Summary: Your life took a complete turn the moment you made one single decision: to help a billionaire with something so trivial that only a psychopath like him would mistake it for love.
Titus has found a lovely new obsession to focus all his energy on now and you're unsure how you're going to make it out of this unscathed…
Word Count: 20.3k
A/N: I had this itch to write a slow burn, grumpy x sunshine fic with a splash of angst, yearning and fucked up manipulative behavior so this is what I cooked up.
I will note, you call him "sir" and he really likes it! Because I like it! Whoops!
For a full list of warnings, you can check out the fic on my AO3. Though this one is quite mild compared to my other fics so you can go in blind if you want to!
Oh, and of course, there will be porn! Hope it's a fun read ♡
You let out a little yawn in the elevator after you drop off your thirtieth delivery for the day. Usually you don't do this many, but the fine dining restaurant you normally work at cut your hours so you've been needing to work on the apps to make ends meet.
You've been up since the crack of dawn and now the sun has set. You're ready to go back to bed.
Your eyes shift to the man in the elevator with you. He definitely is dressed like he is meant to be here. It is a luxury high rise that has both a hotel and residences. You just dropped off food for some rich asshole who barely tipped. You wonder if he is one of those rich assholes.
You glance downwards and notice that there's a tiny tear in his dress pants. He looks like he's dressed to go to some fancy event. He probably shouldn't have a noticeable tear like that. People in his world would spot it.
So, you tap him on the shoulder, saying, “excuse me, sir.”
Titus Danforth turns to glare at you. Here we go again, he thinks to himself. You must know him from somewhere. Though, he doesn't know many people who wear cheap, wholesale clothing that is likely made of plastics.
You must want his money, then.
But you point to the hem of his dress pants and ask, “do you want me to fix that for you? There's a snag. You must've caught it on something.”
You pull out a small sewing kit from your bag, which you have since sometimes you have to mend your work clothes on the fly. It helps your coworkers too, since fine dining requires a certain level of pristine.
He blinks at you, surprised. It's such a tiny tear that he wouldn't have noticed it if you hadn't said anything.
But his father would've definitely scolded him if he saw it.
There's no time to go back to his apartment and change. He needs to get to this fundraising gala right away. He spent a little too long fucking the help.
Titus looks up at the floor count. He knows there's a private floor that only certain members in the building have access to. He goes to scan his keycard and hits the thirteenth floor.
“We'll get out here and you can do it.” He shouldn't be accepting some stranger's help so he definitely can't be seen taking it.
For all he knows, you snagged his pants and this is some kind of ploy to get a pay out from him.
But he doesn't think that's it.
You must just be a good samaritan because the moment he sits down at one of the plush benches by the elevator, you are on your knees in front of him, sifting through the threads you have to find the one that matches his pants the best before you start sewing it back up.
Titus likes the look of you on your knees. You're very pretty. Much prettier than the maid he has been fucking.
You're so focused on mending his pants that you don't notice the way he's staring at you, like he could swallow you up with just his gaze.
You make a little small talk, completely oblivious to the desire in his eyes, “are you heading somewhere fun?”
“I wouldn't call being stuck in a room full of boring rich people fun.” He tells you and his heart pounds a little faster when you giggle.
That's a real laugh. Titus is used to hearing the dry, fake ones people give him, in a meager attempt to show him interest. You're genuinely amused.
“I totally get you.” You say back, still chuckling under your breath. “That's how I feel every time I go to work.”
“Do you usually deliver food to this building?” Titus doesn't know why he's asking. He shouldn't care. You're just a delivery girl.
But then you shake your head, your words intriguing him, “I usually serve at Opulence but they cut my hours recently. They hired this TikTok influencer and she's been driving in business so they've been giving her most of my shifts. I just deliver when I need to get by.”
“Opulence? The place that makes the cabrito asado?” Titus has eaten there a few times. His father loves that dish, since it's an herb-crusted, slow-roasted young goat on a bed of microgreens.
“Yeah, that's it! Though, I've never had it.” The restaurant owner doesn't provide free meals and the chefs are super stingy with their ingredients, since they're so expensive. Even the nice ones won't let any of you have a taste, besides that one influencer girl. She got to try everything to post about on her social media.
You're trying not to be envious but…you definitely wish you could do something like that. You can't afford the equipment, however. She has the latest phone model. Two of them actually, one for work and one for personal use. You're still using the phone you got on a deal a few years ago.
“You haven't eaten anything at the restaurant you serve at?”
You shake your head. “I can't afford anything on that menu. I can barely afford my rent as is—ah, shit, sorry, I keep complaining. Ignore me. You don't want to listen to some stranger yap.”
You do the final tie to secure the thread and cut the remaining with your compact scissors. You brush your hand over the fabric one last time then show him.
“Does it look good to you?”
Titus is impressed. It doesn't even look like there was a tear to begin with. “Have you done this a lot?”
“Oh, all the time! The owner is very particular about how they want us to look at all times. Even the littlest of snags will get you sent home and most of us can't afford—shit, sorry, I need to stop doing that! Bad habit…” You catch yourself before you complain about money again. You're sure a man like him doesn't even think about money.
Titus definitely doesn't. The idea of not being able to afford anything is a bit ridiculous to him. He could buy the world if he wanted to.
He could buy you the world if you wanted him to.
What a strange thought.
Why did that pop into his head?
Maybe because you get up and ask for nothing in return for helping him.
“All good?” You gesture to the elevator buttons. “Ready to go?”
“I should pay you for the help.” What the fuck is he saying? He has never offered to give anyone money before. At least not like this. He has offered money to people to get the fuck out of his way. Or to get something he wants.
Is that what this is? Is he doing this because he wants you?
You wave him off. “This cost nothing. Just a smile.”
You flash him a happy grin and he…can't help but smile back. Especially when you beam at him so brightly, like pure sunshine.
“I love ending my day by making someone smile.” You nudge him playfully as the elevator doors open then step inside.
Titus doesn't know what to make of that. Being touched so casually normally repulses him. But with you, he wishes you'd stay close to him.
“When do you work next? Maybe I can tip you then.” Again, he doesn't understand why he's saying any of this. The words just spill out.
“Hmmm.” You don't have your schedule yet. You should be getting it tomorrow, since it'll be the start of the week. “I won't know yet. If you want, you can call in and ask when I'm working. I just need to tell them your name so they know I'm okay with you knowing my schedule.”
Technically, it's not a good idea to let a customer know exactly when a server will be on shift. But since it is a fine dining restaurant, if a wealthy customer does want a specific server, the server just has to make note of the customers they don't mind sharing their schedule with.
“You don't know my name?” That's shocking to Titus. He is one of the wealthiest men on the planet.
“Oh shit, are you like super famous or something?” You scratch your head, trying to parse out who he could be. “My bad…I work so much that I barely have time to keep up with anything.”
“Titus.” He tells you. “Titus Danforth. And you are?”
You tell him your name and then give him another beautiful smile. “I will definitely look you up later so that if you do come into the restaurant, I will for sure know who you are, I promise!”
The elevator doors open so you head out first then turn around and wave goodbye to him.
“See you later, Titus!” You say his name so sweetly that…
He'll think about his name leaving your lips any time someone says his name from then on. Like when he's fucking that maid of his the next day and she's screaming his name and he's wondering what his name would sound like on your lips if you were bent over in front of him.
That might be the only reason he's able to finish today. He's been struggling this whole time to stay hard. His mind is so consumed by thoughts of you that he can't seem to cum unless he imagines it's you.
This can't be healthy. Though, he has never been mentally healthy before.
“I need you to get the fuck out.” He tells his maid the moment he pulls the condom off. “I don't want to see you again.”
“Titus—” She gasps when he wraps his hand around her throat, stopping her from speaking another word.
“I don't want to hear my name come out of your mouth ever again. Now, get the fuck out.” He tosses her towards the door. “You're fired.”
She scoffs and then heads out. He knows she'll likely sue him but he has the footage to prove it was all consensual. His lawyers will guarantee that he wins the case.
Titus grabs his phone, searching up the number for your restaurant. He debates calling.
Should he see you?
Why does he want to see you?
You're just some pretty girl who helped him out with a little thing. You definitely have looked him up. Your entire opinion of him has likely morphed once you realize how rich and powerful he is. You wouldn't want him for him. You probably want him for his money now that you know. And he definitely shouldn't want you.
But he calls anyway.
“This is Opulence, how can I help you?” The voice is so familiar. That's because it's your voice. You ended up being called in to fill for the hostess today.
“I'm looking to inquire about a server's schedule. How do I go about doing that?” Titus doesn't realize it's you until he tells you your name.
And you giggle that beautiful giggle that he is growing too fond of. “Oh my goodness, is this Titus? How are you! I didn't think you'd call in so soon. I haven't even looked you up yet. I was so tired after working that I—shit, sorry, I'm doing it again…babbling on and on.”
“It's alright. I don't mind.” What the fuck? Of course he minds. He hates it when people blab on and on.
Why is he acting like you're special?
Maybe because you are, when you tell him all cutely, “aw, you're so sweet. I knew I'd like you. I'll have to sneak you something good when you come in. I'm serving this Saturday if you want to stop by!”
“You aren't working all week?” Today is Sunday. Is your next shift really Saturday?
“Ah, yeah. It's okay. I'll be alright. Saturdays are typically good days so I should make a decent amount!” You are wildly optimistic, despite the struggle to make ends meet. “Should I book you a reservation or do you want to just pop in? I'll try to leave a table standing for you if you want!”
“You would do that?”
“Of course! How about I do that and if you show up, you show up! If not, the restaurant will live with one less table to serve. They make plenty of money as is.”
Titus doesn't get you at all. You don't know who he is but you're giving him the five star treatment regardless.
Would you do this for anyone?
He doesn't like thinking that you would. That he isn't special in any way. That you're only doing this because you're just a nice person in general.
He wants you to only be nice to him. He wants to monopolize your attention.
“When do you get off work?” He asks.
“I close on Saturday, so last reservation is at 9:30PM.” It goes completely over your head that he's asking when you're done with work. Other people would take that as a flirtation. You're too innocent to think of it as anything but a simple question.
“Then book me a table at 9:30PM.” He decides that's when he'll see you, so he has the chance to see you after work too.
Even though Titus is unsure if that's a good idea.
“Alright! Just you or are you bringing someone special?” You're only asking because you need to know how many people to put down on the reservation.
But Titus thinks you're asking because you want to know if he's single. “Just me. I don't have anyone special.”
“Well then, we definitely should fix that.” You say to him, chuckling. “You're way too handsome to not have someone to spoil. I can ask around to see if any of my regulars are single. They're all around your age, super rich too! I can play matchmaker for you.”
He doesn't want anyone special. He just wants you. But you aren't even putting yourself on the menu. You don't even consider yourself someone he would be interested in. Probably because you're so much younger than him and in a completely different tax bracket…
“Do you have anyone special?” The question leaves his lips and he regrets asking. It's too forward.
But again, you're totally oblivious to it, since you're so used to customers asking you all sorts of personal questions. You don't see it as anything out of the ordinary. “Oh no. I've never even dated anyone before. Too busy working, you know!”
Titus should not be happy to hear that but he is. He is very happy to know that you've never dated anyone before. Because that means there's a chance you've never been with anyone ever before.
And now he's invested in you.
His lovely new obsession.
“Maybe we can change that. I'll see you on Saturday.” He says, smirking into the phone.
You don't notice anything strange in his wording and just say back, “see you then, Titus!”
You hang up the work phone and go back to prepping the restaurant to be open. The hostess always comes in early in case people call in to make same day reservations, so you're glad you came in and caught Titus's call. You really need to look him up.
You make plans to do so when you get home but then you get a notice from your landlord saying that you have a week to move out since their kid flunked out of college and needs the room back.
There goes your cheap rent…
You then spend the rest of the week stuffing everything you can into your car and throwing out everything else. Thankfully the room was furnished so you didn't have any furniture to pack but…now everything you own is in your car.
You've been calling different listings for places to live but no place at the same price point as your old place stays available for long enough. By the time Saturday rolls around, you're still unhoused and living out of your car.
You have to buy a gym membership so you can shower and get ready for work. There's no way you can show up looking like you've been sleeping upright for the last few days.
You feel like shit but you still put on your best smile when you get to work. You could use the tips for your deposit.
But tonight, no one seems to want to tip you, specifically.
You didn't realize they booked you with that influencer girl, so most tables are requesting her. Which is totally fine, it makes sense that people would want to come to see someone they follow online.
You have a handful of regulars who tip you alright so you know you'll make it through this shift with some money in your pocket. Less than you'd hope, but enough to be okay.
That's about to change real quick.
Because the owner of the restaurant comes and grabs you, yanking you off the floor to ask you, “what the hell is Titus Danforth doing here?”
“Oh, he's here already?” You look at your watch. It's fifteen minutes before his reservation. You didn't realize he was an early bird or you would've had his table ready sooner.
“What do you mean “oh, he's here already"? You knew he was coming in?”
“Yeah. I booked his reservation.”
“You booked…” The owner looks like they're about to throw a fit. “Why didn't you tell me you booked a reservation for Titus Danforth? The books only had his initials!”
“That's…what we always do?” You're not supposed to put full names down, in case someone hacks in and sees an A-list celebrity has a reservation and then tries to come in at the same time.
“Do you not know who he is?”
You shake your head. You have been so busy all week that you haven't gotten to looking him up just yet. He must be a big deal if the owner is going nuts over him being here.
“He is one of the wealthiest men on the fucking planet and you reserved him a standard table.” The owner pinches their brow. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Excuse me?” You didn't realize part of your job description was to research every wealthy person on the planet in case they show up here. Nor did you realize that being verbally abused over and over was suddenly an okay practice to do. “Look, I'm sorry, but—”
“Get the fuck out of my restaurant.” They point to the staff room, which has the private entrance/exit so customers don't see you leaving or entering the building. “Get your shit and go. Thankfully we have an actually competent server to help Titus Danforth tonight. We don't need you anymore.”
You can't believe this. You're seriously getting fired because you didn't know who Titus is. This is actually ridiculous.
“You know I just got evicted, right?” You had told them when it happened, in hopes you'd get more hours.
“I don't give a fuck about your sob story. Just get out of my fucking restaurant now.” The owner shoves past you to go to the front of the house, presumably to talk to Titus.
You let out a sigh. You did want to see him. You brought him something you figured might make him smile.
So when you spot your now-ex coworker, the influencer, in the staff room on her break, you open your locker and grab it, giving it to her.
“Hey, you're going to serve a Titus Danforth in a bit. Could you give this to him for me? I wanted to give it to him myself but I just got fired so I got to go.”
“Oh shit. Is it because of Titus? Did he cuss you out or something?” Her words strike you as strange.
“No…? Does he do that?” She would know, since she's all over that online drama stuff.
“Oh yeah, all the fucking time. He gets people fired wherever he goes, like even over the tiniest little thing. I heard he's a fucking prick.” She takes your gift for Titus, looking at it. “Are you sure you want to give him something? Are you a fan of his? I know some billionaires have fans but I wouldn't pick him as my choice…”
“Just give it to him, please. Tell him it's from me and that I'm sorry I couldn't be here.”
“Alright.” She tucks it into her apron. “Good luck. Sorry you got fired.”
You shrug and wave goodbye as she heads out onto the floor. It does suck that you got fired but life happens.
What can you do about it but move on?
Titus can't seem to move on, though.
He hasn't spotted you at all since he got to the restaurant. He came early in hopes of just watching you work for a little prior to you serving him. He expected to see you.
But the person serving him isn't you.
The owner personally apologizes to him for not booking him a private booth but managed to get one situated for him, despite it being a busy Saturday night. Titus couldn't care less where he sat. He's here to see you and that's it.
But you aren't the one serving him for some reason.
So he asks the server where you are and she tells him, “I'm so sorry, Mr. Danforth. She was let go because she didn't know who you were and booked you at a standard table. The owner never wants their VIPs to ever be booked at a standard table. She should've known better.”
Titus scoffs. “What the fuck? I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for her. I have come here maybe twice with my father. He's the VIP. I'm just a regular customer. She booked me correctly.”
“You're a Danforth, sir.” Titus does not like the sound of the word sir coming out of anyone's mouth but yours.
“Where is she?” Titus looks around. “Did she leave already?”
“Yes, I think so. She probably finished packing up her stuff and left. She did tell me to give you this, though. And to tell you that she's sorry she couldn't be here.” The server hands him a little box.
He opens it. It's…a small sewing kit. The same one like you had in your bag.
