Ok why did i just find out that Ryan is 26!? Hanging out with 21-22 year olds is a tad crazy. Like if he can hangout with them then i can too since we are doing 5 year age gaps. Oh and Happy birthday Roman!🥳
can u stop sending me death threats and slurs just because i said jonah could be innocent. Im just trying to say we shouldn’t be so mean to jonah over smth we don’t have proof of!! Im not supporting a rapist im just saying we shouldn’t immediately just assume smth on REDDIT was true!! I’ll stop supporting him when the allegations are CONFIRMED. Ik the allegations are super bad and no one should be able to get away with shit like that BUT IM JUST SAYING IT COULD BE FAKE AND IM SSOOOORRRRYYYY PLS LEAVE ME ALONE!!
Jonah abraham is a khia who potentially raped a ten year old. His music is cheeks. Ur fucking weird and need to log off and re-evaluate ur life, literally everyone in his circle and his gf unfollowed him so if that’s not a sign idk what is
Warnings!: cult leader Hollis!, slight coercion, manipulation, sex, power dynamic.
A/N- this is heavily inspired by @pastfixated and her cult leader! Hollis concept. Her writing is incredible, please check her out. Much love. <3
His voice is melodious.
Deep baritone, reminiscent of a preacher- smooth, velvety, commanding yet gentle. The sound ringing through your ears as you blearily come to.
Your hands feel heavy as you bring them to rub at your eyes, the white linen of your robe sliding down your arm, almost ticklish in nature.
It may be your body, still thrumming with adrenaline, nerves from a chase you don’t remember.
The faint taste of bile lingers in your mouth- what from? You don’t know, a faint memory comes to mind, but as soon as you feel an inkling of remembrance, it slips away- silk against a mirror.
Its calm, in a way, being allowed to float away, the warm, loving hands of consciousness and exhaustion pulling at you- you faintly register that it smells like incense, bergamot. You realize who’s holding you, whose hands are running up and down the linen covered expanse of your back, humming gently.
It’s not unpleasant- not unwelcome, not from him.
A soft mumble leaves your lips, a slight shift of your legs alerts him to your newfound consciousness.
He doesn’t say anything, petting you, almost.
It doesn’t feel degrading- in any other situation you would’ve pushed his hand off, snapped, and bitten, and snarled. The fight always present, itching at the back of your mind.
Oh how you craved it, craved to see him hurt- bleed, anything to knock the veneer of respectfully away from him, the facade of the kind, communal leader.
And he knew, he always had a 6th sense, after all- it’s how he preyed. How he tried to, his porcelain claws making divots in you with each stroke of your back.
For once, you allowed it. The physical toll of fighting, of clawing and screaming and ripping finally taking a toll on you. You mentally succumb to him, to the exhaustion- you aren’t dumb. You know it’s what he wants, his peony colored lips turning up in a gentle smile, a facade of gentleness.
“Did you hear me, angel?” He murmurs, tracing the ridge of your brow, looking down upon you, observing. You shake your head, almost comatose.
“I said I’m proud.” He whispers.
You dont know why he would be. Maybe because you’ve finally given in, succumbed to earthly weaknesses.
You register a faint feeling of nausea- but nothing comes up. You feel weighted, floating between physical tremors, and mental calm. It’s excruciating, tar at the bottom of your stomach so impossibly thick, it can’t reach up your throat.
Your eyes follow the movement of his hands in the mirror, sat by the carpet. It feels eerily reminiscent of those dingy, old tv shows where a psychiatrist would hypnotize a patient with a stopwatch. You suppose it’s comparable, your pupils dilated as the white-painted digits run across the tresses atop your head.
“Not many people can fight- can allow that feeling into themselves, but not you, never you, angel.” He whispers, hand lazily gliding up under your sleeve, content to feel the warmer skin under there. It feels euphoric, and he knows that. He wants you to feel that, so you do.
A grumbled moan leaves your lips, wet with spit. He shushes you, leaning over slightly. His cross, the one he’s worn constantly, dangles over your face. You want to snatch it off, to see the look on his face, but you can’t. You hardly register the feeling of your robe sliding up, his hand tracing over the skin of your calf, smooth and supple. Your eyes flicker up, lashes fluttering.
