every single time. It's probably why he looks so offended when you pull back suddenly with a click of your tongue.

"That's not an answer."

"Not a drop," he finally says—huffs—with an almost boyish scowl.

You find yourself stifling a laugh, hand over mouth, and he glares, even as you step away to rustle through the linen closet. His eyes are red hot, brow downturned, downright grumpy, only cooling to a simmer when you're toe to toe once more, fresh towel in hand and lightly waving him down to your level. His spine bows, head dips until you're massaging the soft cotton through his hair; you would have had to fight him on this once—years ago—before time weathered his sharp edges, doused the wildfire raging in his heart until he became the man he is now—irritable, arrogant, stubborn, still, but willing—to make amends for who he was before, to extend a hand where he's able, to let you offer him one in return.

"Chose this one on purpose, didn't'cha?" Katsuki's voice is lukewarm, a tepid grumble at the back of his throat, an almost purr when you dip your fingertips against his nape.

"No idea what you're talking about."—but you do. The towel in question, he means, is from the left side of the closet, your side, all soft cotton and fluff; the same ones he refuses to use, for those very same reasons. "Said they 'd'n dry a damn thing' but-" you drape the supposed 'overrated, overpriced pile'a'fluff' around his shoulders to ruffle his bangs, more wily than usual, and barely damp. "Would y'look at that?"

He snorts, hand falling to the small of your back. "Don't get smart."

"Or what?" you keen up at him, at the balls of your feet, tip toes and still barely nose to nose; they bump once on accident, and twice on purpose. "Huh?"

Warm, exasperated breath fans across your cheeks. "Tryna start somethin' t'night, are ya?"

You bat your lashes, head tilting and fingers splaying across the 'v' of his neckline. "Me? Start something?" Your grin betrays your facade. "And what if I am?"

He pulls you in at the waist, holds you steady with one, strong arm, warm lips at your jaw and low, deep voice in your ear. "Better be ready t'finish it, then."

His right hand comes to rest at the back of your thigh, teases the skin right where your skirt ends; gooseflesh blooms all the way up your spine and you shiver. "Who's jumping bones now, huh?" you bark—yap, like a scaredy-pup with it's tail between it's legs—bite lost somewhere between the callouses on Katuski's fingertips and the press of his hips against your own.

You straighten your shoulders to get a good look at the ego washing over his face like miles of trumpet vine. All consuming, a force to be reckoned with. And devastatingly pretty.

"That'd be me, pretty lady," he says, all kinds of smug and annoying.

You hold him with your stare for an entire second—two, just so you can get a real good look at his stupid, handsome face—and then you're pulling him in by the collar, wrinkling the shirt he'll spend too much on dry-cleaning tomorrow. Not that he seems to mind when your tongue meets his, honey mingling with the mint on his breath and making his head swim, all but forgotten when a hand comes to rest at your waist, heated fingertips beneath your sweater, licking softly at your skin.

He walks you back 'til your thighs hit the table—(it rocks, precariously); one of your hands fall against the surface, the other to his heart that thump-thump-jumps when thunder rumbles through the house, and stills. You smile, soft against his lips, thumb tracing the precipice of his collarbone until your fingers can curl around his spine. The next kiss against his mouth is featherlight, barely there; you sigh, contentedly—"I love you."

Katsuki goes a little hazy, eyes the color of early Autumn; the blazing summer sun reduced to a tealight candle, flickering in the palms of your hands. "Yeah," he chokes. And you know just what he means.

You kiss him then, once more, a little more playful this time; mischievous and coy with a cheeky, "—even though you're totally unsexy."

"So help me, y/n, I will howitzer this table."

[rainrot4me]

Let Me Hear You

Summary: Walking the same path every day while listening to music is your routine. Humming along, Masky makes it his routine to follow you. Until you wander somewhere you shouldn’t…

Characters: Masky x Female Reader

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Stalking, non-con, vaginal fingering, vaginal, Masky's nasty, struggling, you don't give consent/Masky just takes what he wants, choking

Words: 4.2k

You walked this path every day. 

After every shift of work, every weekend, rain or shine you would slip your shoes on and take that dirt path through the woods. The path used to be an old horse trail used by the previous owners of the land, the dirt dry and matted down for miles. The forest surrounding the path was dense, sunlight rarely slipping through the leaves overhead and giving the lush area a nice, shaded feel. The area was thriving, nature untouched besides your constant walks, but you never dared press off the path out of fear of getting lost. Although the dirt made a giant winding loop back to your home, what lay in the middle made you too nervous to find out. 

You could usually complete your walk in under two hours, making your way back to the treeline connected to your backyard and safely back into your house. It was routine, so of course, when you got home from work well past nine PM, you slipped out of your uniform and into athletic clothes and a hoodie. Sliding your screen door open, you flicked your flashlight on, the moon hiding behind dense clouds and offering little light. But this was your comfort, if you didn’t have anything else, at least you would have these two hours to debrief and get at least some exercise in. Despite the cool summer air, you pressed through your ward and to the well-worn path you knew, disappearing into the trees.

What you didn’t know, or rather, what Masky didn’t want you to know, was that this path was also his daily routine. Not for walking, persay, but more for observation. His routine was to hang at the edge of that treeline whenever he wasn’t busy, waiting for your car to sling into your driveway and for you to come strolling out that screen door. You were oblivious to his presence, sauntering on that path as he quietly shifted behind the trees to watch you unwind the further you walked. In a way, it was his way of unwinding, giving himself something to focus on besides the constant pounding in his head. 

Now, he hadn’t sought you out through choice. It was a sort of coincidence that he began to watch you. 

Before you lived in that house, the previous owners were old, rarely trailing past the range of farmland and into the trees. So it made it simple. That widespread land in the center of the round path was a popular spot for the various members of Slender’s band of misfits to visit, hauling whatever recent kill they had made and burying them randomly, difficult to find. Seeing as it was land connected to the house, cops couldn’t just stroll through without some type of warrant, so it made it all the easier just to dump the bodies there and forget about them.

Until you moved in, curious little mind pulling you to the trees and investigating the trail. Masky was there that day, burying some boy, or what was left of him, just out of sight. He didn’t even realize you were there until your foot crunched on a branch, sending him grabbing for his pistol and aiming it through branches straight to your head. You had no clue, headphones lodged in your ears and playing some old songs, leaving you completely vulnerable. Masky was going to shoot, irritation guiding his movements at the thought of being seen. Until you started humming, tune familiar to some Fleetwood Mac song that stirred in the man’s brain, tugging at some long-forgotten memories that he knew were Tim’s. But instead of becoming angry, it was like his body was relaxing, gun slipping back into his jacket pocket and eyes trained sternly on you as you continued walking. 

It was laughable how unaware you were, even still as Masky followed that familiar path, watching you the same way he always had. He chalked it up to being a precautionary measure, watching to make sure you didn’t move further off the path than he wanted you to. But in reality, in the depths of his mind that he wouldn’t tell anyone, he just wanted to hear your voice. 

So, nudging your wired headphones into your ears, you shoved your phone into your pocket, shining your flashlight on the ground below as you walked. You kept the volume low, still able to hear your feet crunch on the weeds as you hummed lowly, swaying the light back and forth. Masky was to your right, hidden in the shadows of the branches as he walked in time with you, straining his ears to relish in your sweet voice. It was his guilty pleasure, getting to hear new and old songs that otherwise he wouldn’t. He recognized it as Name by Goo Goo Dolls, an older song he occasionally heard in bars and stores he passed. Tim was already stirring, pressing against the edges of his consciousness and skewing his thoughts, making the man reach for his cigarettes, popping one into his mouth and flicking the lighter. Masky had to put distance between you two now, wary of the smell of smoke alerting you, giving himself about fifteen yards of space but still keeping time with you.

You slipped your hair behind your ear, hands shoved into your hoodie pockets as you walked. The air was rather cool for a summer night, the clouds overhead making you wonder if there would be a storm tonight. Slipping your phone from your pocket, you flipped to a weather app, scrolling through and surprised by the pop-up showers happening within the hour. You'd have to speed up if you wanted to return home without getting soaked. 

So, shoving your phone back into your pocket, you held your flashlight tight, putting a little pep in your step. Masky was caught off guard, pushing his cigarette box back into his jacket and matching your pace, confused as to why you were hurrying now. He sucked the smoke into his lungs, the pounding in his head sizzling out. You had stopped humming, which irritated him, but he followed in the hopes that you would start again.

Minutes had passed and you recognized the path to be at about the halfway mark. You had an hour left, but the heavy clouds in the sky were already pushing down, thunder rumbling somewhere in the distance. Shit. You wouldn’t make it back in time. Stopping, you had to think, to weigh your options of running the rest of the way or cutting through. You had never been off the path, the entire unknown distance in between making you uneasy. But what could be in there that wasn’t just more trees? This land had been lived on and used, so you had nothing to be afraid of except the possibility of running into a deer. Taking a breath, you held your flashlight up, stepping off the dirt path and into the thick brush of the woods between. 

Masky immediately tensed, heart thumping as he saw you turn off the path and past the trees in the direction of your house. You were gonna cut through. The man had realized your hurry, the rolling storm clouds above telling him it wouldn’t be long until you were both soaked. But he never expected you to take a shortcut, pressing into the dark shadows of the trees and unfamiliar territory. This was bad. It wouldn’t be if he knew you would just pass through, mosy on to your home and out of the rain, but Masky knew better. You see, using that plot of land as a screwed-up burial plot was way too easy and convenient, and it led some creeps to become lazy. Toby was the worst, leaving chopped-up pieces of arms and torsos scattered against the earth, letting nature and curious animals take care of the rest. But that method left evidence, bones and rotted flesh scattered everywhere and easily noticeable. You would see them and become scared, calling the stupid cops and busting them all. He had to deter you. 