With a cute note attached saying: For any future repairs ♡
You had planned to tell Titus that you'd show him a few different ways to sew up a snag, to go with the gift, but you can't now obviously. You probably will never see him again.
You put all your work stuff with the rest of your things in your car, sighing. You didn't think you'd be off so early, so now you have to figure out where to park. Most places aren't free to park until 10PM so you could wait in your work parking lot until then but you don't really want to stick around a place that fired you…
But then, you look up at the sky and decide it's okay to stay for a little. You'll miss working here. It's just a few miles out of the city, in a beautiful part where plenty of wealthy people live, with barely any light pollution.
There's so many stars out tonight.
You sit up on the hood of your car, staring up at the night sky from this vantage point one last time. You're so engrossed by the sight of the stars that you don't notice a figure walking up to you until a shadow engulfs you.
You turn your head to see… “Titus?”
How did he find the employee parking lot?
It's quite an uphill trek from the restaurant, which is on purpose since the restaurant valet would prefer to not have any “ugly” cars parked in that lot.
Titus just stares at you, at how pretty you look in the light of the stars and the moon. How they seem to add an extra sparkle in your eyes. How he is so grateful he caught up to you before you left.
There was no way he was going to wait any longer to see you again.
He wasn't going to let some fucking stupid restaurant owner get in his way.
“I heard you got fired.” He says to you, noticing how cleaned up you look in your work attire compared to the casual clothes from before. “I didn't end up staying since you weren't there.”
“Aw, you should've at least enjoyed the food.” You feel bad he just left.
“Did you like working at that restaurant?” He asks because he just bought it and if you wanted to, you come back to work there. He won't tell you he bought it, of course, but he would get you your job back.
But it doesn't seem like you want to, from the way you shrug. “It was nice while it lasted. Maybe this is the universe telling me I need to be somewhere else.”
“What do you mean?”
You pat the hood of your car, inviting him to sit with you. He would never normally do this. Especially on an old car like yours. But he does, for some reason.
For you. To be next to you.
Titus sits beside you in his designer clothes and you giggle, pulling your knees up to your chest, leaning your head against them as you look at him. “We really are from two different worlds, aren't we?”
“Are you going to move?” He noticed all your things packed in your car.
“I don't know.” You look back up at the stars. “I don't have a place to stay right now. I don't have a job. I don't have anything besides what I got right here.”
Again, he just stares at you. But this time, it's because he has never met anyone like you before. He has met people who are desperate, who would do anything to get out of whatever hole they dug themselves into.
But, despite whatever life has thrown at you, you don't show any signs of that same desperation.
You actually seem content to just look at the stars in the sky, basking in the moonlight, enjoying the moment, ignoring the reality of your situation for a second.
“Do you like stargazing?” You turn your head towards Titus again.
“I don't really look up.”
You chuckle at that. “I guess when you're one of the richest men on the planet, you only look down, right?”
“So you looked me up?” Titus figured you would eventually.
But you shake your head. “I didn't have any time to. Had to pack all my stuff into my car this week since I got evicted. I just heard that from the owner. Sorry, bad joke.”
“What else did you hear about me then?” He wants to know what you know.
“My ex-coworker said you're a fucking prick.” You reply, followed by another cute laugh. “I wonder what you must've done to give the internet that impression.”
“You don't think I'm a prick?” He would understand if you did. He is a fucking prick. The worst of the worst.
But you don't judge people based on the words of others. Maybe that is naive of you but you like to believe most people are good people. Though you have no clue who you're sitting next to right now…
“Do you want me to think you're a prick?” You nudge him playfully like you had before. “I can do that if you want.”
“How can you be so…normal around me? After learning who I am?” Titus hasn't noticed any change in your behavior.
You're acting exactly like you had when you first met him.
“Am I supposed to act a certain way around a man with money?” You tilt your head at him, feigning befuddlement. “Should I get on my hands and knees and beg you for a crumb of your wealth, sir?”
Yes. Titus wants to say but then you laugh, obviously having said what you said as a joke, so he bites his tongue. But it's hard not to imagine you on your hands and knees, with his cock buried inside of you from behind, moaning beneath him.
He needs to figure out how to curb his desire for you. This is getting out of hand.
Especially when you nudge him again and point at the sky. “Look, or you'll miss it!”
Titus looks up and a shooting star blazes across the sky, drawing a line of light for just a moment before disappearing.
“Did you wish for anything?” You ask him, still displaying that brilliant smile he's growing to love.
“No. Did you?” Titus doesn't make wishes. He can get whatever he wants.
Except you and your free spirit. “I wished for a sign from the universe to tell me where to go next.”
You're like a pretty bird, ready to soar towards your next adventure. You never stay in one place for too long.
Titus won't have that. He needs to cage you. To keep you.
So, he says to you, “do you want to work for me?”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “Doing what? Do you own a restaurant I can serve at?”
He literally owns the place that fired you but…he won't tell you that now.
Instead, he tells you, “I recently fired my personal assistant so I'm looking for a new one. You'd get your own room in my apartment and you can buy food and other necessities on my card.”
“What does a personal assistant for Titus Danforth do?” You lean your head against your knees, looking up at him. “Am I writing emails all day or…?”
“Just whatever I need help getting done for the day.” Like getting off. He really wants to get off. He hasn't cum since he fired that maid. He wants to cum inside of you.
Maybe even without a condom.
You don't seem to notice the lust in his gaze at all. Probably because no one has ever looked at you like that before.
“You should get someone with actual personal assistant experience.” You definitely aren't the right fit. You've mainly worked in restaurants, minus that singular stint you did at a retail store in your teens. “Also, you definitely shouldn't hire someone you've only known for like an hour.”
You chuckle, the sound so intoxicating to him. Little do you know, you have been on his mind every second of every day since the moment you left his sight. He tried his best not to let his mind wander to you but it always did.
“I was following your lead. The universe brought you to me when I needed a personal assistant and the universe brought me to you when you needed a job. Is that not a sign?” He manipulates your wish and uses it against you.
“I guess you're right.” You tap your finger against your lips, which makes Titus stare very closely at them, wishing he could kiss you. “But still, you barely know me.”
“You barely know me.” He counters and that makes you laugh again.
“Touché!” You lean against him a little as you giggle then move away. “Alright, why not! If I'm horrible, you can always fire me. I heard you're very good at it.”
Titus will never get used to the casual touches you do. You are so relaxed around him. You should be more guarded.
You have no idea what he has in store for you now that he has you in his grasp…
You don't get what Titus's last personal assistant must have done to get fired. This has got to be the easiest job you've ever had. And the benefits are incredible!
Titus gave you a super nice car, completely paid off, since he doesn't want his personal assistant to be driving something dingy. You have all brand new, designer clothes in your closet that fit you perfectly and match your style. He apparently had people come over once you moved your things in to sift through your closet and figure out what you would like so that you had clothes to wear when you went out with him.
You go out with Titus a lot. Mostly to restaurants he's scoping out, thinking of buying or investing in. You and him eat and drink and laugh and chat so much that you're shocked this is even considered work.
Your paycheck is also enormous too and he even helped you set up a high yield savings account at the bank his family runs with a very good rate.
You're making more money now than you have your entire life.
You don't have anything to use it on, either. Titus pays for everything, always. You try to pay sometimes, for groceries or for household goods, but then he just adds the money to your paycheck when you do, effectively zeroing it back out. You get that he is obscenely wealthy but you don't want him to always have to pay.
“It's an insult when you try to pay for me.” Titus tells you as he drives the two of you from the airport to a resort on the tropical island he's thinking of investing in.
“This rental car cost like a tenth of my check. You could've let me pay for it.” You pout at him and he shakes his head at you.
“A tenth of your check is not even a penny to me.” He will not have you spending any money when he has plenty.
“Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot I'm in the presence of an almost trillionaire. My apologies, sir.” You exaggerate a bow then giggle.
It has been months since Titus hired you to be his “personal assistant” and he still hasn't touched you. He has no idea how he is keeping it together, especially when you laugh so beautifully like that all the time and jokingly call him sir.
You are so playful and so cute that he just wants to eat you up.
But you are horribly oblivious to any and all of his advances.
You two go out to eat and you think it's just work. You two stay in a hotel suite together and you think it's just work. You two go on vacations together and you really, truly, seriously think this is just a work excursion.
That is totally why Titus paid for the all inclusive resort package for the two of you that includes a private pool attached to the room.
Though this time, he made sure there was only one bed. The last few times, the hotels and resorts you've been to have had other rooms available to swap to, so you and Titus have never had to sleep in the same bed.
That changes today. He booked out all of the available rooms to ensure you had to sleep in the same bed as him. You can't avoid him now.
“Are you sure this is okay?” You stare at the king sized bed in the very nice room. “I can sleep on the floor. Or the tub. I've done that before when I've crashed at people's places.”
“I'm not letting you sleep in a tub.” The idea makes him grimace.
“I'm surprised there isn't like a couch or something.” You would assume a fancy resort like this would have more furniture in the room but there's really only the bed and the desk and you can't sleep in a desk chair for a week.
Titus made sure there was no alternate sleeping places. They took the couch out and rearranged the furniture to make it look like this is what the room should look like. And Titus told you that you shouldn't ever look up anywhere you and him go since he wants you to experience it blind to get the best feel for the place. You listen because he's your boss.
Now you're going to be sharing a bed with your boss…
“There really weren't any other rooms?” It's a huge resort. Though, it does look like there's some kind of convention going on.
It's packed on the island right now!
“Is the idea of sleeping with me that horrible?” Titus tries to be playful with this question but there's a bite to his tone he can't hide.
You, again, are oblivious to it. “No, not at all. I just feel bad because you probably don't want to sleep with me.”
“I don't mind.” He wants to desperately.
“Hopefully I'm not a weird sleeper.”
“You've never slept with someone before?” He finally has a chance to casually ask this question.
“I've shared a bed with friends on trips and stuff like that to save money.” Again, it goes over your head that he's not referring to real sleeping. “They've never complained but like what if I kick you in my sleep? I would feel so bad!”
“That should be the least of your worries.” You'll be lucky if you have the opportunity to actually sleep.
“I know. If you don't think it's a big deal, then I shouldn't worry about it.” You appreciate that he's looking out for you.
Titus has no idea how you got to your age and you're so fucking oblivious to the fact that he wants to pin you down on this bed and fuck the brains out of you.
Maybe it's because you don't see him as a man. You only see him as your boss. You haven't put it together in your mind that he should be someone you should be careful around.
But you aren't careful at all.
You casually touch his arm when you're walking past him so you don't accidentally bump into him on the way to the closet to unpack your things. You place your hands on him to straighten out his clothes without warning. You nuzzle your cheek against his shoulder then flash him a big smile whenever you feel like bothering him with an ask of something kind.
Like, “can we get smoothie bowls? Please!”
“Please what?” He pokes your nose and you laugh, knowing what he's looking for.
“Please, sir. Can we get smoothie bowls?” You bat your eyelashes at him, like you always do.
It takes everything in his soul not to grab you and kiss you. He opts to clench his fist tight and gives you an even tighter lipped smile in response.
“Sure.” His heart races at how happy you look.
“Great, I'm starving and that place looked so good.”
It's one of the restaurants in the resort. A cute hut that makes smoothie bowls. It should be included in the resort package, though Titus wouldn't care how much it cost regardless.
As long as he gets to see you all giddy to eat a colorful bowl of fruit layered on top of a smoothie, he would pay anything.
“You know, you haven't called Pepper back.” You manage Titus's personal cellphone and his father recently sent him a bunch of potential matches for marriage.
Titus went out with one of them as a formality but hated being there. It meant he wasn't with you that day and he hates not being with you. Everyone else in his world is dull and power-hungry.
You're a breath of fresh air.
Except when you push him away from you. “She seemed really nice. She sent the yummiest fruit basket to the apartment. I was just thinking about it since these fruits are just as yummy.”
Titus digs his spoon into the smoothie bowl the two of you are sharing because he didn't want to get his own and you offered to share yours with him so he could try it. The fruits are good, in season, ripe, sweet. Like how he imagines you must taste.
“You do realize if I get married, you'd be out of a job.” Titus is harsher with his words than he intends but he can't hide his annoyance that you don't view him as someone of interest. You never look flustered around him.
Not even when he pulls you towards him by wrapping his arms around your waist so that someone doesn't bump into you as they run by. His hands linger at your sides. You don't seem startled at all that he's touching you.
“Oh my goodness, that person almost rammed into me!” You catch your breath, your heart racing. “Thanks, Titus.”
You pat him gently on the chest, then look up at his face. He almost flinches when you reach up and cup his jaw with your hand. He almost expects you to lean up and kiss him.
But instead, you wipe a bit of smoothie off the corner of his lip and then proceed to lick it off your thumb. “You had a little drip. Can't have you walking around with—”
Titus can't stand it anymore and just kisses you. His arms hook you in closer to him, locking you to his chest, before his lips crash down onto yours.
You don't know what's going on.
You've never been kissed before.
Is this a kiss? Why is Titus kissing you?
His lips are so soft against yours. You don't know what to do.
Should you kiss him back? But he's your boss…
A weird feeling pangs in your chest. The one you've been avoiding. Ignoring, because you figured it was just silly to imagine that he likes you.
Now that you're getting some proof that he does, maybe even just physically, you're suddenly afraid that everything is going to change. And you don't want things to change. You liked how everything was.
“Titus…” You breathe out against his lips when he finally lets you swallow air again.
You don't have any words to say. You can't form the sentence you want to speak aloud. Because you should tell him not to do that again. That he's your boss and you're his assistant.
But instead, you ask him, “is this why you fired your last assistant?”
Your words catch him by surprise. He wasn't expecting you to ask that of all things right after he kissed you for the first time.
“What are you talking about?” His head is all over the place, his heart pounding in his chest. He wants to kiss you again but you're looking at him with such devastation in your eyes. And he can't help but like the look of it.
Because is this not that same envy you had for that influencer?
“Did your last assistant…let you kiss them? Was that in their job description…” Your stomach is doing somersaults and you feel nauseous from the fear that everything is going to change forever. “Because I-I don't know if I can do that if it is.”
“You don't want to kiss me?” Fury causes Titus to dig his nails further into his fist, his palm bleeding.
There was always a chance you didn't like him. That your sweetness was just a facade.
Is that what you're showing him now? That you weren't the genuinely aloof, adorable girl he wants so badly to fuck up?
You glance down at his fist, at the blood dripping from it. “Titus, your hand!”
He watches as you grab a hold of his hand, opening his fist up, seeing the way his nails had dug into his palm.
“Oh no, shit, I knew we should've gotten manicures before we flew here.”
The edges of his nails are all sharp since it's been a while. You were planning on booking one of the resorts’ manicurists to come to the room. You should've thought of this sooner.
You quickly grab some napkins and apply pressure to the cut. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”
“I just kissed you and you give more of a fuck about my hand?” He yanks his hand out of your hold. “Are you fucking serious?”
Your throat is closing up. This reminds you of when the owner of the restaurant yelled at you. Only this time, it's Titus. And seeing him angry with you scares you to the point where you can't control the tears that are blurring your vision.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” You try to find some words to say but none of them will come out. You're so nervous all of a sudden.
Titus has never seen you like this before. Flustered, scared, anxious, delicious. He wants more of this side of you. The one that you've been hiding under that confident mask of yours.
The girl underneath who wants nothing more than to be spoiled rotten.
Without letting you say anything else, Titus scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the room. You cling onto him, shocked that he's carrying you so easily.
Though, should you be shocked?
You have seen him practically naked before, wearing only his boxers around the apartment. You know he works out because he has a gym set up. You have watched him exercise before.
But for some reason, the thought of him without any clothes on is making your heart flip flop on your chest. You've never felt whatever feeling is stirring inside of you.
Is this…lust?
Titus opens the door to the room and then proceeds to toss you onto the bed. You scramble to sit up, backing up until your back is against the headboard. He climbs onto the bed like a predator stalking its prey until he has you trapped beneath him.
Your heart is going to leap out of your chest at this point. You've never seen Titus look so…hungry before. Like he wants to devour you whole.
“I don't care to wait anymore.” He tells you, looking you up and down like he's planning out how to feast on you. “I don't care if you scream. I don't care if you fight back. I fucking don't care anymore. I'm done waiting for you.”
“Wait, wait, Titus—” You can't stop him from kissing you, his lips sealing over yours, stealing your breath away when he slips his tongue into your mouth. The warmth of it mixing with yours makes you dizzy.
You didn't realize kissing could feel so…hot. You taste the smoothie bowl, that sweet fruit flavor on his tongue. You like it a lot. You like kissing him a lot.