“Feels…good.”
“I know.” He soothes, tracing over your collarbone.
Dazed, and confused, your hand travels to the carpet underneath you, the Sherpa tickling your fingertips as you grasp at it. Your head hurts, you realize.
The ringing in your skull does little to hinder your senses, oddly enough. The feeling of a soft, cold palm on your hip doesn’t go unnoticed. However, the fact that he had hiked up your skirt had. You lift your head up, having gathered yourself enough, at least mentally, to realize what was happening- what you were letting happen. But it felt good.
That scared you.
But you don’t do anything to stop it. You let it happen.
Your eyes meet his, strands of stray platinum hairs fall gently over his face, the evening sunlight shining on him- reminiscent of the angel Gabriel, you note. Soft praises leave his mouth, eyelashes casting an almost angelic shadow on his cheeks. Your mouth doesn’t feel dry. You cant tell if you can feel much of anything, in all honesty.
“What are you doing?” You grumble, the words escaping you before you can think about them. He hums, blinking once. Then twice.
“Caring for you, I suppose.” He says calmly, tucking a hair behind your ear.
So you sit there, his hands wandering across your shoulders, face, and more predominantly- your legs, and then your hips. You don’t say anything.
You don’t bother to say anything as his hands stroke the lace lining of your underwear- goosebumps sprouting on the expanse of your arms and legs.
It feels biblical, in a way. Perhaps reminding you of a scripture you had long forgotten from Sunday school. But more importantly, it feels good. He knows it does.
That’s why he smiles, perfect teeth etched in a Cheshire grin, but perhaps more warm.
His thumb, ever patient and gentle, slips under. You shiver. Hollis always had cold hands, somehow unable to cling onto the warmth he so adamantly craved. The blooming warmth in your lower stomach quickly erases the physical sensation of his coldness, his thumb gently tracing over your folds.
It feels foreign, but not unwelcome.
Your eyes meet his, locking almost uncomfortably.
“Hollis-“ you start, voice small and clear. He just shushes you, a chaste, almost patronizing kiss left to your hair. It was no use to beg. You both knew you were in no state to fight, not that you would mean it anyways. You never did.
Hollis, who had previously been a pimply, sloppy blonde boy had grown into a gentile figurehead. You never in a million years could have imagined lying exhausted, disoriented, on his lap- 2 of his freezing, supple fingers inching their way to your cunt. You shivered, and he smiled, shushing you softly. You hadn’t said anything.
It felt pleasant, especially after having gone celibate- the tight ring of muscles fluttering around his ring clad fingers. You could faintly hear a slick sound emerging, growing louder with each languid thrust of his bony, so-pale-it-looked-translucent hand. A faint moan left your lips, dry lips being wetted by your tongue, but then being replaced by two of your front teeth digging into your bottom lip.
He was pleased. The shushing from earlier no longer necessary. He observes, his other hand guiding your head to face him. Not the mirror- not that you could particularly see anything, eyes so glazed and fluttery you could barely make out his warm smile, his thumb gently tracing your jaw.
“Mmnf-“ you mewl, legs closing around his hand. That doesnt stop him. “I know. I know, angel.” He shushes, thumb lightly grazing the small expanse of your clit- somehow knowing how desperately you needed it. Even if you didn’t. Your hand, previously gripping the Sherpa, claws into his forearm, small pants leaving you as you saw his fingers, pumping in and out with a lewd ‘Schlick’ noise.
It’s euphoria, in the simplest of terms, and in the midst of that euphoria, you blearily realize how quickly you are to approaching the end of it, the tight, incessantly burning rope in your stomach unwinding with each movement of his hand, each flick.
It hits you all at once. No words are said, he doesn’t get a warning, not that you think you’d be capable of giving one in your current state. A shiny, transparent sheen coats his hand as he pulls it away, a rosy colored tongue darting out to taste the apparent fruits of his labor. He lets out an approving hum, satisfied with both you- and himself.
“Wonderful- never been prouder, angel.” He murmurs, your head lolling into his chest as he positions you, your body limp.
You realized you enjoyed his praise, and he knew it. You were his.