Hiking your legs over tall bushes and weeds, you push deeper in, trying your best to keep straight and search for your porch light. The wind was already blowing, leaves upturned and shaking against the breeze. Keeping your eyes trained on the ground, you began to hum again, Leave Out All the Rest by Linkin Park thumping in your eyes, keeping you distracted against the pants you were heaving. Your leisure walk had turned rough, getting more exercise in than you intended. Meanwhile, Masky was gritting his teeth, shoving through the trees as he pressed in front of you, wracking his brain for some way to throw you back onto the path. You were quick, Masky having to work to stay ahead of you and make sure you didn’t run into anything unsightly. 

Your humming was throwing him off, cigarette pressed tight between his lips as he tried to focus more on you instead of your pretty voice. The pre-storm breeze was picking up now, tall grass whipping against his legs and tangling themselves around his boots. Looking forward, he could see fresh dirt dug out into a pit, one of Toby’s lazy mishaps again. Masky didn’t have a choice, he’d have to confront you if he was gonna get you out of here. Swearing, he crossed your path, yards in front of you and shoved off his mask.

You smelled the smoke before you saw him, his lit cigarette wafting in your direction as the breeze blew. You looked up, flashlight shining ahead and barely catching the man mixed in with all the trees. Heart dropping, you stopped, music still pumping in your ears as you stared at the man across from you. In all of your time here, you had never seen a person in these woods. Especially during the night right before a storm. This was bad. Your breath was shaky, catching up from your quick movements but not getting a chance to settle as you began to panic. You didn’t have a weapon, you never needed one, that was a sore mistake now. The man didn’t move, just standing and watching, his build taller and larger than yours, able to easily overpower you. 

Moving slowly, you plucked the headphones from your ears, taking a step back as you shook. “Uhm… Hello..?” You called, voice shaky as the breeze whipped your hair in your face. The man had his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, puffing his cigarette in the breeze and making your nose furl, the scent sour. “Pretty late, huh?” His voice was rough, low and scratchy as he talked, plucking the cigarette from his mouth. You stepped back, nerves begging you to run but deciding it would probably be worse if you did. “Hah, uh, yeah. Just out for a- uhm, a walk. Cutting through so I don’t get rained on…” You laughed awkwardly, fidgeting the flashlight between your hands as you continued to step back slowly, trying not to draw his attention.

“Well, you outta be careful. Buncha fox traps out here. Could take your foot clean off.” He called, taking a step towards you and making your stomach turn, palms beginning to sweat. He flicked the cigarette between his fingers, ashes falling before he put it back in his mouth, puffing smoke. You glanced around the ground, feet suddenly nervous as you shuffled under yourself, hugging yourself tight. “O- Oh really? Didn’t know about that… uh, I’ll be careful. Just gotta make it home before it rains.” You went to turn, pushing for another path away from this strange dude. You noticed he didn’t have any form of light, standing in the darkness as he began to step towards you, panic surging. Stumbling back, you gripped your flashlight, willing yourself to hit him if it came down to it.

But instead, the man stopped in front of you, tossing his cigarette to the ground and stomping it, glancing at you. “Trust me. It’d be better if you just take the path. I can walk with you, make sure you don’t get rained on too bad.” He was pushing, pressing beside you and guiding you back towards the path, not giving you any choice but to follow beside him as he pressed his hand on your back. The rain had already begun to sprinkle through the leaves, cool mist running across the ground as you held your flashlight close, wary of the man as you walked next to him.

Finally seeing the dirt path again, his hand pushed you to follow it again, the familiar crunch of weeds comforting you against the panic you felt internally. The man’s hand never left your back, keeping you next to him as he walked quickly, moreso forcing you to go this way than advising you. You wanted to run, to throw the flashlight at him and get home but he was stern, the brunt look on his face stunning you. So you just kept walking.

Masky had no clue what he was doing. He only meant to scare you, push you in the opposite direction and disappear again. But when you didn’t run, just kept watching, he had no choice but to speak up. He opted to take the mask off, giving you good reason to leave but not scaring you so much you wouldn’t come back. He still wanted you to feel comfortable here, just not off that path. Obviously, that didn’t work. If your survival instincts wouldn’t help you, he would. 

Minutes passed in tense silence, flecks of water sprinkling onto your face and wetting your hair. His hand still pressed, your shoulders tense as you flicked nervously between the path and his face, the unwavering look making you uneasy. “So, uhm. Why’re you out here?” You shook out, filling the cold air as you felt his fingers tense, eyeing you slightly. He was quiet for a second, almost like he was contemplating. “Cleanin' up. Got some hunting equipment back there. Had to get it stable before the storm.” He looked away, continuing on.

Settling in, you let him guide you, figuring that if he tried anything, you would be close enough to neighbors to scream. If he was going to do anything, he would have done it where no one could hear. Either way, you knew after tonight you wouldn’t be walking back in these woods without a knife. The rain was coming down harder now, thick droplets landing on your cheeks and blurring your vision. Your hair was soaked, clothes sticking to your body as you walked, and chills running over you. “Almost there.” The man grunted, tugging at his jacket and pulling it closer to his chest, raindrops running down his face. Nodding, you hummed, slicking your hair back off of your face.

This walk was weird without music, and your routine became skewed. So you decided to hum, picking up where you left off of the Linkin Park song and hitting the notes softly. The man’s hand instantly tensed, fingers curling into your hoodie and catching you off guard, stunting your voice. “Sorry.” You mumbled, sniffling as your nose became stuffy against the cold. He huffed, flattening his hand out again. “It’s fine. Keep singing.” He huffed, gripping the back of your hoodie. Uncomfortable, you began to hum again, pressing the notes quietly as you walked. The man held your top tight, taking deep breaths as he listened to you, teeth gritted. 

Internally, Masky was fighting himself, using all of his willpower not to drag you back to your house and force better noises out. Maybe it was his deprivation, the loneliness from all this time, but he couldn’t stand how nice you sounded next to him. It was always from a distance, but right now, pressed by his side, it was like you were beckoning him. Like some fucked up siren. He huffed a breath, begging himself just to keep walking, just get you home. But as you hit a high note, throat straining against the sound, Masky's breath hitched, fist gripping onto your back. 

You paused, humming stiffled in your throat as you looked at him, feet planting beside his as you stopped. “Are you… alright?” You asked nervously, gripping his jacket sleeve and gazing into his stern face, eyes dark as they looked back at you. “[Y/N]...” 

“How do you…” You gasped, pulling back against his fist wrapped against the back of your hoodie. “You’re a real tease, you know that?” The man huffed, gripping your shoulders and shoving you backwards against a nearby tree, shoulder blades shoving into the bark as rain pelted down your cheeks. You shook your head, panic rising in your chest as you pushed back against his arms, his fingers gripping your shoulders tightly. “I don’t… What?” You huffed, tears pricking in your eyes as he grits his teeth, eyes roaming your body under him quickly.

“Of course you don’t. Coming out here every day just to tease. Practically begging me.” The man spat, pressing a knee between your legs and shoving your hips down, forcing a whine out of your throat. You had no clue what was happening, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket as your hips forcefully ground down against his jeans. “Please… I don’t know what you want. If it’s money-” The man gripped your throat, pressing whines and gasps past your lips and holding you flush against the large tree behind you. “Can’t you see? I don’t want your fucking money, hun.” He grunted, pressing his body close and shoving his clothed bulge against your hip, gripping your hips tightly. 

You were still clueless, adrenaline pumping and kicking your brain into survival mode, too busy wondering if you would survive to realize the man’s intentions. Grunting, he gripped your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. “Listen to me very closely, [Y/N].” He spat, grinding his bulge against your hip, moving your hips along with his against his knee, making your eyes shoot down, cheeks growing hot. “I just wanna hear that voice. You can’t imagine how many days I listened to you humming and wanted to turn them into moans. You’re just so… addicting.” 

You couldn’t comprehend what you were hearing, your mind too muddled with the feeling of your clothed cunt throbbing against the man’s leg, his hands rough against your hips. “I don’t understand…” You grunted, pushing back against his shoulders as he leaned in, pressing his lips close to your ears.

“I need to fuck you, hun.” He mumbled, pressing a kiss against your ear as you gasped, flinching against him. Shoving a hand up your shirt, he pushed the cloth up, rubbing his rain-soaked hands against your warm skin. You didn’t know what to think, didn’t even know what to do. This guy overpowered you by a long shot, but as he pressed his hand into your shorts, you couldn’t hold back the whine that sounded. 

“Yeah, yeah, noises just like that, hun.” He smiled, pushing your shorts down to your thighs and groaning at the sight of your panties. Your clothes were soaked now, pressing uncomfortably against your skin as he pressed a finger against your clothed cunt, pushing his thumb between your folds and onto your clit. You gasped, gripping his arm tight as he watched, your eyes trained on his face and hand as they moved. “I don’t-”

“Just don’t hold back that voice, mkay? Let me hear you…” He sighed, shoving your panties down before you could stop him, rubbing his thick fingers between your folds. Slick collected against the digits, your body betraying your racing mind as you decided to give up, fighting obviously useless. 

Masky was electric, fingers moving faster than his mind could cooperate as he pressed against your clit, causing your body to stutter under him. Even if you didn’t know him, he knew you, and he knew that this was what you needed. Rain ran down his face, he rubbed his fingers against your cunt, pressing in and stretching. You couldn’t handle it, mind racing as he slowly fucked you open, body unsure of what it was even supposed to be doing. He shoved deeper, curling up into you until you were moaning out, fingers digging in. You gripped and held his forearm, too sensitive to take it as you spasm against his fingers, words getting caught in your throat. Masky relished in the way you gasped every time his palm hit your clit, fingers pumping up until you were gushing against him, arousal building. With every unforgiving pump of his fingers, you were losing your restraint, mind muddled under his grunts and thick fingers. 