That's why you have to stop him. You can't be doing this. He can't be doing this. He's about to marry someone else. His father will make sure of that. And then you'll just have been some blip in his memory.
That's all you'll be.
And you don't want that.
You want to be able to remember your time with Titus fondly.
“Please, Titus, let me talk.” You beg against his lips.
“I'm not going to stop so don't waste your breath.” He goes to kiss down your jaw, to the column of your neck, placing a bite right in the center that stings and shoots a tingle down to your core, something you've never felt before.
“I don't want you to stop.” Your words flip a switch in his head and he lifts up from your neck to look at you, confused.
That wasn't what he was expecting. Nor was he expecting the tears that are welling up in your eyes. They aren't from fear.
They're…from sadness.
Longing to be specific.
Yearning, more like it.
“But you need to know if we do this, you're going to break my heart.” You go to wipe the tears that spill from your eyes with your hands. “So if you want to do this, we can. But it will hurt me more than you will ever know.”
“Why?” He doesn't understand.
How can he break your heart when he doesn't even have it yet?
You cup his face, pulling him up towards you so you can lay your forehead against his, before you tell him, “because I know I'm just one of many people you've done this with. You like me now, sure, but there's no guarantee that'll last. And you can't promise me it will. I won't believe you. But…”
You let out a sigh, before you lean in and press a kiss on his lips. He's so stunned to feel you kiss him.
He's even more stunned when you tell him, “I don't mind if you break my heart. I just want you to be aware that you will.”
You give him a soft smile, like you always do, and it burns a hole in his chest.
“You aren't one of many.” He knows that to be a fact. He has never wanted to spend time with anyone like he has with you.
“Then tell me about the person before me. Did you kiss them too?” You know the answer from the look on his face but you want him to say it.
“I didn't have a personal assistant before you.” That's the honest truth.
But you know it's not the full truth. “Who did you have before me?”
“She was just a maid.”
“Will I be “just a personal assistant” one day?” Your words make him ache in ways he never thought possible.
“No.” He shakes his head. He doesn't want you to just be a personal assistant to him.
He wants you.
“Did you break her heart?”
“We just fucked. That's it. I didn't feel anything for her.” The words slip from his lips and you catch them.
“You feel something for me?” So this isn't just physical. What is it then?
“You have to understand.” Titus won't hold himself back anymore. “You are never going to be able to leave me. I would rather kill you than let anyone else have you.”
“Then kill me.” You pull his hands up to wrap around your throat, wanting him to squeeze. “Because I'd rather die than know one day, you'll leave me for someone else. For another pretty girl who caught your eye. I'd rather die than witness someone else having you after I've gotten a taste.”
“Then why did you push me towards Pepper?”
“That was before I knew you felt the same way about me that I do about you.”
You can't help yourself. You lean in and kiss him again, just so you can remember the feeling of his lips on yours before you die. Those soft lips. How you yearn to feel them all over your skin.
But the moment you do, your heart will surely shatter.
“I don't want anyone else but you.” He says so clearly that you almost believe him.
“Maybe for right now.” You brush your nose against his, that playfulness still shining through even in your despair. “But you should be honest with yourself. You don't want a relationship with me. I know you don't.”
You don't know how to explain it. But you're sure Titus doesn't want you to be his girlfriend. Or his wife.
He just wants you to be his.
And you can do that.
You can be his.
But it will hurt you tremendously in the process.
Is he willing to do that to you?
Titus moves his hands off of your neck and then gets up from the bed, straightening himself out. Then, he goes to the phone at the desk, dialing the front desk.
“I need another room.” He says to the receptionist, who is fully aware of all the rooms he has booked. “Either one that connects or a suite with two bedrooms. Just pick one and send the keycards here.”
“Right away, Mr. Danforth.” They hang up and before you have time to process what's happening, there's a knock on the door.
Titus grabs the new keycards and goes to pack your things up back into your suitcase and then he does his own. You're sitting there, stunned.
Because you realize he wanted to sleep next to you. That's why he booked this room in particular. There were rooms available. But he wanted to share a bed with you, so he convinced you there weren't.
And now, he doesn't anymore.
Because hurting you is something he can't do, for some reason.
He liked seeing you shy and flustered but hurt…that didn't spark what he thought it would inside of him. What it usually does inside of him.
When he gathers everything, he tells you, “come on, let's go to our new rooms.”
“Titus…” You're speechless for once. You normally have a quip of some kind but…you don't right now.
“You're right. I don't know what I was thinking. You can't mean anything to me and I would be a fucking idiot to think you could. I was just thinking with my cock. It won't happen again.” Titus gestures for you to take your bags. “Now come on, we have a resort to check out. Let's get to work.”
And that's all it is.
Work.
Because that's all it will ever be, right?
“A little birdie told me something interesting.” Ursula smiles that wicked grin of hers at Titus, while they're having brunch at the Danforth Resort together. “You haven't fucked your personal assistant yet. It's been over a year. I find that impressive, Titus.”
“Who the fuck would tell you something like that?” He rolls his eyes at her.
She's telling the truth, though. He hasn't fucked you. He hasn't even kissed you since that time.
“Your housekeepers will do anything for a little extra cash.” She only had to add a bit more to their checks to get them to spill the details about you and Titus. “From what I hear, your personal assistant is more like a roommate you pay. And you don't even fuck her. That's just weird.”
“It's weird that you give a fuck about who I'm fucking.”
Ursula shrugs. “I give more of a fuck that you've been acting like an asshole because you're all pent up. Just go fuck one of the people you have on speed dial and get it over with already.”
“Okay, I will.” He leaves the table then, done with this brunch.
But he doesn't go to one of the many fuckbuddies he has.
He just goes straight home to you.
Because he doesn't want to fuck anyone.
It's like there's something wrong with him. If he isn't thinking about you, he can't get hard. His body won't let him fuck anyone else.
But maybe that's his heart getting in the way.
You and him have found that rhythm from before again, albeit with a slight change. You do get flustered whenever he touches you now. And you don't touch him as casually as you used to anymore. He likes that you're finally seeing him as a man. But he hates that you no longer feel relaxed around him.
You apologize a lot more now. You aren't as playful because you're nervous you'll say something you shouldn't.
It's killing him inside.
Especially on days like today, where you seem like you're back to the way you were before, smiling at him when he gets home, “welcome back! How was brunch?”
“Horrible.” He pulls off his dress shirt, tossing it into the hamper.
You hand him one of the softer shirts he wears at home and he slips it on. He catches the way your eyes linger on his body for a second before you shake your head, like you're trying to shake away the thoughts you were having.
You distract yourself by asking, “did you bring me that pastry?”
“Fuck, I forgot.” He was in a rush to leave.
Usually when he goes to brunch with Ursula at the Danforth Resort, you would beg him to get this one pastry for you since it's a specialty dessert there. He always got it for you, so he could watch you happily devour it.
“Oh it's okay!” You wave him off. “No big deal. I will just dream about it until next time.”
“We can go right now.”
You look at him like he's gone crazy. “You just drove back. It's alright. I don't mind waiting.”
Waiting. Titus hates that fucking word.
He hates waiting. He hates it so much. He hates that he has to wait and wait and wait until everything falls into place so that he can have even the slightest chance of being with you. Of making you his, forever.
You seem content to wait but he doesn't know for how long.
He knows you've been looking for another job.
He knows you've been talking with other men.
Sure, they're "just friends” of yours but…he can't stand it.
He can't take another day of waiting for you to be his.
He needs this to work.
Titus cannot live without you.
So, he waits for everything to align exactly the way he needs it to.
Then, he will make you his.
But plans never do go the way he thinks.
Because you've caught the eye of a certain member of the High Council.
“Ignacio?” You see him at one of the events Titus brings you to and he comes rushing up to you, giving you a big hug.
Something that makes Titus's jaw tighten.
“Now where have you been, mi cielito?” He swings you around, making you giggle. “I have missed having you serve me. Opulence has declined since you left.”
“I got fired.” You tell him as he sets you down.
“They fired you? But doesn't Titus—”
When Ignacio meets Titus's deadly glare, he doesn't say another word.
Instead, he clears his throat and goes, “well, regardless, they were sorely mistaken in choosing to let you go.”
“If I knew you'd be here, I would've brought you something.” You used to bring him cute little charms for his guns.
“What are you doing here? I heard Titus had a personal assistant but I had no idea it would be you. How did you two meet?”
“It's a funny story.” You say with that soft giggle of yours.
Titus is learning right now that you show that side of yourself to others. Not just him. Ignacio seems well versed in how precious you can be, his eyes roaming your body. He must like how gorgeous you look in the designer dress Titus picked out for you for this event.
“Would you like a drink? I'd love to hear about it.” As much as Ignacio wouldn't want to light any fury in Titus, he has missed the chats you two used to have so he is willing to risk it.
Titus opens his mouth to answer for you but then you go, “oh sure! Titus, you don't mind right? I'll be right back!”
Of course he minds. Of course he fucking minds. You're not supposed to want to spend time with anyone except for him.
And yet you're choosing Ignacio? Over him?
He can't stop you from walking away. He can't stop you from smiling at Ignacio as you hook your arm in his, doing that affectionate cheek rub against his shoulder, making Ignacio pinch your nose in response. You laugh so beautifully as the two of you chat about something Titus is too far away to hear.
Ignacio touches you so casually, like the two of you have a deeper relationship. But you told Titus you never dated before.
But you never told him if you ever fucked someone before.
From the way Ignacio is holding your hip with one hand and his drink in the other, Titus can't help but imagine that you aren't the innocent girl he thought you were. Especially when you smile all bashfully before placing your hand against Ignacio's chest, using your finger to draw little circles over where his heart is.
“I think your boss wants me dead.” Ignacio whispers to you. “You shouldn't glance over there. You'll see quite the death glare.”
“He won't do anything to you, don't worry.” You know Titus won't.
“I heard a rumor about you.” He has been meaning to ask, since now he knows you're Titus's personal assistant. “You haven't slept with him. Is that true?”
“Is that…surprising?”
Ignacio shrugs. “He is quite fond of the help, from what I hear. Fond of firing them too, when he's done with them.”
That you are well aware of. You've seen it before. Titus fired all of his housekeeping staff recently and hired brand new ones, who only come when you and him aren't at the apartment at all. You still don't know why he did that but you don't ask. It isn't your place to.
“If you need a job, I have many places you can work. Just give me a call anytime.” Ignacio puts his hand out and you give him your phone, letting him add his personal number to it. “I should let you go back to your boss now. Adiós, mi cielito.”
Ignacio kisses you on the temple before heading over to say hello to another set of patrons at the event. You make your way back to Titus, who has maintained his glare this whole time.
The question he asks you when you're back by his side startles you. “Have you fucked him?”
“What?” You raise an eyebrow at Titus, shocked he'd ask you something like that.
“I said, have you fucked Ignacio?” His tone grows harsher. “Answer me.”
“I have not fucked anyone.” You scoff, setting your drink down. You haven't even taken a sip and now you definitely don't want to.
Because you know the moment your inhibitions drop, you'll say something you really don't want to.
But then Titus goes, “I bet you want to fuck him.”
And you can't hold it in anymore. “Why do you care? I'm just the help. Though apparently you always fuck the help so maybe I'm not even that to you.”
You have never snapped at Titus like this before. That's why he has no idea what to say. He didn't think you had it in you to feel any kind of jealousy. You normally are so chill, even when he talks to other people.
Have you been harboring envy this whole time?
You hate to admit that. You hate when your mind trails to the fact that he has been with other people and that he will be with other people after you. That you aren't anything but this weird pastime of his for right now.
But that ends today.
You can't keep doing this.
You can't keep pretending like you can stay by his side and nothing has changed.
“I'm going to work for Ignacio.” You tell him straight up, even though you haven't formally agreed to anything. “So, you can go and hire some other person and fuck them because I do not want to be here when you inevitably do. I'm leaving to pack my things.”
But he doesn't let you leave. Not without him.
Titus grabs you by the arm and drags you out to the underground parking lot, where he has his car parked for the event.
“Let go of me!” You tug at him but he won't budge. “Titus!”
“Shut the fuck up!” He yells right in your face and you're so taken back that you can't speak. He has never yelled at you like that before.
It makes your heart race in ways you've never felt before.
He opens the backseat of his car and tosses you inside. Then, he gets in and shuts the door behind him, climbing on top of you.
You should've guessed what would happen next but you're still shocked when his lips come crashing down onto yours as his hands slide up your legs, hiking up your skirt. You gasp against his lips when he rips off your underwear, tossing it aside.
“Wait, wait—” Your pleas are silenced by his lips, his tongue slipping into your mouth to hold it hostage. You can't breathe. You're getting lightheaded.
It only gets worse when you feel his thumb trail down your bare pussy, a feeling you've never felt before. You squirm, shoving at him, trying to close your legs but he has your thighs pinned down with his knees.
You're trapped beneath him.
You're at his mercy.
You can't let him do this.
You'll never be able to leave if you do.
You pull his face off of you and he snarls like a rabid animal in response but you have to get your words out, “please don't do this. You don't want this. You don't want me. You know you don't.”
He lets out the most menacing laugh you've ever heard before he responds, “that's where you're wrong. All I have ever wanted was you. All I want is to do this with you. How dare you try to leave me. Don't fucking try to stop me now because you're never getting away from me.”
“For how long, though?” Your words freeze him in place. “Titus, I don't want to do this if you're just going to fuck someone else later. Let me go, please.”
“What will it take for you to believe that I only want you?” Because he can't let you go. He can't.
You're everything to him.
He'd rather die than ever let you go.
What will it take, though?
Horrible, sinful, ugly things cross your mind. Thoughts of you caging him as much as he wants to cage you.
You both falling into the trap that is one another.
“Stop right now and wait until I'm ready.” You lean up, pressing your forehead against his. “Because I will be ready. But I don't want our first time together to be in a car after a fight. Please, sir.”
You're playing dirty, pulling that out now. But it satisfies Titus enough to nod.
“I want to kiss and touch you whenever I want.” That is his only ask as part of this deal. “I will wait to fuck you as long as you promise you won't go.”
“Okay.” You press a kiss against his lips, one that he immediately leans into, savoring. You smile then breathe out, your warm breath like heaven on his lips, “I'm not going anywhere. I promise, sir.”
“No talking to other men. No looking for other jobs. You sleep in my bed from now on. You aren't allowed to think of leaving me.” He nips at your bottom lip, his teeth sinking in hard enough to make it bleed. “Got it?”
You lick your lips, tasting the iron, then you lean in, biting his lip until he bleeds, before you kiss him, mixing yours with his. Then, you tell him with a little brush of your nose against his, “as long as you do the same. You're mine, Titus.”
He lets out that dark chuckle of his, the one that he has been keeping in, the sinister laugh that is flooding his system with the darkness he has been dying to let out.
“I am going to fuck you up.” His devilish grin sends such a thrill through you.
“Only me, okay?” You don't want him to look at anyone else like this.
“Only you. You're my obsession.” His gaze trails down the length of your body and he groans at the sight of your pussy, his cock wanting to sink inside of you right now.
Titus settles for burying his face between your legs. You try to push him away, “Titus! What are you—”
“Keep your voice down.” He instructs, his hot breath tickling your clit. “Unless you want people to know I'm eating you out in my car right now.”
“Can't we wait until we're home?” Your words make him smile.
So, you consider his apartment home.
He likes that a lot.
“I'm done waiting.” He says right as he drags the length of his tongue along your folds, making your whole body shudder. His hand slides down to knead his cock through his pants, which is getting terribly hard at the sight of you trembling from his touch. “You taste exactly how I thought you would.”
“I've never done this before.” You're scared. It feels so intense, his tongue swirling around your clit, the stimulation shooting sparks straight to your core.
Tension is building inside of you, coiling in your lower stomach, threatening to burst.
“You've never cum before?” Titus grip his cock harder when you nod in response.
He will have to lock you up in the apartment from now on.
Because if you have never tasted pleasure before, if he is your first everything, how is he supposed to ever let you out of his sight?
He needs to corrupt you. He needs you begging for him to make you cum once you've grown addicted to it.
But first, he needs to show you how good it feels.
“Put your hands in my hair.” He commands and you listen, lacing your fingers through his curls. “Now listen carefully. Whenever I do something you like, you tug or I won't know, okay?”
“I don't want to hurt you.” You let out in a quiet little murmur that he finds so precious.
Because he wants to fuck you up even more now.
His sweet little innocent girl.
“That's not how you answer me.” He takes a bite out of your thigh as punishment, making you yelp from the sudden sting. “Do it right. Are you going to pull my hair when you feel good?