“Can barely hold back, yeah? Go ahead, be as loud as you need to.” You were biting your lip, eyes screwed shut as you fought off your orgasm, refusing to give in to this eager man. Until he leaned in, licking against your neck and pressing his wet hair against your cheek. You shuddered, losing your resolve until you were clenching around his fingers, his palm shoved against your clit and rubbing your orgasm out, chuckling as you cried out, your resistance completely gone. 

He didn’t give you a moment, shoving your panties down to your knees and leaning up, unzipping his jeans. Stuttering, you whined, watching as his length sprung free and pressed against your abdomen. “What are you…” You gasped, vision blurry and goosebumps running against the throbbing still in your cunt. “I already told you, hun.” He hissed, pumping his cock with his wet hand before he was pulling your hips close, feet still planted but knees buckled. He pushed his cock down, pressing the tip against your lips, pushing forward until your lips were wrapping around him, clit spasming. You whined, the man angling your hips until your entrance pressed against the tip, your hands gripping his shoulders tight as he pulled you to him, pressing inside.

You gasped, his thick cock stretching you until you were gritting your teeth, his head nudging against your soft walls. “Don’t hold back, now…” He gasped, chuckling as he began to grind your hips down onto his length, your folds pressed against him with every deep thrust. You couldn’t handle it, stomach tightening with every tug and pushing gasps through your lips. No matter how badly you tried to keep quiet, you just couldn’t, the sensitivity dragging noises from you. He was ecstatic, every moan matching yours as he thrust faster, nails digging into your hips. He stared you in the eyes, dark gaze staring through you as you stared back, jaw hanging open. 

As if by instinct, fingers pressed into your mouth, shoving down into your throat until you were gagging, throat constricting around the digits. He was moaning, your lips wrapped tightly around his fingers as you sucked, your head becoming light due to the lack of oxygen. He would pull back slightly, giving you a moment before shoving his fingers back in, spit building against your lips. You couldn’t handle it, couldn’t comprehend anything but the intense pleasure of his thrusts, fingers muddling your mind. 

Before you knew it, you were clenching around his cock, clit straining against the pressure until you were crying out, choking on his fingers pressed knuckle-deep into your throat. “Fuck, hun…” He groaned, bottoming out against you and gripping your hips tight, relishing in the way your throat squeezed in time with your cunt. You were whining and grunting against him, eyes rolling back until you were coughing, cunt throbbing as spit ran down your chin.

Ripping his fingers from your mouth quickly, he slid your cunt off of his cock, throbbing hard as he fisted himself quickly, pressing the head against your abdomen. You gasped, heaving for breath as you watched, eyes heavy and face soaked with rain. He came against your skin, seed shooting against your stomach as he was rubbing the tip against you, cursing as he stared into your eyes. It was all too much, knees buckling against him as he gripped your waist tight, shoving your hoodie down and pulling your shorts up, your wetness soaking into the fabric. Your eyes lulled closed as he threw you over his shoulder, legs gripped tight as he began to walk through the trees, abandoning the path completely. But you were too delusional to think, mind too frayed to fight against him.

-

When you woke, you were in your bed, clothes still damp and hair still tangled. Cursing, you sat up, cunt sore as thunder roared outside, the hint of sunrise peeking against the trees. You tried to wrack your brain, tried to comprehend what had happened. But when you moved, feeling the crusted semen against your stomach, you decided a shower was the better option.

You still walked that path, just more cautiously now, carrying a knife in your hoodie every time. Cautious, you always made sure to stick to the path, unsure if the ‘fox traps’ existed or not, but not wanting to tempt it. 

You still had your headphones lodged in your ears, keeping the volume at a good level as you walked, making sure to hum just a little louder. Occasionally, catching a whiff of smoke.

This was an anonymous request!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

[goldfades]

LOVE IS THE ONE THING THAT CANNOT BE TAINTED BY FEAR OR DOUBT──FATHER CHARLIE MAYHEW

part two!!!

for this request!!

─ summary | you and father charlie share a bond that goes beyond the confines of your church duties, with your public image as a nurturing servant masking the frustration and resentment you harbor privately. when nun megan grows suspicious and begins spying, she uncovers the intimate, vulnerable side of your relationship, catching a moment where emotions boil over into something more forbidden

─ pairing | father charlie mayhew x fem!mother!reader

─ word count | 6k

─ warnings | few kisses, kinda angsty, pretty wholesome though, nun megan being nosy AF, mentions/descriptions of being longing to be a mother + have a family, forbidden love, ends on a cliff hanger (part 2 coming soon, i just couldn't fit everything in one part)

─ ev's notes | my requests are open if you wanna send anything in! (please do btw i'm obsessed w nicholas LMAO). again this turned out very wordy and self-indulgent, my apologies

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

⇨ missing out on updates? check out my masterlist!

The faint scent of incense lingers in the air, the wisps of smoke curling upward toward the stained glass windows, where muted beams of light filter through, casting the nave in shades of gold and crimson. The church is quiet now, save for the soft rustle of robes and the shuffling feet of the last parishioners as they take their leave. You remain rooted to your spot at the front, hands clasped in front of you, your gaze lowered in practiced reverence.

You’ve spent years perfecting this image—a serene, dutiful figure in service to the church. The warmth you offer is genuine, but it's also an armor, a shield from the world beyond the altar. You can feel their eyes on you as they depart, expecting grace, expecting humility, expecting nothing more than what you’ve always given them.

But beneath the surface, you can feel the stirrings of something else. The long hours, the endless work, the weight of expectations—it grinds against you, slowly wearing away at the image you’ve created. And no one sees it. No one, except him.

Father Charlie stands beside the altar, his back turned to you as he speaks to one of the deacons, his voice low and calming, as it always is. There’s something about him—something steady, something real—that draws you to him. He’s the only one who understands the pressures you both face, the only one who sees through the veneer you maintain for the sake of the church.

As the last of the congregation filters out, a wave of relief washes over you. The doors close with a soft echo, leaving the two of you in the lingering quiet of the empty church. You allow yourself to breathe, to let go of the tightness in your chest. It’s only in moments like these, when the others have gone, that you can finally be yourself—unburdened by the expectations of the flock, free from the eyes of those who can never truly understand.

But you sense it, don’t you? That something else is watching, something creeping at the edges of this sanctuary, waiting for you to slip.

You feel a prickle of awareness, an instinct, perhaps, that you’re not as alone as you think. But you push it aside, telling yourself it’s nothing—just the remnants of the day clinging to your thoughts. After all, in the safety of the church, what could possibly be wrong?

You step forward, closer to Father Charlie, your voice dropping to a murmur. “They never stop looking, do they?”

He turns toward you, and there’s a softness in his expression—something that tells you he’s been thinking the same thing. “No,” he says quietly, “they never do.”

You exchange a glance with Father Charlie, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. He sees the cracks in your facade, the weight you carry, but you don’t speak of it yet. Instead, you let the stillness of the church settle over you like a heavy cloak.

From the corner of your eye, you notice a figure lingering near the back of the nave, her sharp eyes scanning the room with a quiet intensity. Nun Megan.

She’s always watching, isn’t she? Always hovering on the fringes, her gaze lingering just a second too long whenever you’re near Father Charlie. At first, you thought it was nothing—just her usual vigilance. But lately, you’ve felt her eyes more than ever, probing, curious. She’s never said anything outright, but the suspicion is there, woven into every glance, every pause when the two of you are together.

Today is no different.

She lingers by the back pew, her hands folded in front of her, eyes flicking between you and Father Charlie, as though waiting for something, anything, to confirm what she already suspects. You can feel the weight of her judgment, subtle but ever-present, like a shadow you can’t shake.

Father Charlie hasn’t noticed her yet, his focus still on you as he speaks softly, a reassuring tone to his words. “You know we can’t let this consume us. What we do here… it’s bigger than us.”

His words are meant to calm you, to pull you back from the edge of frustration, but your thoughts are already racing. You glance toward Nun Megan again, just in time to see her quickly avert her gaze, pretending to adjust a candle on the altar. She’s watching—of course, she’s watching.

You wonder if she’s been watching longer than you realize.

“I know,” you say, your voice low. But the bitterness creeps in, twisting your words. “But sometimes I think we’re expected to be more than human. How long are we supposed to pretend we don’t feel anything?”

Charlie’s eyes soften, but before he can respond, you see him glance over your shoulder—finally catching sight of Nun Megan. The tension in the room shifts, subtle but palpable. He straightens, his face smoothing into the calm, composed expression he wears so well. “Sister Megan,” he calls out, his voice gentle but pointed.

She steps forward, her smile small and tight, her eyes darting between you both. “Father Charlie,” she says softly, inclining her head in a show of respect. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just… making sure everything was in order.”

Her words hang in the air, innocuous enough on the surface, but there’s something else there, hidden beneath her polite tone. You can see it in her eyes—the doubt, the questions she doesn’t dare ask.

Not yet, anyway.

Father Charlie offers her a kind smile, though you can tell he senses it too. “Everything’s fine, Sister,” he says. “We were just finishing up.”

But even as she nods and steps back, you know this won’t be the last time. She’ll keep watching, waiting for the moment when your guard slips. And when it does, she’ll be ready.

As Nun Megan retreats to the back of the church, your pulse quickens. You’ve held your composure for now, but the unease gnaws at you. The walls feel tighter, the air more stifling. She’s already too close, and it’s only a matter of time before she sees more than you want her to.

Father Charlie steps closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “We have to be careful.”

You nod, but inside, you know it’s already too late. Megan’s already seen enough to suspect—and suspicion, in a place like this, is dangerous.