“Yes, sir.” You immediately tug when he dives back in, thrusting his tongue deep inside of you. You've never felt anything like this before. “Oh my—”
You can't breathe when his hand slides between your legs, his thumb swiping over your clit as his tongue ravishes your insides. You're pulling so hard on his hair, holding him there, the pleasure building so quickly that you're feeling like you're going to explode.
“Wait, wait, Titus, I'm going to—” You squirm when his fingers start playing with your clit, which is getting firmer from his touch, easier for him to rub methodically.
The tip of his tongue presses up against that spot right beneath your clit inside of you, teasing it back and forth, and your body gushes.
You bite down on your lip as hard as possible when your orgasm crashes through you, flooding every inch of your skin with an unfamiliar heat. It's like your core has been set ablaze, warmth pooling between your legs that Titus is lapping up with his tongue.
“Good job.” He praises you, seeing how hard you came for your first time. “You even squirted a little.”
“Sorry.” You feel so embarrassed.
“I hate it when you say sorry.” Titus leans back in, sealing his lips around your clit then starts sucking on it, pulling a scream from your lips at the sudden jolt of pleasure.
“Titus! Stop, I just came, you can't—” You cum again before you can get any more words out, your vision going blurry.
“Your clit is throbbing.” He flicks it with his tongue, your body convulsing in response. “That was your punishment for saying sorry. All I want to hear is “thank you for making me cum, sir”.”
He waits for you to say it. Your heart is pounding so hard in your ears right now that you're unsure if you heard him correctly.
But you say it perfectly, “thank you for making me cum, sir.”
“Good girl.” He pulls you towards him, kissing you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He pokes your nose with his before telling you, “now we're going to go home and I'm going to do that again. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” You nod. Then, you don't stop yourself from giving him a peck on the lips.
And Titus knows, in that moment, that he wants to see this look on your face everyday.
With that heat in your gaze that will only ever be for him.
The drive home is unbelievably uncomfortable because you're so wet between your legs and every bump in the road tortures your swollen clit. Not having any underwear on makes it way worse.
Then there's the traffic. So much traffic.
It's going to take forever to get home.
Titus glances over at you and he can't help the smile that forms when he sees you squirming. He really likes seeing you all hot and bothered.
That's why he decides to have a little more fun. So he turns to you and says, “hold up your skirt.”
“What?” You don't know if you heard him right.
“I said hold up your skirt. Do it now.”
“Titus…” You glance around.
You know the windows of the car are tinted but you both are stuck in bumper to bumper traffic right now. There's cars on all sides of you. Someone is bound to see your bare pussy if they happen to look in.
“I'll punish you with something worse if you don't listen.” He makes his threat and you swallow. You're unsure if you can handle another one of his punishments…
“Okay, okay.” You grab the hem of your dress with both hands and lift it past your hips.
“Have you ever touched yourself before?” He asks, his eyes darting between the highway and your pussy, one hand still on the wheel, the other hand unzipping his pants. His cock is going to burst out if he doesn't give it some relief soon.
You confess. “Not really. I've never really been interested in sex until…now.”
If Titus could pull over right here and fuck you, he would. You gulp when he turns to look at you, his gaze more intense than you've ever seen it.
“Why don't you try right now?” He pulls his cock out of his pants and you see it for the first time.
Technically, you have seen the outline of his cock many times before, since Titus likes to, on occasion, walk around in just his boxer briefs at the apartment. There was one day that you saw the tip of his cock peeking out but you tore your eyes away before they lingered too long.
Now, your eyes are locked on it, on the way his large hand barely wraps around it as he strokes it up and down. Your mind is going fuzzy at the thought that he's this hard because of you. That his cock is leaking pre-cum because of you. That he's touching himself to the sight of you touching yourself, your fingers teasing your clit like he had earlier.
“Dip your fingers inside of your pussy then rub your clit. It'll feel better.” He instructs.
You do as he says, gathering some of your slick onto the pads of your fingers and sliding back up to your clit. You let out a moan when you start to swirl those methodical circles like Titus had. It does feel much better.
“Thank you, sir.” You tell him and he groans in response, gripping his cock harder. His other hand is gripping the steering wheel so hard that you can see the whites of his knuckles.
“Cum with me.” He's getting close.
And he cums when you reply, “yes, sir.”
His release hits the dashboard and the steering wheel. He hasn't cum that hard in months. He could cum again from the sight of his leather seats slick with your release. He wishes he was between your legs instead of stuck in traffic right now.
You quickly open the glove box, pulling out the car wipes you keep in there, since you occasionally clean Titus's car as one of your work tasks. You quickly clean up for him.
Then, when you're done, you look down at his throbbing cock and Titus catches you licking your lips.
Before he can say anything, you ask him, “can I clean you up?”
“What if someone sees?” He says playfully, smirking.
You feel a rush of heat spread through you. You don't know what you would do if someone saw you with him in your mouth while he's driving. But you definitely want to do it.
“It's okay.” You decide you don't care because, “you wouldn't let them live if they saw.”
Titus lets out that sinister laugh of his, amused by your words. “I always knew you were a smart girl.”
You unbuckles your seatbelt and proceed to bend over until your face is right above his cock.
“Come closer.” He urges you to get on your knees on the seat, pulling your body closer to him. Then, you jolt when his hand slides down the length of your back, pulling up your dress until your ass is exposed. Then, he sinks two fingers into your pussy from this angle without warning.
“Wait, Titus—” Now, if anyone looks through the passenger side window, they have a clear view of him fingering you.
“It's okay.” He smiles mischievously. “I'll kill anyone who dares to look, remember? Just focus on cleaning me up.”
You turn your attention back to his cock, which is surprisingly still hard. You don't know what to do, especially when his fingers are thrusting inside of you, spreading you open in ways you didn't know possible. They're terribly distracting, pushing you closer and closer to your next orgasm.
You drag your tongue along the tip of his cock, licking up any leftover cum that's still leaking out. He rewards you by curling his fingers inside of you, making your hips buck.
“Put me in your mouth and I'll make you cum real hard.” He teases that spot inside of you, your body trembling in response.
You wrap your lips around the tip of his cock then sink down, letting him fill your mouth. You can't fit him all the way in. You barely make it halfway. But that's enough for him to reward you.
“Suck and lick me clean while you cum.” He then starts to move his fingers side to side rapidly, sending you into a frenzy from the sudden roughness.
You cum uncontrollably, drenching your legs as you suck his cock, your tongue swirling around while you do. You moan with your full mouth when Titus pops his fingers out of you. You pull off of him and help settle him back inside his pants.
“Come here and kiss me.” He gestures for you to kiss him, since he needs to focus on the road still.
You press a kiss against his lips then sit back down, buckling in again. Then you turn to look at him, watching him lick his wet fingers clean. That makes heat pool at core again.
“Did that feel good?” He has both hands on the wheel again, now that the bumper to bumper traffic has stopped.
“Yes, sir.” You say bashfully, your cheeks growing warm.
You've never felt anything like this before. But you want to do it again. The pleasure is incredible. The thrill is addictive.
But a strange pain pricks you inside.
You try to ignore it but it picks at you the entire rest of the ride home.
Titus is so eager to kiss you the moment the two of you are home alone but when he goes to do so, you do not seem to match his energy. You kiss him back, sure, but not with the passion he had hoped.
“What's wrong?” He cups your face with his hands, feeling how fast your pulse is.
“I don't know.” You can't quite put words to what's bothering you.
Maybe you're just overwhelmed. So much has happened. It's going to take a while to adjust to the new rhythm of things.
But you have a feeling that isn't what's lingering in your heart.
“Titus.” You say his name when your eyes meet his.
He likes the sound of his name from your lips, but not when you sound so sad. It makes him feel something in the pit of his stomach he'd like not to feel.
“Have you done that with anyone before?” You know then what is tainting your heart.
It is that ugly envy again. The fear that you are just another one of his playthings. Or worse, a hole for him to fuck and throw away.
At least before, you were like a companion. Like a glorified pet. You didn't mind that because you knew no one else had ever been that for him before.
This, whatever relationship you are in now, is something else entirely and you are afraid you've just fallen into a position that can be filled by anyone.
You yearn to feel special but you don't know if Titus wants to make you feel special.
You're about to learn the truth.
When he picks you up and carries you into his bedroom, tossing you onto his bed. His sheets smell like him. Like the expensive soap in his shower and the cologne he likes to wear. It makes your heart ache.
Like his words do, “do you think I'd do that for anyone?”
Your throat is so dry all of a sudden. Swallowing your saliva brings no relief. You're so choked up from the fear.
You just mumble out, “I don't know.”
“I have never waited to fuck anyone in my life.” He climbs over you, trapping you beneath him. “If you were just a hole to me, I would've sunk my cock into you on your first day.”
“Then what am I to you?” You ask even though you know he can't give you an answer.
How can he? Titus could never marry you. Not with the kind of fucked up family he has.
So, what are you to him?
“Does it matter?” He doesn't want to put a label on this.
“I don't know.” You don't like answering like that but it's the truth. You don't know if or why it matters to you.
“You're mine. I'm yours. Isn't that enough?” He owns you and you own him. Mutual destruction.
“What if…” You whisper the next part because the nerves make your stomach twist, “I get greedy?”
“How greedy?” Titus likes this. This sudden turn.
At first, he was worried you'd try to run from this again and shove him away. But right now, you are pulling him in and not wanting to let him go.
“Have you…ever had a baby with anyone?” You ask because you're unsure. He could have children out there he has no clue about.
The chuckle that leaks from his lips sends shivers down your spine. “Are you planning to baby trap me?”
“You asked me how greedy…so I told you.” You may not be able to be his in any kind of official capacity but being the mother of his only child would put you on a pedestal that you can never be removed from.
“I've never fucked anyone without protection.” He refuses to stick his cock into anyone raw. There's too much risk.
There's no risk with you, his beautiful virgin who has never had anyone but him touch you.
“Are you going to wear a condom with me?” His answer to this question will tell you everything you need to know.
“The moment I get to sink my cock into your pussy, it's going in raw.” He smiles at how your expression shifts from that worry to delight. “Would you like that?”
“Yes, sir.” You pull him in for a kiss, sealing your words. “I would like that very much.”
“How much longer are you going to make me wait?” He's already raring to go again right now, his cock aching to be buried inside of you.
It's your turn to chuckle, letting him hear that laugh that is like music to his ears. “I didn't realize Mister Almost Trillionaire can't keep it in his pants. You want to fuck me that bad?”
“Desperately.” He finally allows himself to admit out loud.
“I don't want it to hurt.” You heard the first time always hurts.
“It won't.” Titus will prepare you well.
“Then, whenever you want, we can.” You press a little kiss on his cheek. “Just not tonight.”
He huffs out an annoyed breath. “What the fuck? Such a tease.”
“I want to sleep with you tonight. Just sleep. Tomorrow, we can do whatever you want. But tonight, I want to just lay and cuddle. Is that okay, sir?” You bat your eyelashes at him and he lets out a laugh in response.
“You know just how to push me.” He picks you back up into his arms. “You're getting in the shower with me. We're going to cuddle naked.”
“I'm okay with that.” You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his nice cologne. “As long as we get to cuddle. I've always wanted to cuddle.”
“Is that the greed spilling out?” He asks as he opens the door to his lavish bathroom.
“Can I be more greedy?” You rub your cheek against his shoulder like you used to once he sets you back on your feet. “Please, sir?”
“What do you want?” He should not let you influence him so easily but it's hard when you're acting so cute.
“A hug.” You open your arms, since you and Titus have never hugged before.
He doesn't even think he has ever hugged anyone. Not like actually. He doesn't like casual touching after all. You've never tried to hug him.
But you want to now.
Titus steps forward, wrapping his arms around you and you smile all giddy, rubbing your face against his chest as you squeeze him with your arms. His heart is racing in his chest. He didn't know it was possible to find someone so adorable before.
“Now pick me up.” You beam a big smile at him as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Come on, please!”
He glares at you. You are getting bold. But he listens, picking you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist. You giggle so beautifully, laying your head against his shoulder.
“I've always wanted to do this.” You pepper his neck with kisses before trailing up to his lips, giving him a little affectionate peck there. “Thank you, Titus.”
Oh, he's fucked. He's actually so fucked. Because he thought he would be the one fucking you up.
But here you are, being the brightest ball of sunshine he has ever experienced, melting his icy soul with a warmth he has never ever thought possible.
He might just fall in love with you…
Much to your surprise, Titus does not fuck you the next day. Actually, he doesn't even touch you, at least not sexually. He grabs a hold of your hand to tug you towards him for a hug. He kisses you. He cuddles you in bed or on the couch. But nothing more than that.
You don't ask why. You like these more intimate moments. But it's making it harder and harder not to fall in love with him.
You know it's silly, though, to think you could ever be his love. Everyone around Titus believes he's incapable of love.
Do you believe that?
You're…unsure about that.
If anything, you think he is very capable of love but he would never admit it. He would never tell anyone that he has all your favorite things memorized. He would never let anyone find out that he knows everything there is to know about you, like what makes you laugh or how much he loves your laugh.
Or how much he loves you.
He loves you.
He does.
He realizes that on the private jet ride to another resort, this time tucked away in the mountains, with a private hot spring in each of the luxury cabins.
You're going over the itinerary you put together, since you're very excited to go on a little vacation now that you and Titus are being more affectionate. Since it's in a more secluded place with little to no reception, he feels safe about just being himself. It's a resort meant for relaxation and restoration so no phone use allowed anyways.
And he knows he loves you because he's excited to spend quality time focused solely on you.
Because that must be what love is, right?
To want someone all the time, to want to be with them all the time.
“What are you most excited about, Titus?” You ask him once you finish reading off your list.
He can't really tell you that he's excited to fuck you every night this week until you're unable to walk so he just says, “it'll be nice to soak in the hot spring.”
You giggle, nodding in agreement. “Me too. I like that it's private so we can cuddle out in the open.”
Or fuck. He really needs to fuck you.
He can't wait any longer.
Titus hasn't touched you since that day. He doesn't really know why. He just figured he wanted to enjoy being affectionate with you for a bit. The kisses, the hugs, the cuddling, they all have been better than he thought. He never realizes it could be like this with someone. He feels so at ease around you. You make it easy to be himself.
You aren't afraid of his darker tendencies at all. You don't mind that he glares at the concierge for staring at you for a little too long. You aren't repulsed by his need to keep you close to him now that he is allowed to keep an arm around you at all times.
You quite enjoy being the object of his obsession. You have never felt so special before.
You wish this could last forever.
So, you have a little gift for Titus. One that took a lot of maneuvering to hide from him, since he hasn't let you out of his sight for very long these last few days.
You aren't sure when you want to give it to him but when the two of you step into the beautiful hotel room, you decide the sooner the better. You want to see him wear it right away.
“Titus, I have something for you.” You open your suitcase and pull out a flat velvet box you had been hiding from him.
He stares at it, not knowing how the hell you managed to buy something without him knowing. You are a sneaky girl, aren't you?
“What the fuck? Who did you bribe to buy that for you?” That must've been it.
“I'm not telling!” You knew he'd think that. “Just open it!”
You hand him the box and he scoffs. He can't believe you got him a gift. He should've gotten you something. He definitely will now. He can't have you get the last laugh.
But he hears your beautiful giggle when he opens it and shock colors his features.
Inside the box is a necklace delicately woven with thick black thread. In the center is a cute note attached that says: to the threads that bind us ♡
Then, you show him the matching necklace you're wearing around your neck.
And he has never kissed you so quickly before.
You smile against his lips, saying in between kisses, “I assume you like it.”
“Did you make this?” You must've. That's the only way you could've snuck it by him.
You nod. “It's a super high quality thread, waterproof, last longing, the works. You saw me order it. You probably thought it was just for my sewing stuff.”
Titus definitely remembers you ordering it but he assumed it was just a restock of whatever threads you already had. He had no clue you were making something in secret.
“Sneaky.” He chuckles, and he finds it strange how authentic it is.
He hasn't laughed like that in a long time. Without fear of being seen as weak. It's a real, deep from the soul kind of laugh. One of happiness.
Maybe that's why the words leave his lips, “I love you.”
Because maybe, deep down, he wants to sabotage this. He wants you to rip out his heart and stomp on it so that he can never trust anyone ever again enough to show weakness. Because that would make him a Danforth.
But you blink back tears of joy and say to him, “I love you too, Titus.”
And in that moment, he realizes he isn't a Danforth.
He's just Titus.
And Titus is in love with you.
“I want to marry you.” His words catch you by surprise.
“What?” You never thought he'd ever say that. “Your father would…”
“I know.” He knows it's not possible, but not for the reasons you think.