───

You lay on Charlie's bare chest, still breathless from the earlier exertion. The warmth of his skin radiates beneath your cheek, your fingers tracing lazy patterns along the scars and soft ridges of his chest. The room is quiet, save for the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the muted sound of your heartbeats thrumming together in the aftermath of what you’ve just shared. The intimacy of the moment feels stolen—like something you shouldn't have, but neither of you can resist.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the softness of him, the way he smells of incense and something darker, something distinctly him. This is the one place where the world falls away, where the weight of your roles within the church, the expectations, the endless eyes watching your every move—they don't matter here. In these stolen moments, you’re not the pious Mother superior they expect you to be, and Charlie is not the solemn priest. Here, in the seclusion of your shared quarters, you are simply you and him.

He lets out a quiet sigh, his fingers brushing through your hair as if to anchor you to him, to the present. You shift slightly, lifting your head just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes are softer now, the usual veil of composure lowered, revealing the tenderness he reserves only for you. There’s a question in his gaze, though, something unspoken yet palpable, like a prayer hanging in the air between you both.

“Do you think she suspects?” you ask quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, as though even here, in this hidden sanctuary, you’re afraid to speak too loudly.

Charlie’s hand stills for a moment in your hair, and he hesitates before answering. “She watches,” he says softly, his tone measured but tinged with a hint of unease. “Megan always watches.”

You bite your lip, trying to push away the knot of anxiety tightening in your chest. Nun Megan’s eyes have been everywhere lately, her presence lingering in corners, her footsteps echoing in halls where no one should be. You can feel her judgment even when she’s not there, like a shadow creeping just behind you.

“What if she knows?” you ask, your voice shaking slightly. “What if she’s already seen too much?”

Charlie’s hand cups your cheek, drawing your gaze back to his. “We’ve been careful,” he reassures you, his voice steady and soothing. “But even if she suspects, we won’t let her tear us apart. Not here. Not now.”

His words should comfort you, but they don’t. There’s too much at stake—too many risks. And yet, despite everything, you can’t pull away. The bond between you both is too deep, too powerful to sever. You close your eyes again, letting the quiet blanket you both, willing the worries to dissolve into the stillness.

But somewhere beyond the walls of this sanctuary, you know Nun Megan is watching. Waiting. And it’s only a matter of time before the veil of secrecy slips, and the forbidden truth of what you share is laid bare.

The silence between you and Father Charlie feels heavier now, like the air has thickened with all the unspoken words and the knowledge that your time together might soon be fractured by someone else’s gaze. You shift your body, propping yourself up slightly on his chest so you can look at him fully.

His brow is furrowed, but he wears the same soft expression he always does when he's with you, the kind that calms your nerves even when the weight of the world presses in on you. You reach out and gently brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

"You can’t be the one to carry all the worry," he murmurs, his voice deep and soothing, laced with that unwavering faith that you’ve come to rely on. He places his hand over yours, his thumb tracing circles against your knuckles. “I can see it in your eyes—you’ve been holding too much inside.”

You want to deny it, to say that you’re strong enough, that you can bear whatever comes next, but you know he’s right. There’s too much weighing you down—too many people to answer to, too many demands, and far too many secrets.

“I’m scared,” you admit quietly, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them. “Not just of Megan… but of what happens if we get caught. What they’ll do to us. What they’ll do to you.” You lower your gaze, the vulnerability of the confession hanging between you like a leaden weight.

Charlie exhales softly, his hand moving to your jaw, tilting your chin up so that your eyes meet his again. There’s something fierce in his gaze now, an intensity that reassures you despite the uncertainty swirling around you both.

“Whatever happens,” he says, his voice firm, “we’ll face it together. They can’t take that away from us.”

“What if it’s not enough?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. “What if this… this thing we share, this love—what if it’s not enough to save us?”

The church is supposed to be a sanctuary, a place of peace and solace, but lately, it’s felt more like a prison. You can sense the walls closing in, the tension rising between the expectation of holiness and the very human desires you’ve tried so hard to suppress.

Charlie shakes his head slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “It is enough,” he insists. “Love is the one thing that can’t be tainted by fear or doubt. What we have—it’s sacred in its own way. Even if the church sees it differently.”

For a moment, you let yourself believe him. His words wrap around you like a protective shroud, and in this space—this room, away from the watchful eyes of the others—it’s easy to imagine that maybe, just maybe, he’s right. That what you have can survive the scrutiny, the judgment, and the dangers that loom just outside these walls.

But as much as you want to cling to that hope, the doubt is still there, lurking at the edges of your thoughts.

You don’t say anything else, instead letting your head fall back against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath you. The sound is calming, a tether to the present, to this moment you share together.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, you can’t shake the feeling that time is running out. That soon, Nun Megan will step beyond suspicion and into certainty, and when she does, the fragile world you’ve built with Charlie will come crashing down.

Outside, the wind howls against the old stone walls of the church, a reminder of the world waiting for you beyond this small sanctuary. But for now, for this brief and precious moment, it’s just you and him—together, against whatever comes next.

───

The sun hangs high in the clear afternoon sky, casting a golden light over the open field where the annual church picnic is in full swing. Children run through the grass, their laughter ringing out like tiny bells carried on the breeze, while the adults gather around tables laden with food, exchanging pleasantries and stories. You stand near the edge of the field, watching as a group of children pulls you into their game of tag, their faces lit up with joy and mischief.

You can’t help but laugh, your heart light as you chase after them, the stress and fear that have weighed on you for so long melting away, if only for a moment. The children's energy is infectious, their innocence a brief but welcome reprieve from the gravity of the world you usually inhabit. They dart around you, giggling and shrieking with excitement as they narrowly avoid your grasp, their small hands brushing against yours in passing.

You catch a young girl in your arms, swinging her around in a playful twirl before setting her down. Her laughter is so pure, so unburdened by the weight of the world, and it stirs something inside you—a long-forgotten lightness that you’ve almost forgotten was there.

From across the field, Father Charlie watches you, his eyes softening as they follow your movements. You are radiant in this moment, free from the burden of secrets and suspicion, your face bright with genuine joy as you interact with the children. His heart swells at the sight, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest.

He has always admired your strength—the way you carry so much, how you stand tall even when the weight of your responsibilities threatens to break you. But here, now, seeing you like this, surrounded by children, laughing freely, Charlie feels something different. Something deeper.

It's more than just admiration. It’s a longing, a quiet ache for something more than the life he’s chosen. Watching you with the children sparks a warmth inside him he hadn’t known he could still feel, a yearning for a different kind of closeness. One that he knows is forbidden, yet he can’t help but dream about.

You twirl around with another child, your smile wide as they tumble into your arms. For a brief second, you catch Charlie’s gaze from across the field, and your eyes meet. There’s something in his look that makes your breath catch—a tenderness, a softness that you’ve rarely seen outside the privacy of your hidden moments together. His lips curl into a small, almost shy smile, as though he’s caught himself staring but can’t quite tear his gaze away.

For a moment, it feels as if the rest of the world fades away. The laughter of the children, the hum of conversations, even the sounds of nature—all of it dulls into the background as you stand there, frozen in that quiet exchange with Charlie.

It’s a connection you feel deep in your chest, one that’s always been there, simmering beneath the surface, but is now rising to the forefront, too powerful to ignore.

The children pull you back into the game, and the moment is broken, but the warmth of Charlie’s gaze lingers with you. As you chase after the little ones again, you feel a blush creep up your neck, knowing that even here, in the open, with the church congregation all around, there’s something between you that no one else can touch.

Charlie tears his eyes away, his heart still beating a little faster than before. He forces himself to join in the casual conversations around him, but his thoughts remain with you, and that moment. He’s always been good at keeping his emotions at bay, keeping his desires hidden beneath the layers of duty and faith. But now, watching you like this, he feels those walls crumbling, just a little.

And for the first time in a long while, he allows himself to wonder: What would it be like to have this warmth—to hold onto it, to let it fill the hollow spaces inside him? What would it be like if the life he’d chosen wasn’t a barrier but something that could coexist with the connection he feels with you?

He shakes his head, trying to push the thoughts away. But they cling to him, persistent, like the warmth in his chest that refuses to fade.

As the afternoon wears on, and the children slowly tire out, you make your way back toward the picnic tables where the rest of the congregation was. Your cheeks flushed with exertion, your hair slightly wind-tossed, and you catch Charlie watching you again, and this time, there’s something in his gaze that makes your heart flutter—a promise, perhaps, or a confession yet to be spoken. Charlie begins making his way over to you, a warm smile on his lips.

One of the little girls run up to you once again, practically tumbling into your arms. You giggle, grabbing her waist and pulling her into your lap.

"Mother Y/N, have you ever wanted children?" she asks.

Her question catches you off guard. The little girl's innocent eyes peer up at you, wide and curious, and for a moment, you’re unsure how to respond. You feel Charlie’s presence nearby, his footsteps slowing as he hears the question, and your heart skips a beat.

You smooth the girl's hair back gently, buying yourself a second to gather your thoughts. Children… it’s not something you’ve allowed yourself to think about much, not with the path you've chosen. Being a mother in the literal sense feels like an impossible dream—something meant for another life, another version of you.

Still, the warmth of the child in your lap, her trust and affection, tugs at something deep inside you.

You smile softly, running your fingers through her hair. “I suppose I have,” you admit, your voice gentle. “There was a time when I thought I might have a family of my own one day. But now... I think my place is here, taking care of all of you.”

The little girl tilts her head, a frown crossing her face as she processes your words. “But wouldn’t you like to be a real mama?” she asks, her small hands gripping your arm as if to anchor you to the moment, to the question.

Before you can answer, you feel a presence behind you—Charlie has arrived. He crouches down beside you, his hand brushing your shoulder in a gesture so natural, so easy, that it almost makes your heart ache.

“The way you care for everyone here,” he says softly, his voice warm and filled with admiration, “I think you’re already a mother to so many.”

You glance up at him, your eyes meeting his, and there’s something in his gaze—something gentle and understanding, but also deeper, more personal. His words resonate in a way that goes beyond the roles you’ve both taken on within the church. For a moment, you allow yourself to imagine it—what it would be like if things were different, if you and Charlie could have a life beyond the confines of the walls you’ve built around yourselves.

The girl beams, nodding in agreement. “See? You’re like a mama to us already,” she declares, then wraps her small arms around your neck in a tight hug before hopping off your lap and running back toward the other children, her energy renewed.

You watch her go, your heart swelling with a mixture of emotions. When you turn back to Charlie, he’s still crouched beside you, his expression softened by something you can’t quite put into words.

“You handled that well,” he says quietly, his smile reaching his eyes.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I don’t think I was prepared for that kind of question, if I'm being honest.”

He chuckles too, and for a brief moment, the world feels lighter, the weight of everything you’ve been holding inside lifted by the simple connection between you two.

But as the children’s laughter echoes around you and the other parishioners continue with their picnic, you feel the weight of reality creeping back in. This quiet moment with Charlie—this glimpse of what could be—feels like a fleeting dream. You know the path you’ve both chosen is far more complicated than that. Yet, as you stand together in the warm afternoon sun, you allow yourself to linger in this feeling for just a little while longer.

Charlie’s hand brushes against yours, lingering for just a moment, and you know that whatever happens next, whatever challenges come your way, you won’t be facing them alone.

───

The last light of day has faded, leaving the courtyard steeped in a deep, quiet twilight. You stand by the fountain, your fingers tracing the cold, rough surface of the stone. You try to breathe deeply, but frustration gnaws at your insides. On the outside, you wear the same mask you always do—calm, nurturing, and devout. But inside, there’s an ever-present storm, growing louder by the day.

Your thoughts drift back to Father Charlie, to the comfort he offered earlier. His words felt like a balm on your wounds, but they didn’t erase the resentment. The weight of expectations presses on your shoulders—constant demands, endless servitude, all while suppressing the truth of who you are.

Your gaze flickers toward the chapel, half-hoping to see him stepping into the courtyard. But the figure that emerges from the shadows isn’t him.

Nun Megan.

Her steps are silent but deliberate, and her eyes are as sharp as ever. You’ve noticed her watching lately—her gaze lingering on you and Father Charlie, suspicion glinting in her eyes.

“Out late again, I see,” she says, her voice carrying a quiet accusation. She stops a few feet away, her gaze fixed on you, unblinking. “You’ve been spending a great deal of time in Father Charlie’s company.”

You stiffen at her words, but force yourself to remain composed. You know how to wear the mask—how to keep the perfect image intact. “I seek guidance, Sister Megan,” you reply, your voice measured. “Father Charlie offers wisdom.”

Her lips press into a thin line, her expression hard. “Guidance, is it?” There’s no mistaking the suspicion in her voice now. “We all seek guidance, but you’ve been… close.”

The accusation hangs in the air between you, cold and heavy. You feel a flash of anger rise within you, but you suppress it, keeping your voice even. “We are all called to be close to God. To each other, Sister.”

Megan steps closer, her eyes narrowing. “Perhaps. But eyes are everywhere. You should be careful. It’s my duty to protect the sanctity of this place.” Her words are a thinly veiled threat, warning you that she’s watching.

Before you can respond, a voice cuts through the tension.

“Sister Megan.”

You turn at the sound of Father Charlie’s voice, relief washing over you as he steps into the courtyard. His presence brings with it a sense of calm, as if the storm threatening to engulf you has momentarily eased. His gaze flicks between you and Megan, though when his eyes land on you, they soften.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, his tone neutral, but his eyes hold a silent reassurance.

Megan stands a little straighter under his scrutiny. She hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with challenging him, but her suspicion remains. “No, Father,” she says finally. “I was simply offering our sister here a reminder of her vows. It’s important we maintain propriety.”

Father Charlie’s expression doesn’t change. “Of course, Sister. We all must uphold our vows. You may return to your duties.”

There’s a pause, and for a moment, you think Megan might push further. But then she inclines her head and turns away, her steps sharp and purposeful as she leaves the courtyard. The weight of her presence lingers, like a shadow refusing to lift.

As soon as she’s gone, you exhale, tension slipping from your shoulders. Father Charlie steps closer to you, his voice low and steady. “She grows more suspicious.”

You nod, swallowing against the knot in your throat. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. The mask you’ve worn for so long feels suffocating now, the weight of expectations unbearable.

Father Charlie’s expression softens, and when he reaches out, his fingers lightly brush your arm. “You’re not alone,” he says, his voice filled with warmth. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

His touch sends a spark through you, and for a moment, the weight of your burdens eases. But as you stand there, alone in the darkness with him, you know that the road ahead will only grow more difficult. Still, with him beside you, it feels less daunting.

You stay silent for a long moment, standing there with Father Charlie. His presence should be enough to calm you, but the weight of your thoughts has become unbearable, pressing down harder than ever before.

“I never wanted this life,” you finally whisper, eyes fixed on the fountain’s surface, the soft ripple of water reflecting the sky. “When I was a little girl, I dreamed of something else.”

Charlie says nothing, letting you speak, his silence a kind of permission.

You take a breath, the memories flooding back. “I used to imagine myself far away from here—away from society, the rules, the eyes always watching. I dreamed of having a family, children running through an open field, laughter filling the air. I wanted to be a mother,” your voice wavers slightly, “to nurture my own, not just serve others.”

The words feel strange as they leave your mouth, like a confession you’ve never dared to speak aloud. Even though you’ve lived in service, dedicating yourself to this life, there’s always been a gnawing ache inside you for something more—something that belonged solely to you.

“I imagined a small cottage,” you continue, your voice growing softer, “with a garden, flowers blooming. Somewhere far from this place, where no one could judge me, where I could be free. I wanted to love, to build a life that was mine.”

Father Charlie shifts closer, his hand lightly brushing against yours, offering silent support.

“But instead… I ended up here.” The words hang in the air, heavy with regret. “I thought I was doing the right thing, choosing this path. I thought it would bring me peace. But it didn’t. It feels like every day, I’m giving up more of myself—burying my real desires so deep I hardly recognize them anymore.”

Your throat tightens as a tear escapes, sliding down your cheek. The picnic earlier flickers in your mind, how for a brief moment, you allowed yourself to feel happiness. Real happiness. Sitting under the sun with him, laughing, letting your guard down—it had stirred something in you, something real and raw, a glimpse of the life you had always wanted.

“That picnic…” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion. “For the first time in so long, I felt alive. I didn’t feel like the person everyone expects me to be. I felt like… me.”

Father Charlie’s gaze softens, and he doesn’t pull away when you step closer, his presence like a steadying force. “It’s not wrong to want more,” he says gently. “You deserve to feel whole.”

“I don’t know if I can,” you confess, your voice trembling. “I’ve given up so much already. What’s left of me?”

He lifts your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, and in them, you see the same conflict, the same struggle that mirrors your own. “There’s still time,” he says, his words a quiet promise. “There’s still time to find yourself.”

Tears spill freely now, and before you can stop yourself, you collapse into his arms, seeking solace in the warmth of his embrace. For a moment, the walls around your heart crumble, and you let yourself feel the ache of all you’ve lost—the life you could have had, the dreams that seem so distant now.

“I wanted a family,” you whisper into his shoulder, your voice breaking. “I wanted to be a mother, to love, to be loved. But instead…”

He tightens his arms around you, his voice barely above a whisper. “You are loved. In ways you may not see yet.”

Father Charlie holds you close, his arms steady around you as your tears soak into his robe. The dam has broken, and there’s no holding back the flood of emotions anymore. You cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s crumbling beneath your feet, each sob rising from a place so deep it scares you.

“I thought… I thought if I buried those dreams long enough, they’d go away,” you murmur into his shoulder. “But they haven’t. They’ve only grown louder. I see families, mothers with their children, and it’s like a knife in my heart. I want that—so much it hurts.”

You pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes searching his face for understanding. His brow furrows, concern etched into every line. “I feel trapped here,” you continue, voice cracking. “I’ve spent my life giving and giving, but no matter how much I give, I can’t find peace. All I ever wanted was a simple life, with love. But instead, I’m… this.”

Father Charlie’s hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb gently brushing away a tear. “You’re not alone in this,” he says, his voice soft but resolute. “I see your struggle, and I feel it too. Every day I ask myself if I made the right choice. If this is what my life was meant to be.”

The vulnerability in his words makes your breath hitch. You’ve never heard him speak like this before, never knew he had the same doubts gnawing at him. It’s both terrifying and comforting at once—knowing that even someone like him, someone who always seems so sure, is just as lost as you are.

“I don’t know how to keep pretending,” you admit, your voice a fragile whisper. “That picnic, earlier today… it felt like a glimpse of the life I could’ve had. And for just a moment, I was happy. Truly happy. But then it all came crashing back—the guilt, the expectations. The life I chose. It feels like a prison.”

Father Charlie’s thumb pauses on your cheek, and he lets out a slow breath. “I understand,” he says quietly. “More than you know.”

The air between you feels heavy, thick with unspoken truths and shared pain. There’s something unspoken in his gaze, a longing that mirrors your own, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he’s wrestling with the same thoughts—if his dreams have also been sacrificed for a life he’s no longer certain of.

“I never thought…,” you begin, but the words catch in your throat. “I never thought I’d feel this way, here of all places.”