Titus loves you too much to subject you to the trials of what it means to become a part of his family. The dirty, dark, fucked up secret he's keeping. The one he will tell you about one day, but not today.
Today, he wants to tell you, “I just wanted you to know that I want to. And I hope that's enough.”
You smile that lovely smile that has his heart racing. “More than enough. I want to marry you too.”
You untie the necklace and Titus holds still while you secure the knot around his neck. The two of you may never wear rings, but you will always be bound together.
“Now, can I please fuck you?” Titus cannot hold back anymore.
You giggle and then playfully say, “what would you do if I said no?”
“I might just pin you down and take you anyways.” It's a real threat because he is done with waiting.
“Can you wait just a little longer?” You bat your eyelashes at him, making him groan. “Just until we've unpacked and soaked in the hot spring once. Then, I'm all yours. But I know if we dive right in, we're not leaving that bed and I'd like to enjoy the amenities a bit before the love of my life fucks me silly.”
“The love of your life.” Titus grabs you and kisses you right then and there, the hunger in his kisses very apparent. “How the fuck do you expect me to keep it together?”
“I don't know, sir.” You giggle, brushing your nose against his cutely. “I guess you just have to figure it out.”
He growls, low, angry, menacingly. “You're on thin ice, love.”
“I can't wait to fall in then.” You say with a big smile before pulling him in for another kiss that he instantly melts into.
Titus hates that you take your sweet ass time unpacking. He knows you're doing it on purpose too. Like you're just sitting there, sorting your toiletries. You've never done that before.
He knows you're just doing it to stall because you like riling him up. You will grow to regret testing him like this.
But he is patient. He is waiting so patiently because he knows the moment you're in bed with him, his cock is not leaving your pussy for the next week.
Maybe the next month.
Maybe the next year.
He could reserve this place for that long if he wanted to.
Maybe he will. Why not?
He's one of the richest men in the world.
He can spend his money however he wants.
“Are you coming in or not?” You call out to Titus, who is obviously lost in his own thoughts. You know you've teased him to the breaking point now.
Which is why you pull off all your clothes while he's watching before getting into the hot spring.
Titus practically rips his clothes off to join you and you laugh so hard when he grabs you and pulls you onto his lap the moment he gets into the water. He is desperate to touch your skin to his skin like this, his cock throbbing against your lower stomach.
“I could fuck you right now.” He whispers into your ear before nipping at your earlobe. “You're making it very difficult not to.”
“You promised me you would make sure it wouldn't hurt.” You don't want him to rush this.
“It won't hurt.” He's going to make you cum plenty before his cock does.
You hug him and then say into the crook of his neck, “I am a little scared…”
And, for some reason, Titus holds onto you a little tighter when you say that.
“What are you scared of?” He starts rubbing small circles on your back, trying to comfort you.
He has never comforted someone before. But he wants to for you.
“You might be too big.” You feel a little flustered saying that out loud. “Like, are you really going to fit?”
He groans then slaps your ass, making you shriek. “You scared the fuck out of me! That's what you're worried about?”
“It's a valid worry.” You squint at him. “Have you ever taken a cock that big?”
“I never take it.” He says with a smirk and you chuckle then smack his chest.
“See! You don't get it. It's intimidating…” You glance downwards, highly aware of how deep his cock would go inside of you when it does.
“It will be fine.” He leans in, kissing you on the cheek. “I promise, love.”
“I trust you, sir.” You lay your head back on his shoulder.
“You'll end up enjoying how big I am.” He'll get you to crave being filled up with his cock.
“I hope so.” Your words make his cock twitch. “It felt really good to cum. I bet it'll be even better to cum together.”
“You're killing me.” He grunts against your skin, digging his teeth into your shoulder because he needs some kind of relief. “I want to fuck you so badly.”
“Hopefully it's worth the wait.” You are a tad bit worried about being boring in bed. You're sure Titus has preferences you can't quite live up to yet.
“You are worth the wait.” Titus pulls you in closer, kissing you softly. It's the softest kiss he has ever done. So gentle, so sweet. “I don't want to be anywhere but right here with you.”
“Who knew you were such a romantic?” You giggle, hugging him tighter. “I love you so much, Titus.”
Now, he is officially done waiting.
Titus lifts you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist as he hauls the two of you out of the hot spring and back inside. He doesn't care how dripping wet he is.
He just needs you sprawled out on the bed in front of him as soon as possible.
He drops you onto the bed, climbing on top of you. You look up at him, and he knows that look in your eye is full of love.
“You have no fucking clue how much I've wanted you under me like this.” Titus stares down at your naked body beneath him, reveling in the sight of how shy and flustered you are. “You're so pretty.”
“Have you always been a flirt?” You giggle and he starts plastering your body with kisses, trying to draw more of that lovely sound from you. “That tickles!”
“Have you always been this cute?” His words warm your heart so much.
“I love you like this.” You tell him, seeing how relaxed he looks, the tension gone from his features. You brush your fingertips along his jaw until you cup his face. “Can we stay like this forever?”
Titus nods, pressing a kiss into your palm to seal his promise. Then, he starts to kiss down the length of your arm, until he reaches your shoulder. From there, he trails lower, to your chest. You bite back a sound when he drags his tongue over each of your nipples, which have perked up already.
“I've been waiting to do that and this.” He says before he takes one of them between his teeth, nibbling just enough to send shivers all over you. “Feel good?”
You nod. “Yes, sir.”
“It'll feel better with my fingers inside of you.” He nudges you to lay on your side, facing him. He spreads your legs, his hand slipping between them, groaning when he feels how wet you are for him already. “Is this for me?”
“Only for you, sir.” You wrap your arms around his neck, lacing your fingers into his hair, tugging it when he slowly thrusts a finger inside of you. That encourages him to add another, spreading you wide, helping you adjust to the size.
He latches back onto your breasts, playing with your sensitive nipples, swirling around the hard peaks as his fingers curl inside of you, looking for just the right spot to thrust against. You tug his hair when he finds it and moan when he starts to tease it, making you grind your hips against his hand.
“You better do that on my cock.” Titus is barely keeping it together. He wants to be inside of you already. But he promised he wouldn't let it hurt.
So, he needs to make you cum a few times.
You're getting close to your first orgasm already, the dual stimulation inching you closer and closer. Then, when Titus starts to palm your clit, you let go completely, letting the first wave of pleasure take over you.
He keeps his fingers buried inside of you, but starts to kiss down the length of your body. You know what's about to happen next, your hands still in his hair, ready to tug when his lips seal over your clit.
The burst of pleasure distracts you from him adding in another finger, the pressure building inside of you. You're clamping down on his fingers so hard. He wishes it was his cock instead. But he needs you to loosen up a bit more. You won't be able to take him if you're this tight.
“Relax, love.” His hand rests on your lower stomach, rubbing it gently. “You can take it. Just breathe. Focus on your clit.”
Easy for him to say. He isn't the one being pried open. But you close your eyes, tuning your attention to the softness of his tongue and the warmth of his hand on your skin. He eases his fingers deeper inside of you, until he's brushing up against a spot so deep, you start to squirm, tugging at his hair.
“Right here?” He curls his fingers and you squirt in response, finally loosening up, gasping for air.
That was more intense than the last orgasm. And Titus is tempted to tease you more, to thrust his fingers relentlessly right there, to see you convulsing and screaming. But then he sees that adorably flustered look on your face. He wants to enjoy that a little bit longer.
“Now imagine the tip of my cock grinding right here.” He pushes against that spot again, making your lower body shake so much that he has to hold you still with his other hand pinning you down by your stomach. “You'll be cumming like crazy.”
“I don't know if I can handle that.” You feel like you could pass out right now.
“You can. You will. Just enjoy it.” Titus starts to thrust his fingers in and out at a slow pace, letting you get used to the motion.
It feels better than you thought it would, the friction growing more and more intoxicating. You're going to burst at the seams again the moment he curls his fingers. He knows you will.
So, he doesn't. And you don't know how to react to the edging. You've never experienced it before, to be taken so close to the edge but then not all the way. He slows before you can cum then once you've rested enough, picks back up until you're close again.
“Titus, please.” You want to cum, your hips desperately grinding against his fingers but he won't let you.
“Ask properly.” He finally lets out that sadistic smile he has been dying to let free.
He loves seeing you like this. Your skin hot, your breaths heavy, your pussy aching to cum.
“Please make me cum, sir.” You plead exactly the way you figure he'd want you to.
And Titus rewards you well.
Maybe a little too well.
You're screaming his name when his fingers starts to fuck you without any care for how hard you're cumming on them. You try to pull away from him, to run from the sudden onslaught of pleasure but he's holding you steady, not letting you go.
Instead, Titus leans down, his lips sealing over your clit again, and when he lightly sucks on it, you're seeing stars in your vision, the orgasms compounding exponentially.
You don't know if you ever stop cumming. You definitely have soaked the sheets, along with his face. He licks it up happily, like it's his reward for making you cum so much.
You feel a little empty when he pulls his fingers out of you. You feel even more empty when he gets up from bed.
“Where are you going?” You try not to sound too sad but you can't control it.
“Just grabbing some water.” He cracks open one of the water bottles the place provides and brings it back to you, climbing back into bed. “I wasn't going to leave you.”
You didn't think he was but it definitely feels strange, coming down from the high of an orgasm. It's like it sinks all your other feelings down too.
“Come here, love.” He sits up in bed, patting his lap.
You straddle his lap, taking the water bottle he hands you and sipping it. You definitely needed to quench your thirst. Titus wraps his arms around you, pulling you right up against his chest.
Then, he goes, “help me with the water. My hands are full.”
You chuckle, finding this a little silly but you lift the water bottle to his lips and help him drink. You set the empty bottle aside so you can wrap your arms around his neck, laying your head against his chest, just hugging him for a bit.
He rubs your back, trying to soothe any worries you may have had. Thoughts you shouldn't be having cross your mind and he catches the light sigh you breathe into his skin.
“We don't have to have sex tonight.” Titus might actually fucking die if he has to wait any longer but he doesn't want you to be scared.
He wants you to fully enjoy it with him.
But can you, when you keep thinking about…
“Does it bother you that I'm inexperienced?” A part of you is afraid that taking things so slow is a burden. It is, but that's not because of you. That's only because Titus wants to fuck you so badly that taking things slow is killing him.
But he's okay with the slow death.
Because he knows the pay off will be well worth it. “I like that you are.”
“Really?” You don't think Titus would lie to you. At least not right now.
“I like knowing that I'm going to be the only person who ever gets to touch you.” You truly are his in that sense.
“I wish I could say the same about you.” You feel selfish saying that, but you let it out anyways. “I feel strange when I think about you touching other people like you have to me.”
“I haven't touched them like I have with you.” That's the truth.
“What do you mean?” You can't imagine that's right.
“Do you really think I'd go down on just anyone?”
“Well…yeah…”
He glares at you. “And here I thought you didn't judge me.”
“I'm not judging you! I just figured you must like doing it since you're so good at it.” He had to learn from somewhere, right?
“You think I'm good at it?” He pulls you in closer. “Did I make you feel good?”
“Obviously.” You are not going to stroke his ego any more than this. “That's why I feel like…if you made someone else feel like that too, I…”
“If they came on my cock, then they came on my cock. I wasn't fucking them to make them cum. I was fucking them to make myself cum.” Which is fucked up to say out loud but Titus is fucked up and you know that so there's no point in pretending he isn't. “But with you, I want to make you cum. A lot. Especially with my cock.”
“So, that was all for me? You've never done that with anyone else before?” You hate asking but you want the confirmation.
“You're the only one I've ever wanted to touch. You're the only one I've held naked.”
“What?” That surprises you.
“I despise being touched, especially skin on skin.” His words seem a bit ridiculous considering the fact that you're naked, pressed up against him right now while he's completely naked too. “But I like touching you. Only you, love.”
“Is it bad that I like that?” You want things that are for you and you only.
“Is it bad that I really wanted to make you beg to cum?” He refers to earlier.
“Yes.” You take a bite out of his neck as punishment for that. “That was mean.”
“You liked it.” He smirks, pulling you in for a kiss.
You smile against his lips. You can't help it. You love kissing Titus so you deepen the kiss, your tongue tangling with his, enjoying his lips on yours for a bit longer.
He lays you onto your back, never breaking the kiss as he settles himself between your legs. You can feel his cock throbbing against your stomach.
“We don't have to.” He breathes out onto your lips. “If you're scared.”
You look down, contemplating how daunting the thought of fitting him inside of you will ultimately be. But you want to have sex with him. You want to feel that close with him.
But you need him to promise first. “The moment you fuck me, you aren't allowed to fuck anyone else ever again. I'll kill you if you do.”
“My sunshine has a dark side.” He likes this version of you. The possessive you.
“You're a bad influence.” You say with a big smile.
“Definitely.” He nods firmly. “Because if you even think about fucking anyone else, you're never leaving my bed.”
“I like being in your bed.” You confess. These last few days sleeping beside him have been so wonderful. “Can I stay there forever anyways?”
“You don't have to ask. You're obligated to because there won't be a day that goes by where I'm not going to be fucking you.” Titus has waited long enough.
From this moment forward, your pussy will keep his cock warm forever.
And you can't wait anymore either. “Then I'm ready.”
You expect to feel Titus's cock but he slips three fingers back inside of you, just to make sure. You wriggle a bit when he thrusts them in deep again and before you can say another word about how he's curling them, his lips press against yours.
You've never cum while kissing him before, the rush making you all lightheaded from the breathlessness. His fingers don't stop moving, fucking you through your orgasm, making another one build all too quickly. But he pulls out before you can cum again.
And this time, he lines up his cock, the tip of it pushing against your entrance.
“Now you're ready.” He says with a smile against your lips. “Deep breath for me, love.”
You listen, taking in a deep breath as he sinks the tip of his cock inside of you. Titus lays his forehead against yours, groaning at the feeling of how warm and wet you are wrapped up around him. He isn't even fully inside of you yet but he knows there's nowhere else he wants to be from now on.
You were expecting some pain but it's mostly that pressure that Titus has familiarized you with using his fingers. He helps keep your mind off the increasing pressure with his lips on yours and his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your nipples as he sinks another inch of himself inside of you. You tug at his hair, wanting him to keep going, basking in the grin he gives you in response.
He's about halfway seated inside of you when he pulls off your lips to say, “I'm going to start moving now. You know what to do if something feels good.”
“Yes, sir.” You nudge him playfully with your nose and he nips at it with his teeth, his cock throbbing inside of you at your words. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Titus is so madly in love with you.
Because that's the only reason he's going so slow. If he had his way, he'd be pounding into you, forcing your pussy to take him instead of easing it into things. One day, he'll have his fun.
But today, he'll make love. He has always, secretly, wanted to fall in love. Maybe that's why when the opportunity presented itself, it wasn't difficult for him to dive right into you.
You're everything he isn't. The light in his darkness.
The love of his life, looking so beautiful as he slowly starts to move, finding a rhythm that adds a bit more of himself inside of you with each thrust. You tug at his hair when the tip of his cock teases the swallower spot closer to your entrance, so he makes sure to spend some time there before thrusting as far in as he can go.
“I'm going to cum if you keep doing that.” Your words don't dissuade him.
Actually, it encourages him to pull his cock completely out of you, the sudden pop pushing you over the edge, your orgasm overwhelming you instantly. He likes the sight of your body shivering all over from the pleasure. He likes it even better knowing it's because of his cock.
He goes to sink back in but you shake your head, saying, “wait, wait, I need a second.”
“No, you don't.” He knows you're just afraid to cum again so soon.
You are, because you cum the moment he thrusts back inside and then pulls completely out again, wetness pooling between your legs. That makes it much easier for Titus to slide back inside all the way, filling you deeper than he has before.
“I'm right here.” He presses down against your lower stomach, kneading where your womb is, the tip of his cock pushing right up against it. “How does it feel?”
“Too good.” You admit, feeling so shy at how easily he's making you unravel. “I'm going to cum again if you move.”
“You're very sensitive.” He's happy you are. He's going to drown you in pleasure.
“It's because of you, sir.” You pull him down to kiss you then you place a kiss against his cheek with such much affection. “Thank you for waiting for me.”
“You're going to make me cum if you keep acting so cute, love.” He peppers your face with lovely kisses, making you giggle.
“Cum with me?” You really want him to.
“Always.” He wants to cum feeling you clenching tightly around him from your orgasm.
So, he slides his hands down, grabbing a hold of your hips, and then starts to finally fuck you. You're not expecting to feel so much but his cock is rubbing up against every inch of your pussy with every stroke. It's going to be hard to hold your orgasm.