His hand slips from your cheek to your shoulder, his touch warm and grounding. “Feelings are complicated,” he says softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Sometimes, we think we’ve made peace with our choices, but deep down, our hearts tell a different story.”

A silence stretches between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. There’s something raw and honest about this moment, like the two of you are finally shedding the masks you’ve been wearing for so long.

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit, voice barely audible. “I feel so lost.”

Father Charlie’s gaze softens, and he leans in just slightly, his face close. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now,” he murmurs. “But you don’t have to face this alone.”

The weight of his words settles over you like a blanket, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to carry this burden on your own. Maybe there’s room for something more—something real.

Your heart races in your chest, and you take a shaky breath, eyes locked with his. The closeness between you feels electric, every nerve in your body attuned to his presence, to the quiet intensity in his gaze. It’s dangerous—this connection. You both know it.

But in this moment, it’s all you have.

───

The church bells have just finished ringing, signaling the end of Sunday Mass. You stand outside with Father Charlie, your heart still heavy from the morning’s sermon. The congregation begins to disperse, everyone offering quiet blessings to one another as they leave. You and Father Charlie remain, lingering by the old stone archway. It’s quieter now, the sacred stillness of the church grounds wrapped around you both like a secret.

He turns to you, his gaze soft and familiar, and you can feel the pull between you—stronger now than ever. The unspoken connection that had simmered all week after your vulnerable conversation feels unbearable in its intensity.

“I shouldn’t…” you start, but your words falter as he steps closer, the warmth of his presence radiating into the space between you.

“I know,” he replies, his voice barely above a whisper. But the way his eyes flicker from yours to your lips betrays his struggle, mirroring your own.

Before either of you can talk yourselves out of it, your lips meet in a kiss. It’s soft at first, tentative, but it quickly deepens, fueled by the weight of everything you’ve been holding back for so long. The world seems to disappear—just the two of you in a moment stolen from time itself, as your heart pounds wildly in your chest.

The kiss is both a comfort and a confession, a silent surrender to everything you’ve been too afraid to say. You clutch the fabric of his robe, pulling him closer, needing to feel the solidness of him, to anchor yourself in this forbidden moment.

But then, a gasp—a sharp intake of breath that slices through the intimacy like a blade. You break apart, breathless, and turn to see Nun Megan standing at the edge of the churchyard. Her face is a portrait of shock and disbelief, eyes wide, hand clasped over her mouth as though she cannot believe what she’s just witnessed.

Your stomach drops, cold dread flooding your veins.

“Goodness…” she whispers, her voice laced with horror, “what have you done?”

Father Charlie immediately steps back, but the damage is done. The air is charged with accusation, and you can see the betrayal written across her face. The weight of your actions crashes down around you, guilt mixing with panic.

“Megan, it’s not—” Father Charlie begins, but there’s no stopping her now. She turns and rushes back toward the church, her steps frantic as if she’s running to report what she’s seen, to stop the corruption before it spreads further.

You and Father Charlie are left standing in the aftermath, the kiss lingering on your lips, now tainted with the knowledge that everything is about to change.

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[honeyedmiller]

Pretty Little Thing | Joel Miller

joel miller x oc!f!reader

rating: 18+, minors dni

synopsis: it’s summertime and you’re working at a retro diner on the outskirts of austin. you’ve seen many faces and heard many voices all in a passing blur; ones you’ve never really payed any mind to—until one handsome southern gentleman in particular catches your special attention, and he’s got a voice you’d recognize anywhere—one that’s gotten you off more times than you’d like to admit.

warnings: original female character, no outbreak (game) joel, joel has a hidden identity in this for a bit, joel is taller than reader, joel can pull reader’s hair, reader is mentioned to blush once, joel indulges in virtual sex work, joel has no kids in this, flirting, talks of masturbation, smut (protected sex, blowjob, consensual choking, spitting, hair pulling, many ass slaps, edging, squirting, name calling, ass play), no use of y/n.

word count: 5.3k

a/n: this is entirely self indulgent. sorry for the small writing hiatus, life has been insanely busy. thanks for being patient with me as i ease back into writing fanfic.

-

It was like clockwork. 

Every day was the same. 

The same regulars, the same orders being put in, the same rushes. 

The lunch rush usually died down around two, which gave you time to prepare for the dinner rush before five. 

It was funny, really. You never thought that such a tiny diner off of Interstate 35, tucked in a corner on the outskirts of Austin, would have such an attraction as it does. 

Maybe it was the house favorite flapjacks you guys sold. Maybe it was the friendly hospitality you and your favorite coworker, Betty, gave to new and familiar faces. Hell, maybe it was the half-decent coffee and the low prices for everything that kept everyone coming in and coming back. 

Either way, it was all the same every single day. 

Until today. 

Usually, there’d be no more than three stragglers from lunch, and no one would come in until around five. 

The little bell above the door chimed as someone walked in, and Betty tapped you on the shoulder with a pleading look in her eyes. 

You averted your gaze from the sugar pourers you were refilling, giving her a small smile. 

“Honey, I’m sorry, I was about to take my break. Can you take that table for me? I need a cig after this morning’s rush.” Her blonde-gray hair was in disarray and her voice was scratchy and desperate. 

“No problem. Enjoy your break.” 

“Bless you, sweetheart.” 

You brush off the straggling sugar crystals that stuck to your hands on your black apron, pulling out your pad of paper and pen before approaching the man that sat with his back facing you. 

You muster up the best smile you can before stopping at the booth, ready to jot down his order. 

“Hello sir, how are you doin’ today?” You ask, and he looks up from the menu with a grin. 

The first thing you notice is his eyes. They’re a warm and inviting shade of hazel; a mixture of a beautiful green that reflects off of his tan skin and an amber as smooth as whiskey. 

Then you notice his lips. Pink and plush. Kissable. 

And then there’s the smile hidden behind the lips. Bright, pearly whites that take your breath away and make your heart palpitate, because god, why is he so handsome? 

It’s like he won the genetic lottery or something.

The mustache above his lips and the scruff on his jawline matches his dark hair with a few silver strands peeking through; the only identifier of his prospective age. 

His lips pull up into a smirk as he watches you shamelessly checking him out. Truthfully, you want him to watch you watching him. 

He clears his throat and your eyes snap back up to his. You tilt your head to the side and study him for a moment further before he finally speaks. 

“I’ll take a black coffee n’ the number three please. Eggs over easy.” 

You write down his order and your brows furrow as he speaks. Something about his voice sounds so… familiar. 

“Midday breakfast?” You tease, and he offers you a shrug and a grin. “It’ll be right out, sir.” You gingerly take the menu from him and walk back behind the counter. 

His voice keeps ringing through your head as you ring in his order on the POS system. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but his voice was attractive nonetheless — deep and gruff, yet sweet and polite. 

Where the hell have you heard that voice before? 

And then it hits you. 

Fuck. 

Oh, fuck. 

That man’s voice has brought you more orgasms than you can possibly even count. 

In a desperate need to get yourself off one night, you explored your options until you came across a faceless account. It was his broad body and thick, muscular arms that caught your attention. And — yeah, okay, maybe his deliciously girthy cock, too. 

The final nail in the coffin was that thick, syrupy Southern drawl that reeled you in and immersed you in a world full of pleasure. 

His voice and groans alone have made you come harder than any man you’ve ever been with. 

Your throat goes dry as you look back at him, tucked into the booth he chose to sit at, looking at his phone. 

You mindlessly pour his coffee and bring it out to his table, legs seemingly floating in his direction.

You set the coffee cup down on his table. His large hand grabs the cup, making it look nearly miniature. 

Your mind was fuzzy and your core suddenly had an aching throb as you thought of his hands exploring your body; what they’d feel like all over you and — god, get a fucking grip. 

“Was there anythin’ else I can get for you?” You ask as nonchalant as you can muster up. 

“Nope, that’ll do it darlin’. Thank you.” The crinkles beside his eyes deepen in the slightest as he tosses a polite smile your way. 

“Food should be out in a couple of minutes.” You rap your knuckles on the table once before turning around to finish topping off the sugar pourers. 

The chef chimed the bell indicating the handsome man’s food was done. You wipe your hands on your apron once more before sucking in a breath. 

You decided to shoot your shot and call him out by his screen name. You were confident it was him. 

You saw no wedding band on his finger, either, so what the hell, right? Worst that could happen is he rejects your advances. 

You grab his plate from the kitchen window and head toward his table. Your palms start to sweat and you’re nervous as hell, because fuck, a face like that is hard to forget. 

You set the plate down in front of him and he softly thanks you. You hesitate for a second before tucking a stray hair that had fallen out of your braid behind your ear, shooting a wink his way. 

“Anytime, Mr. Ryder. Let me know if you need anythin’ else.” 

He pauses before looking up at you again, eyebrows furrowing. 

“How do you—?” He starts, clearing his throat as his eyes travel down your figure. 

“I’m a fan of your work.” You shrug, passing it off like it’s the most casual thing in the world. 

“I see,” He looks back at the now empty diner, gaze shifting back to you. “Wanna sit for a minute and chat?” His voice holds sincerity and — god, let it be — desire. 

You nod and hold a finger up to him. “Just a sec.” 

You walk back to the counter, catching Betty at a perfect time. She grins at you as she re-ties her apron around her waist. 

You jerk your head back to Ryder. “The guy over there wants to chat for a few. Mind if I take a break?” 

“Go ‘head baby. Not like we got a ton ‘a people to serve.” She laughs, and you shoot her a smile. 

“Thanks, Betty.” 

You untie your apron from your waist and walk back over to his booth. He gestures for you to slide into the side opposite of him, and you clumsily settle into the worn leather bench. 

He chews on a piece of bacon before his gaze roams your face, seemingly studying you before he swallows. 

“So, what’s the first video you watched?” He asks, and you feel your face burn with a blush. You thought he’d be more subtle, but it’s better to lay the cards on the table you suppose. 

“Truthfully, I’ve scrolled all the way to the bottom of your page and have probably watched every single one.” You shrug at your confession, and that pulls a smirk out of him. 

“What about your favorite?” His tone is almost challenging, but truthfully, he’s intrigued. Never did he think anyone could recognize him by just his voice. 

Joel was careful not to show his face on camera. He wanted to keep himself a mystery—the gruff, sexy voice of a suave cowboy and his perfect body that he shared with the world—a secret. 

“It’s probably gonna have to be the one where you’re pretty much just talkin’ the viewer through it and, fuck, this is kinda embarrassing but we’re already here,” You huff, and Joel shakes his head and urges you to continue. “When I watch that video, I’ve kinda timed it to make myself come the same time you do.” 

“Not embarrassin’, sugar. That’s the sexiest thing a woman has ever confessed to me.” 

“Yeah, well, when you got a voice like yours and a dry spell like mine, it’s the perfect mix for a most blissful—” Joel’s hearty laugh cut you off, and you couldn’t help but admire him from across the table. 

He was so fucking handsome and you genuinely couldn’t believe you were seeing the man who’s made you come more times than you can count without even fucking touching you, in person. 

“Can I see your notepad and pen real quick, baby?” He asks, gesturing down to your lap. You shuffle the items out of your apron pocket before sliding them across the table, and at the click of the pen, he starts to write something down. 

You lick your lips and cross your arms over your torso, lolling your head to the side. He clicks the pen once more before sliding it back over to you with the notepad. 

You look down at what he’s written, to see his fake name, phone number and an address. 

“Whenever you get off, gimme a call n’ come over if you’d like. No pressure though, sugar.” 

Holy fuck. 

No way in hell you’re passing up this opportunity, so you shoot a smirk his way and tuck the paper into your apron pocket. 

Play. It. Cool. 

“I get off in about,” You look down at your watch, twisting your lips to the side. “An hour.” 

You try to keep your voice steady, but your heart is thumping in your chest and your desperate, aching cunt. 

“Sounds good,” He raps his knuckles on the wooden table before grinning at you, nudging your foot in the slightest before he finishes off his breakfast for lunch. “Just the check, sugar. Then I’ll get out of your hair.” 

“I’d rather you pull it than get out of it.” You grin wickedly at the astonished man in front of you, sliding out of the booth. 

You walk away to the counter before he can retort and ring the check up for his meal, but before you can bring it back to him, he slaps two twenties on the counter before you. 

His thick fingers find their way to your wrist and give it a squeeze as he leans down to you and whispers his next words. 

“Hope I can satisfy you in more ways than one, baby. See ya in an hour,” He straightens back up before looking down at the twin Jacksons staring back at the both of you, “Keep the change.” 

He walks out without another word, without looking back, and it leaves you nearly winded. 

“What was that all about?” Betty asks, sidling up beside you as she gently nudges your ribs.

“Looks like I got a hot date.” You half joke. 

“If I was thirty years younger I woulda been all over that too, baby,” A hearty laugh escapes her and she shoots a wink your way. “Have fun tonight.” 

-

The hour goes by surprisingly fast and you find yourself almost scurrying to your car after you clock out. You toss your apron into the passenger seat of your car and immediately roll down the windows. 

The AC decided to give out on you about a week ago, and of course it was during a time where it was hotter than the devil’s fucking asshole outside. 

You groan as you close your eyes, the heat already making you miserable. At least the diner had a good central air system. 

You peel your eyes open to fish the paper out of your apron pocket with Ryder’s number and address on it, dialing the numbers scrawled across in blue ink. 

After the second ring, his rich voice picked up on the other end of the line. 

“Hello?”

“Hey Ryder. ‘M off work now if you still want me to head to your place.” 

“Hey sugar. Head on over. There’s a spot in the driveway for ya.” 

“See you soon.” 

Nerves coursed through your veins as the line went dead. You type in his address into your phone, and to your surprise, he only lived fifteen minutes away. 

You threw your car in drive and you were off, the hot air whipping through the cab of your car. 

It was truly unlike you to do something so bold like this. 

You never went to strangers houses, always ignored when you got hit on at the diner, rejected offers from several men for what would probably be a night full of mediocre sex—and yet, there was something about this man that you couldn’t shake off. 

Even with just video evidence of this man’s gruff voice, veiny cock and skillful hands, you could just tell he knew exactly what the fuck he was doing. 

It wasn’t long before you pulled up to a quiet neighborhood. His house was on the right hand side, and you pulled up into the driveway next to his black truck. 

You took a deep breath before looking at yourself in the mirror of your sun visor before touching up with some lip gloss. You spray your perfume on your pulse points before deciding to stop stalling and finally get out of your car before psyching yourself out. 

Your beat up work shoes scuff the concrete path leading up to Ryder’s door, and you swallow thickly before you knock. 

Thirty seconds later, a now shirtless Southern gentleman answers the door, hazel eyes catching yours as you stare up at him in awe. 

“Well fuck me.” You mutter under your breath as you study his handsome face and his thick, toned torso. 

“Tha’s the plan, sugar.” His deep voice shoots straight down to your core, nearly making you audibly moan. 

He steps aside to let you into his house, which is surprisingly warm and inviting. It’s cozy with its worn-in furnishings and family photos on the walls. It smells like him too; something earthy and musky and delicious. 

He guides you into the living room with his hand on your lower back, touch sending a chill down your spine. 

“Make yourself cozy, darlin’. Would y’like anythin’ to drink?” 

“Whiskey, neat please. If you have it.” You respond, and he softly smiles at you before nodding and retreating into the kitchen. You can’t help but watch him walk away with the muscles clearly rippling in his back as he walks, all the way down to the back dimples he has. 

There’s no fucking way this man is real. 

You sigh and settle onto the couch, folding your hands into your lap after setting your purse and keys on the coffee table in front of you. 

It’s only a couple of minutes before Ryder reappears before you, handing you a glass of amber liquid. You thank him and sip on it graciously, the smooth taste gliding down your throat and going straight to your already throbbing core. 

He sits next to you and slings his arm over the back of the couch, allowing himself to get comfortable as if this occurrence is the most natural thing in the world. 

Fuck, maybe it might be for him. You wouldn’t really be surprised considering the charm and suave demeanor he possesses. 

“You can relax, darlin’. ‘M not gonna try anythin’ or touch ya without your consent.” 

Your shoulders visibly relax at that, not even noticing they were tense to begin with. He didn’t give you bad vibes or scare you. He made you nervous—a feeling you haven’t felt with a man in a very long time. 

“So,” You start, voice scratchy from talking so much hours prior and the burn of the whiskey affecting your throat, “You usually bring women home like this?” You’re half teasing and half curious, wanting to see if this really is a regular occurrence for him. 

A deep chuckle rumbles through his chest and practically vibrates the whole couch. “No, sugar. You’d be the first t’ even recognize me just by my voice. Gotta say, ‘m pretty impressed with that. Guess you’re a regular viewer then, I take it.” 

Now he’s the one teasing, but there’s a knowing tone in his voice. You didn’t even have to say it. He knows. 

There’s really no point in denying how turned on he gets you, so you just… let it happen. 

You feel a little looser with the whiskey swimming in your veins, giving you the bit of courage you mustered up within the past minute or so. You sink into the couch further, spreading your legs enough to keep the man curious. 

He watches you wearily, eyes trained on your body and the signals you were emitting. 

“You’re the only man that can get me off now. You’ve got me wrapped around those skillful fingers, Mr. Ryder.” Your voice sounds more smooth and sultry than you expected it to, but it was definitely working in your favor. 

“These skillful fingers would love to show you a thing or two, baby.” His fingers twitch around the glass he holds tightly; clearly a form of self-restraint. 

You didn’t want him to hold back anymore. 

“Show me.” You say. 

A small groan emits from the back of his throat. 

You suck in a breath as your eyes notice his going completely dark, drowning in desire for you. His once bright hazel eyes have since been replaced with something deeper than a simple need to satiate. 

It was fucking carnal. 

He downs the rest of his drink and licks his lips, patting his jean-clad thigh. 

“Sit on my lap. Back against my chest.” He commands, and you try to smoothly maneuver yourself onto him just as he’d asked. 

Once you’re settled on top of him, he gently grips onto both of your knees to spread your legs apart so they’re on either side of his thick thighs. 

Your lips part and you don’t even notice you’re breathing heavier until you feel a soft kiss on your shoulder. 

“Relax, baby. ‘M gonna make you feel good. If you need me to stop, just tap my thigh twice and hard. Got it?” 

“Yes.” You whisper, nearly shaking in anticipation. 

“Good.” 

And his hands are grazing up your legs to the inner part of your thighs, delicately tracing your skin. Goosebumps raise at his featherlight touch, and before you know it, he’s spreading his own legs wider to spread yours. 

You were aching and damp even back at the diner as you sat with him in the booth, studying his handsome features. The cool air of the home hits the dampness on the cotton panties you wore. 

Ryder’s fingers made their way up to the lace trim of your panties, causing you to softly whimper for him. You genuinely didn’t think you needed anyone to touch you so fucking bad in your life. 

You didn’t want to come off whiny and absolutely desperate, so you kept your pathetic begging to yourself. 

“So wet already, pretty girl. This all for me?” 

You can’t muster up the words because your brain is simply mush at this point, and all you want is his fingers on you, and fuck, in you. 

“You know I respect you, right baby?” 

Respect you? 

You’ve only known this man—physically—for a few hours, albeit knowing his voice and his body long before he’d even tell you his real name. 

And yet, there’s a comfort in his presence. One that would have you willing to do nearly anything for him—with him. 