He feels the same. Now that he's wrapped so perfectly inside of you, he's getting close. He'll have to pace himself better next time.
But for right now, he is content to cum if it means you will too.
Your whole body tenses when he starts thrusting into you a bit faster, the sound of him slamming his cock inside of you filling the air. You tug him down so you can crash your lips against his, wanting to be kissing him when you both cum. His tongue slips inside your mouth, stealing your breath away, making you dizzy from how good everything feels all together.
You cum the moment warmth spills inside of you, unfamiliar but so very nice. Because you know Titus has never done this before.
And he desperately wants to do it again.
“Can I flip you over?” He asks, his cock still hard and throbbing inside of you.
“Don't you need a break?” You figured at his age, also being a man, don't they need time between?
“I need this. I need you. Please, love.” He just wants to pound you into the next oblivion.
You nod, letting him slip out of you before you flip over, getting on your hands and knees. Titus kisses a line down your spine, the sight of you like this better than when he would fantasize about it.
“My beautiful love.” He groans seeing the sight of your swollen pussy from him fucking you. “I'm going to fuck you up now. I'm not stopping, no matter what.”
Your toes curl at the thrill that sparks through you. “Go ahead, sir. I'm all yours.”
He growls, unable to keep the animalistic side of him any longer. “You are all mine. The very object of my obsession. I'm going to enjoy this.”
Your eyes roll into the back of your head when he thrusts into you from this angle, fitting so much more of himself than before. You're cumming already, your legs growing weak from the shivers. He smacks your ass, adding to the shakes.
“You won't last long if you cum that easily.” He makes it very difficult not to cum, though.
Titus doesn't ease you in this time. He pulls completely out of you then rams the entire length of his cock deep inside of you. Over and over, until you're squirting on his cock with every forceful thrust. You're digging your nails into the sheets, leaning your upper body down against the soft pillows to cushion how hard he's fucking you all of a sudden.
“Titus, it's too much, I can't—” He answers your pleads by sliding his hand between your legs and rubbing your clit with the same intensity as he's fucking you, pulling gasp after gasp from your lips.
You're going to pass out from the orgasms, your mind going hazing from the constant release.
“You're going to kill me.” You can't possibly keep cumming like this. You'll lose your mind if you do. “You need to stop—”
“It's okay, love. You can take it.” He feels you drench his fingertips when he says that, still abusing your clit. “Just let it happen. Cum your brains out.”
You opt then to just bite the pillow beneath you, muffling your screams as he pounds into you ruthlessly, his fingers rubbing your swollen clit raw. The pleasure is endless, sweeping over you in intense waves.
There's nothing in your mind except for Titus. He's consumed you completely. You call out his name as you cum again and again.
This is everything he has been dreaming about. You, lost in the euphoria, giving into him. You'll never leave him now that you've had a taste of what he can do for you.
“I love you.” He loops on repeat as his thrusts get quicker, his orgasm inching closer.
Your words in response are completely incoherent, just cute little mumbles. You're so far gone, which pulls the most evil laugh out of Titus.
You're an absolute mess by the time he finally cums inside of you, your body unable to hold yourself up anymore. He pulls out of you, letting you collapse onto your side and then he plops down behind you, wrapping his arms around you, spooning you. He places warm kisses along your shoulder blades, rubbing your lower belly as you come down from your intense high. You moan a little when his fingers press in, making you well aware of how full you are inside.
“Maybe we should get you some birth control.” He says, nipping at your earlobe. “I want to enjoy fucking you a bit longer before I put a baby inside of you.”
“I have the arm implant.” Your words make him still.
“What?”
You chuckle, flipping over to look at him, “you didn't think I'd let you fuck me that raw the first time, did you?”
“You sneaky little girl.” He takes a bite out of your neck in protest, marking you quite obviously. “How dare you hide that from me.”
“I didn't hide it. I just…omitted the truth?” You smirk, showing him that you aren't just a bundle of sunshine.
You trapped him just as much as he trapped you.
Truly his equal, in every way.
“You know I'm going to have to punish you for that, love.” He will have to think up something good. Maybe tying you down and edging you until you're crying and begging to be fucked.
“I look forward to it, sir.” You say with a big smile before pulling him in for a kiss. Then, you breathe out with all the warmth in your afterglow, “I love you, Titus.”
“You're lucky I love you, or I would be very fucking pissed right now.” He can't believe you hid that from him.
“Mmm, maybe I like you angry.” You nuzzle his nose with yours. “You're never angry with me. It's a nice change of pace.”
He glares at you. “You might be the only person in the world who wants to piss me off.”
“And you love it!” You wrap your arms around him, hugging him.
“Yes. I do love it.” He lets out a sigh of defeat, smiling as he hugs you back, loving that the two of you can cuddle like this.
He has truly met his match.
Because you're as obsessed with him as he is with you.
A/N: Are y’all impressed at my willpower? I wanted to challenge myself and not have them fuck right away and oh my goodness was that a challenge! I love writing smut so much (so of course I had to still add lots of naughty smut haha) but I was craving a lovey dovey, cutesy, fucked up slow burn after my last fic so I hope you all enjoyed this read! ♡
tags: MDNI, SMUT, pornstar f!reader x body guard joel!miller, porn, age gap (late 20s/50s), yes the title is a line from p*r star by nessa barrett, two mentions of y/n and l/n, readers parents are briefly mentioned of being supportive, reader is described wearing clothed but her physical features aren’t talked of, set in modern day LA, voygurism, sexual tension, m!masturbation, awkward Joel, flirty reader, lingerie shopping, pervy fans, kinda forced proximity, submissive reader, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, teeny tiny bit of foot play, multiple orgasms, creampie and aftercare.
summary: joel gets hired as a body guard for you, an adult film actress.
12.2k (oops)
Joel didn’t exactly plan for his life to turn out like this.
Moving out of his hometown in Austin had been a rational decision to say the least. A stupid one he made at forty-two when he was almost certainly in the middle of a midlife crisis.
And living in downtown Los Angeles was supposed to be exciting, right? I mean, he’d built this whole life for himself on his own back at home, had thousands in savings that he’d always planned on putting towards a ranch or when he’d settle down and start a family. But that never happened for Joel. He didn’t meet this amazing woman and have amazing kids. And there was only so much junk he could buy to spend his money for the sake of it not rotting in his bank account.
He wanted a change. Maybe hope of meeting someone wasn’t all gone just yet, he’d try and convince himself. It just came so naturally to everyone else — meeting the one. But for Joel, he always had to put the effort in, unlike some lucky bastards who’d just happen to meet the future mother of their children in a bar.
But moving to California and spreading his wings didn’t exactly pan out the way he’d hoped. Turns out, no matter where you go, how elaborate the change of scenery is, your problems still find a way of following you. And now he was fifty-six years old working a shitty, unglamorous personal security job for clients he could hardly stand half the time.
And he couldn’t believe he was really saying this but, he missed the damn construction work. He didn’t feel so out of place doing that. In fact, that was the one thing that actually did come naturally to him. But this? Getting hired to escort actors and singers he’d never even heard of to places he didn’t even know the purpose of, was way out of his comfort zone.
And he wasn’t in a financial position to just up and leave either.
He was stuck there.
You enjoyed your job.
Not many people in your line of work could genuinely say that. But it was the truth.
Being a porn star probably wasn’t the career path you’d envisioned yourself taking, but turns out? It’s not as bad as some others make it out to be.
Of course there was the occasional comment on your body underneath your films, probably made by some middle aged man shaped like a fridge anyway. And then there was getting over the hurdle of telling your parents which, in time, became quite accepting to what you chose to do as long as they didn’t have to see it and you were happy.
You did worry for a while about how others would treat you. Friends, acquaintances ect, but after a while, you came to terms with who you were and what you did. And that then followed with you not giving a flying fuck about what anyone else had to think about you.
But one thing that had become a little hard to manage recently was the fans. If you could even call them that. Pervs, maybe? People who watched your content anyway.
It had started off with a couple of guys slipping you a knowing look across the bar or in a grocery store on a random Sunday. But then it progressed to people identifying your car and almost anytime you had filming, at least one or two people would manage to follow you to the address of the set and attempt to get closer to you.
And one time when you had a man climb over the gate of the filming house as you exited the car with your manager Dhuni and the guy tried to grab your butt, you drew the line.
You started looking for security immediately. Just someone to accompany you to shoots when you’d get a chauffeured ride because apparently being a pornstar means you can’t drive your own fucking car anymore without being harassed.
And then you found Joel’s agency, one night while scrolling through security companies close to where you lived.
IronGate Security.
Their reviews all seemed relatively positive and while reading up on them, you found out they’d worked for some Actors and singers you’ve heard of. Quite repeatable.
Joel couldn’t fucking believe it.
This was the last thing he needed right now. His previous client, Bob Schiller had dropped him as security for no apparent reason. And now here he was out of work so abruptly, frantically driving to his managers office to try and figure out what the fuck to do.
The sterile smell of IronGate Security’s office provoked Joel’s nose as he marched through the building anxiously, making his way to Brian’s office and pounding on his door with an impatient knock.
Brian’s irritating voice comes from the other side of the wall, beckoning whoever it was to come in. When Joel opens the door, he’s sitting hunched over his desk, digging into some kind of sandwich, looking very not-busy for the CEO of a company.
“Joel!” He greets with a mouth full of bread and meat, putting his unfinished sandwich down on his plate and wiping his hands on his trousers. “Take a seat, man. I’m assuming you’re here to sort of that little pickle of yours, huh?” He jokes with an obnoxious laugh.
Joel crosses the room and takes a seat on the other end of the desk, clearly unamused but trying to be professional for the sake of his job. “So what am I gonna do? Please tell me you have another job lined up for me.”
Brian shoots Joel a proud look from across the table and rolls his chair in closer to the desk. “As a matter of fact, I do. You’re a very lucky boy there, Miller. Coincidentally, we got a call yesterday evening from a Y/N L/N. Said she’s looking for security ASAP.” he explains.
Joel sighs in relief, closing his eyes for a brief moment before reopening them again. He clears his throat. “Right so.. what is she then? She famous?” He inquires.
Brian shifts uncomfortably and sniffs rather obnoxiously. “Uh — well, you could say that. She’s an.. actress of sorts.”
Joels brows furrow in confusion at his bosses sudden lack of details on this new client. He tilts his head. “An actress of sorts?” He repeats.
“Anyway! What does it matter, huh? It’s money in your pocket either way,” he changes the subject and Joel almost flinches at his sudden burst of enthusiasm. “Look, she wants an interview for tomorrow. Wants to meet at some.. coffee place or other. I have the address here somewhere..” he trails off, searching through a drawer and humming thoughtfully until he finally pulls out the post-it note with the address of the place you’d suggested to hold the interview at. “Here we are,” he says as he slides the note across the table and Joel takes it from him. “3pm tomorrow afternoon. She seemed pretty desperate, I can’t see that she’d turn you down, buddy.”
Joel physically holds himself back from rolling his eyes at his bosses nickname and nods, stuffing the note into the pocket of his jeans and reaching across the table to shake Brian’s hand. “Thanks sir, “preciate it.”
The next day after corresponding with a secretary at IronGate security, you get word that a security guard named Joel has accepted an interview with you and will meet you at the location you provided. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a Starbucks you went to every now and then to read or meet up with new co-workers. You always liked to meet up with your scene partner before shooting with them to get to know them a little better.
For some reason, you feel obliged to dress in something fancy. So you show up in a matching chocolate-brown coloured pant suit and your black, surprisingly comfortable pair of kitten heels. You wanted to look the part, something that said “Pornstar but not with a lack of self respect.”
You took a seat in a private booth near the window, close enough to the entrance for you to see when a man who, according to the secretary you phoned was around 5”11, had brown, slightly greying hair, in his mid fifties and was almost always dressed in a suit at work. You ordered a vanilla latte for yourself and a cappuccino for this faceless Joel, deciding that you couldn’t really go wrong with a cappuccino. Well, maybe you could if he didn’t drink coffee. Fuck, what if he hated coffee?
Maybe you were stressing too much. This was your first time interviewing someone for a job after all.
After about five minutes you look up from your phone to the sound of the busy street floating in the open door and see a man stepping inside. He fit the description the woman gave you on the phone, but he wasn’t exactly the person you expected.
When she said fifties and greying, you thought of someone who looked like one of your dad’s scruffy work buddies, not.. well, him. He was handsome, a rugged sort of handsome. Not a guy that you would come across too often. He looked as if he had some South American in him judging by his tanned skin. His body was broad, muscled, but not ripped in a gym rat kind of way. He had dark eyes that projected a sort of guarded personality, maybe a little sadness too.
You stood up from the bench you were sitting on in your booth and wave casually over to him with a smile, catching his attention. He doesn’t smile back, just nods in acknowledgment and makes his way over to you.
When he reaches the booth he exchanges a hand to shake your own, stepping into his side of the booth. “Joel Miller,” he introduces gruffly, shaking your hand with a firm grip before pulling away and sitting down. “Take it your Miss L/N?” He asks.
You smile and sit back in your previous spot, clearing your throat to snap out of your surprise at his appearance. “Yeah, that’s right. But you can call me Y/N, no need for all that “Miss” bullshit,” you laugh at his manners. “Nice to meet you, Joel. I ordered you a cappuccino. From your description I didn’t take you as a Frappuccino kinda guy.” You joke lightly, pulling out your phone and tapping into your notes app.
“Got that right. Ain’t into all the.. sugary stuff,” He scoffs out a weak, slightly awkward laugh before clearing his own throat. Fuck, you were beautiful. And not just on an average scale of beauty. The kind of look that would make anyone stop and stare. Suddenly he feels a little intimidated by your presence. “Thanks.”
You seem amused by his awkwardness and smile to yourself, scrolling through your phone. “No problem,” you reply lackadaisically, pulling up the note with your questions. “Sorry, just grabbing the questions I’ve written down in my notes,” you apologise quickly, not wanting him to think you’re just scrolling through instagram. “Ah! Here it is. So,” you sigh finally. “I presume you already know what I do?”
Joel makes an “uhh,” sound as if trying to find a way to answer the question. “See, uh.. that’s the thing. My boss didn’t really tell me what you did.”
You cringe a little at that. Great, now he mightn’t even take the job. You don’t really blame his boss for not telling though. You know you wouldn’t like to be the one to have to. “Right.. so, he didn’t tell you anything?”
“Well he did say something in the acting field. Are you an actress?” He asks, unknowingly.
A smile breaks out on your face and you chuckle lightly, shaking your head at his naivety. “Oh, no. No honey, I’m a pornstar.” You confess, not lowering your voice. You didn’t really care if others heard. You weren’t ashamed.
Joel’s brows raise a little in surprise and he shifts awkwardly in his seat, a red flush painting his cheeks. He scratches the back of his neck and tries (and fails miserably) to nod nonchalantly. “Oh, oh okay. Yeah no, that’s..” he trails off.
You tilt your head to the side at his embarrassment. “That’s not going to be.. a problem, is it?” You ask him sweetly.
Joel immediately shakes his head no, straightening in his seat and snapping out of his shock. “No! No, not at all. I was just a little, uh.. surprised. Never worked for someone in that.. industry before.” He chokes.
You smile in entertainment at his squirming. “Well.. there’s a first time for everything then, right?”
And just like that, he was hired.
Normally, when Joel would attend an interview, they’d tell him whether he got the job the day after or just simply not call back. But not you. You’d seemed so sure of his fitness for the job that you’d decided there and then. Stunned didn’t even begin to cover how Joel felt.
You’d talked to him about how you’d like him to assist you. Accompanying you to shoots, industry events or when you’d be somewhere very public where you could be vunerable to be harassed. You’d told him about a couple of instances of creeps, predominantly men, who’d tried to cross the line with you, some physically and some with lewd words.
Nobody was deserving of that.
He wasn’t sure whether it was the attraction he was already feeling for you, but he felt bad for you. Lots of people had negative opinions on those in the public eye, especially people working in the Porn industry like you. Like how if you chose to be in that line of work, you had to just deal with overbearing “fans” and harassment in public.
But Joel didn’t think that. No matter what you worked as, you still deserved to be treated with decency and respect. And secretly, he made a promise within himself to not let anyone treat you any other way when he was around.
But his curiosity also got the better of him.
When you’d told him your porn star name was Miss Malice — purely for professional reasons, of course — he couldn’t help but search it up.
Initially, he felt a little perverted doing it. Maybe this was an invasion of your privacy. But on the other hand, if he would be accompanying you to shoots, he might as well get used to seeing you naked giving the chance he may see you like that.
The first movie that popped up was a video of you giving a blowjob. You seemed to know what you were doing, good with your hands and pulling back to whisper things to the faceless man above you.
It was sexy, sure.
But he could see the look in your eyes when the man would reply dryly. The disappointment, the craving for more from him. How him pushing your head down to silence you would make you tense for a moment before getting back to work.
He wouldn’t do that.
He’d take his time with you. Let you take things at your own pace and find out what felt good for you. He’d talk you through it, tell you how beautiful you looked taking his cock, how good you felt.
God, he was done for.
Joel’s first day of working body guard for you was nerve wracking to say the least.
He got up about two hours before he needed to and got to work on tidying himself up to the best of his abilities. He’d never felt so obligated to do so for anyone in years. Maybe he just wanted to make a good impression.
So after showering, shaving and applying the cologne he’d had sitting on his nightstand for the past six years that he was sure must be out of date, he got changed into his regular suit.
He wasn’t even really sure how to dress if he was being completely honest. On all of his other jobs he dressed this way and he had three or four suits to switch between. Was it better to just go casual while working security for a porn star on her porn shoot? He wasn’t sure. He decided it better not to change before he worked himself up even more.
He was set to pick you up at 12pm to get you to your filming location before 12:30. You’d told him that you weren’t to start filming until 1:30, something to do with prep which he didn’t really know what entailed.
The drive to your home feels tense and hot, like Joel didn’t know what to do with himself. He found himself rehearsing in his head what to say and how to act around you. Pathetic, wasn’t it? Being so worked up over a woman he’d met once last week and briefly corresponded with over text and phone calls.
When he pulls up to your house, he hesitates on whether to walk up to your door and knock or if he were meant to keep it casual and beep. He settles for the first to seem more professional but as he gets out of the car and turns back to your house, You’re already walking down your driveway with a smile on your face.
You are dressed in a casual pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, your hair thrown up in a claw clip with a black rucksack thrown over your shoulder. Joel noticeably freezes when he sees you before snapping back into action and walking around to the passenger seat and opening the door for you.
“Hey!” You greet cheerfully, beaming sweetly at him as you step into the car and remove your bag from your shoulder.
“Afternoon,” Joel greets back shortly, reaching out to take your bag from you. “Let me put that in the trunk for ya.” He offers politely. You thank him casually and he shuts your door for you, quickly throwing the rucksack into the boot of the car, rounding it and getting into the drivers seat.
“You have that address I sent you?” You ask, pulling your seat belt across your body and buckling yourself in.
Joel nods, pressing the start button on his cars GPS. You settle back against the seat, unfazed by Joel’s lack of conversation as you smile to yourself. “So,” you start blithely. “The scene I’m shooting today is with a friend of mine, Gabriella. Filming and prep shouldn’t take much longer than an hour. There’ll be an area for you to chill while I’m working.”
Joel’s face flushes slightly, not judging just surprised. “You shoot with uh.. with girls?” He tries to ask casually, keeping his eyes fixed on the road as he starts to drive.
You grin and turn to him with a smile. “Swing both ways,” you explain shortly. “Why? You homophobic or something? Or does it just turn you on?” You ask bluntly, watching the way his pink ears darken.
Immediately joel tenses up, shaking his head to the first part truthfully but lying a little when it came to the second part. He wasn’t fetishising the fact you were into women too, it was just the thought of you filming porn with anyone that turned him on. “I — no. I’m not — I, of course, am not homophobic and the other part I’m.. no.” He blabbers in panic.
You giggle and reach over to clap him on the shoulder, amused by his anxiousness. “I’m just fucking with you, Joel. No need to get all hot and bothered on me. You can always watch too with the directors, if you want. It’s not all sex, really. A lot of it is just blocking and cuts to change angles and stuff. Just saying in case you get bored in there.” You suggest nonchalantly, clearly unfazed at the thought of a man you’ve known a couple of days watching you have sex.. naked.
But then Joel supposes you’re probably used to strangers seeing you naked, with directors and random people on the websites your videos are posted on. He swallows harshly and shakes his head no. “No — thanks, but I think I’ll stick to a private room.”
When the two of you arrive, the house is buzzing with people eager to get you ready. Joel was half expecting the place to be filled with sleazy, old, misogynistic men but surprisingly, it was a mixed bag of different people who all seemed rather professional. Joel was taken into a private room where he could stay for the duration of the prep and filming and was offered snacks and water — the water which he took considering how fucking sweaty he was from this whole deal.
He was used to taking celebrities and people of importance to meetings and other outings where he would be escorted to another room until the person was ready to leave, but this felt different than those times. He felt on edge sitting in the small, comfortable room.
It was painted a nice shade of grey and had a comfortable couch situated near the window with a coffee table in front of it. He assumed it was for people like him or other acquaintances who would accompany porn stars to their shoots. And as he sits on said comfortable couch, holding the cold bottle of water up to his sweaty face, he wonders what kind of scene you’re filming.
If it’s something hot and sweaty, a forbidden romance with a teacher and a student or a stepmom and stepdaughter. Or maybe it’s something a little more low-key without any major plot. Just two beautiful women enjoying each others company. He got a brief glimpse of Gabriela while he walked in with you. She was in the main living area in a white fluffy robe with a wide smile on her face, waving enthusiastically to you.
She seemed to be in her late forties or maybe earlier fifties from what he could tell from the brief look he got at her. It made him wonder if you’d be into other people of a similar age..
Around thirty minutes in, the filming started, the prep seemingly not taking much time. He’d heard various things being said through the wall about glow oil and makeup. He assumed the oil was to make your skin shine on camera and the makeup was relatively self explanatory.
Then the moans started. Initially he could just hear bits and pieces of cheesy dialogue being said from the room you were filming in down the hall and from what he gathered, the movie was about an older sex therapist (Gabriela) being confided in by a younger woman (you) about her sexual troubles with her boyfriend. She talks about her fantasies and a lot of them entail graphic descriptions of lesbian sex. Then of course, Gabriela goes on to physically demonstrate how those certain fantasies can feel.
And now, here he was listening to you and Gabriela moan exaggeratedly while pleasing each other in ways Joel couldn’t see.
And he tried to distract himself.
He stood up and gazed out the window, taking in the beach of Playa Del Rey that seemed only centimetres away from the house from where he was standing. He tried to watch an episode of breaking bad he’d downloaded on his phone.
But nothing, not even his own thoughts could drown out the sound.
And you did say you didn’t mind him watching, right?
He haphazardly rises from his seat on the couch and walks to the door. After about five minutes of debating, he finally plucks up the courage to open the door a smidgen. He’s met with a short hallway and just around the corner was where you were filming. Momentarily while he was hesitating behind the door, he heard the director stop you two and he disappointedly thought you were finished, turns out he was just switching your positions.
Joel creeps down the hallway, careful to keep his footing light. He’d die of embarrassment if somebody caught him perving on you. He could hear the mixture of moans but for some reason, yours sounded a bit muffled while Gabriela’s were perfectly clear. He stops at the corner and slowly peers around it, being met with numerous camera men, directors and other crew members. And then, he sees you. You’re laying flat on your back on the couch, your head propped up with a fluffy cushion as Gabriela rides your face, her head scrunched up in ecstasy that was difficult to make out whether was authentic or dramatised.
He thought her moans must be overemphasised. Nobody eats pussy that good. Although, you did look as if you knew what you were doing, you tongue flicking her clit with perfect technique. Joel feels his face redden at the sight and immediately pulls away from the wall, marching back to the room he was previously in and internally scolding himself for his behaviour.
It was only when he plonked down on the couch rather aggressively did he notice the sensitivity in his pants.
Fuck, he was hard.
Which was quite the miracle considering his dick didn’t work as well as it used to. I mean, it got the job done when he’d have an occasional — and when Joel says occasional, he means occasional — hookup with someone from hinge, but it didn’t really get hard in any other circumstances. He can’t even remember the last time he’s masturbated.
But, Jesus. That was record time to get a hard-on for an old man like him — any man now that he thinks of it. But no, he can’t do this here. He’s working we’re crying out loud. He’d definitely get fired if he was caught. No, no he can’t do it. Not now.
Oh, but he did it.
It wasn’t what he necessarily wanted to do. He doesn’t think anyone wants to have to jerk off rooms away from two other people having sex. God, he felt pathetic even pulling his cock out of his pants and fisting it.
He squeezes it despite himself, groaning lowly at the brief loss of pressure. He then takes his hand to his mouth and, with embarrassment, allows a glob of his saliva be spat from his mouth and into his palm. He then quickly grabs himself again, figuring the quicker he could get this done and over with, the better he’d feel.
Joel starts to yank his cock up and down at an eager pace, a pitiful moan falling from his lips as his head thumps the wall behind him. He doesn’t think this will take too long. It was only him after all. Nobody to impress with a long-lasting performance.
His head drifts back to the image of you on his screen last night, mouth stretching and full of a cock so big he wondered if it was even real. He didn’t really know how porn worked these days, if someone could wear a penis extension or something.
He remembers how beautiful you looked, your gorgeous nipples standing alert as you gagged yourself on the nameless and faceless man above you. He imagines it was his cock you were sucking. That you were preparing him for your pussy, getting him nice and messy for that perfect cunt of yours. And oh, how you moaned. So sweet and high pitched as he’d buck his hips up, thrusting his cock in and out of your throat furiously, telling you how much he loved your mouth and how he can’t wait to stuff you full.
Yeah, that did it.
Joel was spilling all over his hand then, rope after rope of white spend coating his fingers messily.
The drive home felt.. normal. You’d come through the door about fifteen minutes after he’d.. relieved himself, and you were now all set to go, buckling yourself in as Joel pulled out of the driveway.
He wasn’t sure what to expect from you if he was being honest. Was he supposed to ask you how it was, try and make conversation about the whole ordeal? He wasn’t sure. But you seemed quite able to make the conversation flow between the two of you. You were easy going and didn’t become offended at his unintentional stand off-ish nature.
“So.. did you grow up here or..?” You ask casually, rolling down your window and allowing the breeze to flow through the cracked window, your hair dancing gently in the wind.
“Uh, no. M’originally from Texas but I moved here about..” he thinks for a second, his head running through the years of living here that felt almost like centuries and, “almost fourteen years — yeah.”
“I thought I noticed a little southern accent in you, Joel,” you smile teasingly, giggling at the way his cheeks heat and how he turns back to the road almost immediately. “What made you move out here, Mr Texas? Seems like a pretty drastic change.”
Joel grunts with awkward humour and shrugs, bringing the car to a gentle stop at a red light. “Well I — I never got married and I guess I just wanted to do somethin’ new. I worked in construction almost my whole life and.. well — and excuse m’language — it was fuckin’ exhausting. Figured it would be kinda cool to get outta Texas too, wasn’t really anyone tyin’ me there.”
You nod in understanding, your face slightly sympathetic. There was just something in the way you listened so intently, not pushing him to get into anything personal, just happy to let him talk. It had been a while since anyone has been genuinely interested in what he had to say — that was sort of the reason he was so quiet all the time. But it also felt a little intimidating, being the one in the spotlight. He then feels the need to switch the spotlight to you. You didn’t seem to mind talking.
“What about you? You from here originally?” He asks a little abruptly, finally turning to face you as he waits for the light to turn Green again.
You smile at the chance to speak about yourself and sit up. “Yup, born and raised! My parents live in Malibu now, though. They moved there about three years ago after retiring,” you tell him, watching as he shifts back into gear as the lights turn Green, a little disappointed at the loss of eye contact. You were quite enjoying the view of him and if you weren’t mistaken, you think he might have been too.
Joel starts to drive again, scrambling for a way to respond and continue the small talk. “Nice. Well uhm.. when did ya start doing this then?” He asks as nonchalantly as he can but then frantically backs himself up, afraid he was overstepping boundaries. “— of course if you feel comfortable answerin’ that. You don’t have to, I’m not tryin’ to pry, I’m just — ”
You cut him off with a gentle chuckle, reaching across and pressing a hand on his thigh to quiet him. The touch sends sparks of electricity up Joel’s spine, the weight of your palm comforting and soft. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I get it, y’know? You don’t see or hear of people working as porn stars everyday. It’s only natural that you’d wanna be a little nosey. Shit, I would too.” You laugh.
Joel swallows thickly, nodding and allowing himself to laugh a little genuinely at your ice breaking. You clear your throat before starting, not sounding nervous in the slightest. “Well, I never wanted to go to college. I never really enjoyed school and just didn’t want to spend another four years in university working for some degree or other I may or may not even use in the future. So.. when I was nineteen I started waiting tables and i did that for about four years. I found it difficult financially to move out of my parents house and when I did, the bills just got on top of me,” you start with genuineness.
Joel nods. He understood to a certain degree what it was like to struggle with money as a young adult. Lord knows he’s spent many nights back in the nineties without dinner or enough money for gas.
You continue easily, the words flowing out comfortably onto non judgemental ears. “I tried getting another job — one that paid better and felt a little more.. grown up, I guess. But, almost every decent paying job I was interested in required experience in the area or some kind of college education. But then.. one of my friends mentioned a job in or around my twenty-fifth birthday. It was porn, of course. And initially I was little unsure about it, but the money was good and you didn’t need a.. I don’t know, degree in fucking, so!” You shrug with a giggle.
Joel laughs too, sort of allowing himself to become accustomed to you speaking easily about such a lewd line of work. He found it interesting how comfortable you were with your job. He admired it a little too. After a while of chatting you brought up something Joel wasn’t sure he was ever ready to hear.
“Oh! There was actually something I wanted to ask of you to do for me this week.” You say, finally remembering what it was you wanted to ask him about.
Joel turns to you and nods, clearly not expecting what you were about to ask, especially not the casualness in which you spoke about it “Okay.” He replies, focusing on the road in front of him.
Now, if you were being honest, the thing you were about to ask him wasn’t necessarily needed for you. You’d been shopping on your own numerous of times and didn’t face any problems, but maybe this was a test for Joel of sorts. You could tell he was a little awkward in nature, but you felt as if there was more to him. Felt as if there was some kind of attraction between the two of you, and there was nothing wrong with playing your own little game with him to get those walls of his down.
“Well, I need to go shopping for some stuff for a future shoot, but the stuff I need is a little.. intimate. And buying this stuff might leave me a little vunerable to harassment.” You explain, being quite vague just to get a feel for his mood.
That makes Joel perk up, his eyebrows pinching together in confusion. He pulls into your street and continues to drive, only about five minutes from your house. He uses his silence as a way of telling you to continue.
You clear your throat and continue, biting back a smirk. “It’s just some lingerie. I was thinking you could take me this weekend? It wouldn’t take too long and.. who knows? Maybe you can review them when I try them on and tell me which is best.” You jest, turning to watch Joel’s face redden once again.
Now, when Joel took this job, he never expected this to be a part of his duties. Hell — he didn’t even know that he’d be working for a porn star initially. But then again, working for someone like you didn’t exactly come with its list of things that were necessary to do and not to do.
“Uh.. yeah. Yeah, I mean, I don’t know about the whole.. reviewin’ part but I can take ya.” He nods, swallowing his feelings and trying to think of anything else other than the way you were staring at him. He wouldn’t let himself fall for your beauty like he did back at the shoot.
You smile and nod, watching the way the hand that wasn’t on the wheel twitched uselessly in his lap, and his lip stayed caught between his teeth. He pulls up outside your house finally, stopping the car and turning to you awkwardly.
“Great! Thanks, Joel,” you appreciate, smiling softly as you remove your seat belt and reach into the back seat to grab your bag. “Well, this is me. I’ll see you.. Saturday?”
Joel nods quickly grunting and removing his own seatbelt. “Yeah, no problem,” he agrees, bunglingly moving toward the door handle. “Do you want me to — to get your door, or —?”
You laugh and shake your head, pulling your bag over your shoulder and opening your own door. “I can open my own door, Joel,” you answer with an obvious tone with a smile. “Shit, you must have had some lazy ass people paying you. See you soon, Joel!”
And then you’re closing the door in his face and walking away with that cocky and knowing strut, leaving Joel with a twitching cock and a stuttering voice.
Saturday couldn’t have come around any slower, Joel thinks. He found himself anxious about seeing you for the rest of the week. You were just so easy going, you know? Most people found it difficult to talk to him because of his awkwardness, but you? You didn’t seem to pass any remarks on it.
But the one thing Joel couldn’t get out of his head was how fucking flirty you were being in the car on the way back from the shoot. You talked about shopping for underwear so casually, almost as if you were just asking to be taken to the grocery store.