And all you could do was meekly nod your head at his words, his Southern twang dripping in honey—buzzing into your veins. 

You turn your head to look at him with a bewildered expression on your face, though, wondering why he’d ask such a thing. 

He shoots you a devilish smile. 

“Good, ‘cuz for the next few minutes it’s gonna look like I don’t.” 

“Oh, fuck.” You mewl, tossing your head back onto his shoulder. He noses at your jaw, littering kisses and small nips all along your jawline and neck as he slides your panties to the side.

He slides his middle finger through your slick slit, moving up to circle your already sensitive clit. You shudder at the touch, clamping your eyes shut as you softly moan. 

“Fuck baby, you’re drippin’ already. This what I do to ya? You get this wet when you’re by yourself and you’re bein’ a dirty fuckin’ girl gettin’ yourself off to my videos? Hm?” 

His deep voice vibrates through your body, finger traveling down to your entrance. He teases you as he slips the tip of his finger into you—nothing more—and moves it back out. 

He continues this a few times, and when you don’t answer him, he slaps your dripping cunt lightly. You gasp and grip onto his forearm that was wrapped around your torso. 

“Answer me.” 

“God, yes, I–I fuckin’ love your videos. You always get me this wet. Every time. You’re just so—fuck—goddamn hot.” 

He chuckles at your blabbering. “Hot, huh? You think that highly of me?” 

“Ryder,” You moan as he fully sinks his middle finger into you. He stops his movements and it takes everything in you not to rock your hips. 

“Joel.” 

“W-what?” 

“I want you moaning my real name, baby.” 

Joel. 

Joel. 

That name is somehow very fitting for him, and lucky for you, it rolls off the tongue easily. 

“Joel.” You test it, and his grip on you tightens. 

“Atta girl.” He praises, sinking a second finger into you. You moan at the feeling, long fingers hitting spots yours never could. He curls his fingers to hit that exact spot and you cry out in pleasure. 

You can feel Joel’s cocky smirk on his lips as he kisses your braided hair, likely in a complete disarray at this point. 

The squelching noise that reverberated throughout his living room was truly obscene, but he didn’t seem to mind one bit. In fact, it seemed to spur him on as he twisted his wrist and worked his fingers faster, pressing into that spot inside of you that had you choking on your own moans. 

Without warning, you felt yourself nearly at the brink of your orgasm—and Joel pulls his fingers out of you. You cry in desperation, the beautiful build up completely dissipated. 

“Not. Yet.” Joel’s mouth was next to your ear, nibbling at your lobe as he worked you through the edging. 

He didn’t stop after that, though. He kept the momentum going, sliding his other hand from your torso down to your swollen clit. He slowly starts to rub small circles onto the already overstimulated bundle of nerves, and you cry out a strangled moan as the feeling surges through your body. 

“Now.” He says. 

Your mind was going blank at this point and a pressure kept building and building and building—until you felt a huge gush, forceful and draining. Your eyes snap open to see clear liquid dripping all down the couch. 

“Fuck, Joel I’m sor—”

“Don’t you dare apologize baby. You ever done that before?” He asks, and you shake your head no. He moans at your wordless response and readjusts himself beneath you, and you can suddenly feel how hard he is in his jeans. 

Even through the denim he felt fucking big, and you knew you were in for it. 

“Let me,” You start, shakily sliding off of his lap and onto the floor. “Let me take care of you.” 

Joel watches you and the same muscle in his jaw ticks furiously. He nods without another word as you lean up to kiss the hot skin above his jeans, trailing your lips down to the hemline. You undo the button and zipper swiftly, and he lifts his hips to pull his pants and boxers down to his mid thigh. 

Your hunch was correct: he’s fucking huge. You swallow as you take in the sight of his cock in-person rather than over a screen, and it was even better than you’d imagined all those times. 

You gently grab the base of his silky flesh, giving it a soft squeeze as you move your hand to the tip. Your eyes flicker up to his, and he’s watching you intently. You smile sweetly up at him before bringing your head down to lick the pre come from his slit, moaning as you get a taste of the salty musk. 

Joel’s hand flies to your head, threading his fingers through the loose braid as you slowly lick your way down the vein on the underside of his cock. 

“So fuckin’ pretty,” You say, and he groans at your praise. “Even better than I imagined.” 

You bring your tongue back up to the tip and take him in your mouth this time, going as far down as you could before you gagged softly. 

“Fuck yeah baby, just like that. Doin’ so fuckin’ good for me,” He mewls as you set a faster pace, one of your hands coming to pump the rest of his cock you couldn’t reach with your mouth, the other gently fondling his balls. 

You moan around him as his silky flesh easily glides onto your tongue. You enjoy getting him off like this; unraveling him inch by inch just as he’s done to you many times before. 

He began to rock his hips up into your mouth, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you try your damndest to not forcefully gag around him. 

“Mouth feels so goddamn good on me, honey. ‘M not gonna last much longer.” Joel confesses, and your tighten your lips around his cock to silently urge him to let go. 

It was only another minute until his hips completely stilled and his pulsing cock was drained, salty spend coating your mouth in haste. 

He groans loudly as he reaches down to cradle your jaw, slowly sliding your mouth off of him. You swallow his spend and sit back on your heels, looking up at him innocently. 

“On your knees, baby. Ass up.” He pats the spot next to him on the couch, and you happily oblige. He pulls the skirt of your uniform up over your hips and slides your wet panties down your legs so you’re on full display for him. 

You feel his hands slide over the globe of your ass, spreading you apart to get a good look at all of you. You suck in a breath for a second before you feel his fingers slide through your slick folds once more, teasing you so. 

“You ever had a man touch you back here? Pretty little thing.” He asks as his thumb circles the tight ring of your ass. 

“No.” You moan, closing your eyes as you press a cheek to the couch cushion. 

“Hm. ‘S a shame. Feels real good.” 

“Please, Joel.” You truly weren’t above begging for this man to touch you in any way possible. 

“Please what, sugar?” 

“Please—please touch me. Make me feel good. Even better than I already feel.” 

You turn your head more to lock eyes with him staring down at you with a look of determination and hunger. 

He keeps his eyes locked on you as he grabs his half-hard cock, reaching to the coffee table beside you both to grab the foil packet you didn’t even see until this very moment. 

He rips it open and slides it on before sliding his cock through your slick folds. You sigh in pleasure as your eyes flutter shut for a brief second before you open them again as his tip notches your entrance. 

“You ready baby?” 

You nod your head, but he shakes his. 

“Need your words this time darlin’.” 

“Yes Joel. Please.” 

He sinks into you slowly, his girth stretching you out so deliciously. It stung a little, because in truth, you’ve never been with anyone his size. 

Once he’s fully sheathed into you, he shoots you that same wicked grin before letting spit slowly dribble out of his mouth and onto your asshole. 

“Oh fuck me,” You whisper, moaning as his thumb circles the tight ring once again. “Please.” You say, and he hooks his thumb gently into you. 

You feel so full like this, barely even able to comprehend the fact that you’re about to get fucked by your favorite adult content creator. 

Joel starts to rock his hips slowly at first, moaning at how tight you are. He picks up his pace once you’re both comfortable and it feels like he’s punching your fucking gut. 

It’s almost unbearable— but the pleasure outweighs the pain by a mile. He’s rocking his hips so hard that the couch starts to scrape onto the floor, nothing but skin  slapping on skin. You feel a sting on your left asscheek and moan at the contact, realizing Joel had slapped you. 

He does it again, and again, and again, until tears are in your eyes and you can no longer bear the sting. 

“Pussy feels so fuckin’ good baby. Was meant to take this cock, hm?” He says through gritted teeth, and you can’t help but agree with him. 

His hand slides up your back and reaches your hair, pulling it so your head tilts upward. 

“So fuckin’ pretty like this. Love the way you feel around me.” He confesses, taking his thumb out of your tight muscle before wrapping his other arm around your torso once, only to pull you upright this time. 

He’s pistoning into you as you lean back onto his body. His hand wraps gently around your throat as he scatters more kisses onto your jawline and up your earlobe. 

“Can I?” He asks, and you choke out a meek yes. 

His large hand wraps all the way around your throat, squeezing the sides. Joel turns his head down to look at you, all helpless as he fucks you relentlessly. 

Your jaw hangs open and your eyes are squeezed shut, relishing in the all-consuming feeling of Joel. 

Joel, Joel, Joel. 

You open your eyes as you plead his name, feeling another orgasm burning within you. 

He moves his fingers up from your throat to grab at your jaw, forcing your mouth open as he spits into it. 

“Swallow.” He commands, and you don’t question him one bit. 

He likes seeing you like this—submissive and practically breedable—and yet, he barely knew you. He knew he wanted that to change after this, though.

“Joel I’m gonna come.” Your voice is hoarse and desperate, trying so hard to keep the feeling of pleasure at bay. 

It was no use, though. The way he was looking at you made you want to fucking risk it all, and when he finally bent his face down to kiss you, you knew it was a wrap. 

You both moaned into each other’s mouths as your tongues tangled together, tasting each other and exploring one another. 

It wasn’t long before the coil finally snapped for you, and seconds later, him as well. You both panted heavily as you were submerged in the post-coital bliss. 

“You did so good, baby. Hopefully I lived up to your expectations.” 

You huff a laugh at his words as he pulls out of you and  shuffles himself down onto the couch, pulling you on top of him. He kisses the top of your head as he plays with your hair, a strange feeling blooming in his chest as you both enjoy the presence of one another. 

One thing’s for sure and two things for certain: 

You’re everything he’s wanted, and he didn’t even know how to tell you. There was no way he was letting you go now. 

-

tags: @endlessthxxghts @punkshort @ilovepedro @nostalxgic @party-hearses

@joelsgreys @ozarkthedog