You knew how this was affecting him, yet you continued to tease and embarrass him. And the thought of shopping for lingerie with you? Having to accompany you as you searched for the perfect pair of panties and bra. He just knew his mind would drift to how beautiful you’d look in whatever set you’d pick out.
He dressed himself in a different suit to the other day, but the make was very similar to the last one he wore. Black, sleek, simple. And he felt.. confident. More confident than he’s felt for a while now. Every time he went to work, it was just routine, you know? Get up, shower, dress himself and head to pick up whatever snob he was working for to take them to whatever fancy event or meeting they were attending.
It was the same thing day in, day out.
But with you? He felt like he has a reason to take care of himself, to do things that made him feel comfortable in his own skin. You were a reason to put on a nicer pair of shoes for work, or a reason to trim his beard a little more precisely.
A reason to clean his car out a little more and attach a soft cover to the seatbelt on the passenger side of his car ever since he noticed you fiddling with it on the ride home from your shoot.
Maybe it was pathetic and one sided, but it felt natural. Especially so as he drove his recently car-washed Hyundai to your address, humming along to a song he couldn’t quite name on the radio.
He settled for staying in the car this time and allowing you to come out on your own. It felt more natural.
And when you did? Lord, nothing could’ve compared Joel for how gorgeous you looked in such a simple, pretty outfit as you strutted casually out your front door, your handbag slung over your shoulder as you waved happily to the car parked out front.
You were dressed in a pair of short, yet not too-short, dark blue, denim shorts that showed enough of your legs to make Joel’s chest tighten with barely contained fascination. While your baby doll top was simple — a silk, burgundy, ruffled material with a v-line that showed a glimpse of your breasts and spaghetti straps that sat prettily on the glowing skin of your shoulders — you made it work. Because with your beauty, you could wear a damn trash bag and still look positively devourable.
Joel awkwardly raised his hand to greet you back and watched as you rounded the car and opened the passenger door. “Hey!” You greeted cheerily, removing your hand bag from your shoulder and placing it on the floor before climbing into your seat and shutting the door behind you. You turned to Joel with a crooked grin as you fastened your seatbelt. “You ready to pick out some lingerie for me to be fucked in?”
As you and Joel step into Ivory Veil Lingerie — a store tucked in the back of the mall on the second floor — you already feel mischief rise in your chest.
This game you were playing with Joel was fun for you. You enjoyed watching him squirm as you mooched around the store, picking up different sets to get a better look at them as he followed alongside you, trying to look professional as he stared straight ahead, trying not to look at you oohing and ahhing at the various silks, cottons and lace pieces you came across.
As Joel stood away from the part of the store you were in, pretending to be interested in a shelf of candles, you call his name in the most saccharine tone, beckoning him over with a wave of your hand as you stood at a rack of bra and panties sets.
Joel shuffles a little on his feet before finally joining you, stuffing his hands into his pocket. “S’everything okay?” He asks, trying to seem insouciant.
You run your hand along a silk set of leopard or cheetah print (he couldn’t tell them apart) bra and underwear that was hanging from a clothes hanger, attached to one another. The bra’s cup seemed to be your size from what he’d seen in person and in the brief video of yours he’d watched, and the panties were Cheeky style, perfect for showing off just the right amount of booty. They also had a pretty, black, lace trimming that completely tied together the look.
You rub the fabric between your fingers and hum conflictedly. “I just don’t know how I feel about the silk. I usually prefer cotton even in sexy lingerie. Here — you feel.” You say, picking one of Joel’s large hands from his pockets and bringing it up to the panties.
Joel’s face flushes a deep red immediately, the thought of touching a pair of panties that may or may not be worn by you in the future making his palms sweaty and his pants too tight. He clears his throat trying act natural as he takes his hand from the lingerie quickly after a brief feel, stuffing it back into his pocket. “I uh — yeah, s’nice. I mean — I don’t know what material you find most comfortable but it’s uh.. it’s.. pretty.” He stutters, feeling heat coil in his gut as he speaks. He feels immediately embarrassed by his pathetic stumbling over words, feeling like a dumb teenage boy talking to a highschool crush.
You smirk at his clumsy stammering, watching him with an innocent look as he tries his best to act natural with his feedback. You hum and bite down on your lip, reaching up to remove the set from the rack and take it down, turning it over in your hand. “Maybe I should try it on in the dressing room. Do you think you could come with me, Joel?” You ask, tilting your head to the side, anticipating his nervousness. “Maybe just wait outside and tell me how I look. Just for a second opinion, of course.” You suggest lightly.
Joel opens his mouth but nothing comes out. What was he meant to say to that? He was always told to accommodate and cater to the people he worked for, but this was likely crossing a line. No, scratch that. It was definitely crossing a line.
But you seemed comfortable with it. Matter of fact, you were asking it of him. Practically offering it to him on a silver platter. How was he meant to say no without hurting your feelings, even if it meant making himself sweat like an idiot, completely humiliated by your beauty.
You fasten the bra clasp at your back and adjust the panties properly on your hips. You study yourself in the mirror, smiling in satisfaction at your reflection. The lingerie fit you perfectly and accentuated all your best features, hugging you in all the right places. You feel empowered, a pretty set of underwear always made you feel so confident in your skin and you knew they would be perfect for your next shoot.
You couldn’t help but feel giddy at the thought of Joel’s bulging eyes roaming over your body, taking in every inch of you with your new set on. He seemed to enjoy looking at you and Gabriela so you could only imagine how he’d feel about this.
Oh, yeah. You knew about that.
About his little peeping tom incident. You couldn’t say it didn’t flatter you, and it felt even better when you noticed how awe-struck he was rather than just aroused and perverted.
You wonder if he thought about that moment at night before he’d go to sleep. Whether he’d lay in bed and stroke his cock to the thought of you, feeling such shame for being so unprofessional about his employer.
You take a deep breath to steady yourself before unlocking and opening the door to the changing room, revealing yourself to an awkward Joel who stood outside the room shuffling on his feet. When he looked up from the ground, his eyes practically popped out of the sockets, his hand coming up to palm the back of his neck.
“Sooo.. what do you think?” You ask excitedly, spinning around playfully to give him all the angles of your outfit. You bring your hands up to run your palms over the fabric of the bra, fingering the lace of it. “I actually really like the material.”
He lets out a shaky, quiet sigh, his eyes running over your body respectfully, not lingering anywhere they shouldn’t for any longer than an appropriate time. “You.. it’s definitely somethin’ it’s..” he trails off, clearing the nervousness from his throat. “You look — you look very beautiful, Y/N.” He says finally, his stomach washing around with a newfound confidence.
And Joel’s compliment was the only encouragement you needed to buy the set. So after tapping your card and taking the bag with your purchase inside of it off of the woman who smiled to much behind the counter, you and your bodyguard’s work was finally done.
You anticipated being able to get home and try it on properly without the tags attached to it and digging into your skin. Maybe you’d even take some pictures with it on too.
But things didn’t exactly pan out the way you’d expected it to as you lounged in the comfortable passenger seat in Joel’s car, your windows rolled down slightly to allow some of that warm California breeze to drift in and flow through your hair.
As you Joel drove closer to your house, the two of you immediately spotted the unmissable mess of eggs splattered all over the outside of your house and your car parked in the driveway. The ground was a mess of egg shells and two littered egg cartons. But the worst wasn’t the mess of yolks dripping off your windows.
It was the red, messy spray paint writing on your front door.
“Whore” it read.
Your chest caves at the sight, the utter humiliation of it being so visible and loud to all your neighbours, but especially to Joel. This man who you’d become to feel things for seeing such degrading filth left at your house, proving what the world thought of you, what maybe he thought of you.
“Oh my god,” you panic, unbuckling your seatbelt as soon as Joel stops the car, getting out of the car as Joel called after you. You jog into your driveway, stopping to look at the complete mess of your home as Joel caught up to you.
“Hey — it’s — it’s not as bad as it looks.” Joel scrambles for words, immediately regretting his down-playing of the awful situation you were in.
Your head snaps to him, your eyes unimpressed. “Not as bad as it looks?” You repeat angrily, storming toward your front door and scrubbing your hand against the paint, the stubborn letters not so much as flaking off the material. “This is my home, Joel! This is humiliating!” You exclaim.
You continue to scrape furiously with your nails against your door until Joel finally comes up behind you and gently yet firmly removes your hand from it. “Okay, oookay, that isn’t gonna do anything. Come here — look at me,” he encourages, gently pulling your wrist until you finally turned to face him. “Listen, I’ll sort this out, okay? How about you uh.. how about you run inside and pack an overnight bag. It’s not safe for you to be sleeping here if people know your address. I’ll call you an uber to my place and you can chill out there until I’m finished talking to the cops. I have a spare room you can borrow for the night.”
His offer is almost too generous that you have to study him for a moment before determining whether he was serious or not. You’d only known Joel for a few days but.. you trusted him. He was a good guy. You take a deep breath to calm yourself, then guilt washes over you for snapping at him previously. “Right, okay. Thank you, Joel, this is.. really kind.”
You decompress a little as the taxi drives you to Joel’s place. You wonder where he lives on the way there. Whether it’s a fancy penthouse, an apartment or just a regular old house. He’d given you the key to let yourself in and the thought of letting yourself into his home felt incredibly intimate yet a huge relief considering you weren’t all that sure who you would stay with if he hadn’t offered and you knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink with paranoia if you just stayed home.
The uber comes to a stop and you almost pay the driver before remembering Joel had taken care of that, before lugging your bag onto your shoulder and removing yourself from the car. The building in front of you seemed to be a penthouse and when you walked inside, the doorman informed you that the elevator would open with the key and take you to Joel’s home on the first floor.
What you didn’t expect was for the elevator to open inside of Joel’s place, being greeted with his living room. Your brain short circuited for a moment as you took in the comfortable home that your body guard lived in. It was cozy and surprisingly stylish for a man’s house, the main colour scheme involving browns and plaid patterns around the living room and as you stepped out of the elevator, also following into the kitchen.
The place smelled masculine. A mix of clean laundry and woody, cedar scent too that complimented your nose. You bring your bag with you in through the small hallway and to the first bedroom on the right.
You’d only packed basic essentials. A pair of pjs, an outfit or two, your skin care and, for some reason, the pair of lingerie you’d picked up today.
You weren’t too sure why you’d decided to bring it along, I mean, it wasn’t like you and Joel were going to hook up or anything, right? But.. it was always good to be prepared for anything.
The room was simple and a comfortable size, the bed dressed in simple white sheets and a nightstand and wardrobe on either side of the double bed.
You start to unpack some of your stuff and change into the pair of pyjamas you’d brought.. and the new lingerie set before heading out to chill in the living room until Joel came back.
The cops were pretty cooperative when Joel called them and explained the situation and introduced himself. They were sympathetic toward you and had let Joel know that they would go door to door to the surrounding houses and ask if anyone had security cameras so they could possibly retrieve some footage and catch whoever had done this.
It was quick, easy and done in half an hour. Then he was heading back home to his place. He anticipated the sight of you in his home, even if it wasn’t very professional of him. He knew you were upset and he was very willing to make you feel better, even if he wasn’t very good with words. He stopped at a fast food place on the way home and grabbed a pizza, hoping (and overthinking a little) that you actually liked pizza.
Kind of like how you were worried about him not liking coffee, huh?
And when the elevator door of his home opened and he spotted you on the couch, sitting comfortably with your legs folded under you and your phone in your hand as you scrolled through it, he was almost brought to his knees.
You looked so beautiful like this, with your makeup off, your hair up in a messy, half-assed bun with loose, pink pyjama bottoms and your baggy t-shirt. He liked knowing you were comfortable. Safe.
“Hey,” he greets, stepping out of the lift as the doors shut behind him, holding up the pizza box with an offering look on his face. “I grabbed somethin’ to eat.”
You look up from your phone, not even had heard the elevator as he walked toward you, setting the pizza box down and heading into the attached kitchen for plates. “Oh, hi. Thanks, I’m starving,” You smile and answer truthfully, opening the box and pulling out a slice to dig into. “So, what happened?” You ask, a mouth full of Italian goodness.
Joel turns around, two plates in hand, not expecting you to dig in already but happy that you were enjoying it all the same. “Oh, yeah. The officers arrived pretty quickly and took a statement. They said they’ll try and get some footage off your neighbours, but that it’s probably best for you to not go home until they do. Just in case anything more dangerous happens while you’re there.” He explains, walking back over to you and sitting down next to you, a respectful distance between the two of you.
You nod and sigh as you finish the slice. You turn to Joel with a serious look and smile in gratitude, reaching across and placing a hand on his bicep. “Thanks, Joel. For — you know.. handling it. And I’m sorry if I was a little snappy earlier, I was just shocked.”
Joel shakes his head and pats your hand awkwardly as you remove it from his arm, goosebumps being left in the wake. “It’s nothing,” he shrugs, passing you a plate. “Now eat.”
After six slices of pizza each, the two of you were completely high off sugar. You were now laying back on the couch, your head hanging over the arm rest, your bare feet occasionally brushing Joel’s leg.
You break the silence with a question, completely unapologetic and uncensored. “So.. did you like what you saw at the shoot? Y’know, when you were playing peeping-Joel when Gabriella was riding my face.” You poke him lightly with your toes, a grin tugging at your lips.
Joel immediately startles from his post a thousand calorie pizza daze, turning to you immediately and perking up. “Wh-what? I uh.. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stutters, immediately getting defensive.
You sigh, giggling as you sit up and sit with your legs criss-crossed. You rest your elbow on your knee, your chin laying on top of your fist as you state at Joel with teasing accusation. “Oh, Joel, please. Don’t act innocent. I saw you poking your head around the corner while I was filming,” you raise your hands with mock defence. “Don’t worry, I’m not judging. I’d probably want a front row seat too, if there was two women going at it in the other room.”
Joel stares back at you, his mouth agape as he tried to scramble to an explanation. “Listen I.. I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be.. you know..” he trails off, interrupting himself with a mortified sigh as he covers his face with his hands.
You chuckle in amusement, reaching to pry his hands from his face and hold them in your own. You scootch closer to him, looking at him without judgement yet there was still a lingering giddiness. “It’s fine. I don’t mind, Joel. Hundreds of people watch me have sex online, I’m well used to people seeing my body, and.. I don’t know, it was kinda hot.” You admit.
Joel finally meets your gaze, his cheeks flushed and eyes surprised. He shifts in his seat a little sheepishly, tugging on the collar of his suits shirt, his jacket previously taken off in the kitchen. It felt tight on his neck, like he was being suffocated, but he thinks that that may be down to you more than his shirt. “You.. you shouldn’t say these things, darling,” he starts, trying to conjure his words but his tongue betraying him. “It’s-it’s not.. s’inappropriate.” He finishes, his breaths heavy as he tries to control himself.
You huff at his stubbornness, sitting up onto your knees on the couch and tugging his wrist impatiently. “Joel, come on. I know you feel the same, it’s obvious. I see the way you look at me, how you acted when I was I picking out my lingerie today. You want this, why not just let yourself have it?”
Joel stands up abruptly, shaking his head and raising his hands to gesture wildly before putting them down. “This — you don’t want this. Me. I’m too — I’m too old,” he stammers, pacing the living room slightly, refusing to turn and face you. “You have all these guys and girls — people your age — that you — you sleep with it at work. Why would you want an old man like me?” He asks himself more than you.
You stand up and cross the room in a couple of steps, stopping his pacing and wrapping your arms around his neck, rising on your tip-toes and bringing your lips to his own, shutting him up. Joel freezes in surprise momentarily before responding to your mouth, moving his own against yours. The kiss is messy and obscene, all teeth and tongue battling with one another as you try and prove your feelings to him.
Joel’s arms hesitantly loop around your waist, pulling you closer to his body as if he were afraid of you pulling back. You could feel in his touch his wariness, like his mind was telling him no, to stop, but his body was betraying him, his heart telling him he owed himself this, that he was worthy of you.
So he hoists you up into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist as he clumsily backs up to the couch, breaking the kiss momentarily to lay you down before resuming it while covering your body with his own. You whimper softly against his lips and the sound goes straight to his cock, blood rushing to it as he hardens embarrassingly quick.
But the more interesting thing about the sounds you were making wasn’t the fact that they were utterly adorable, but that they were real. Not exaggerated moans that wracked his head with lust. No, they were authentic, something that slipped out without you even realising it.
Joel breaks the kiss first, reluctantly at that. He gazes down at you, your face warm and eyes dazed and filled with desire, with want. He checks in anyway, his hand cupping your jaw and stroking it gently. “Are you sure, baby? We don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with. You’ve had a long day.” He offers, despite his body screaming, practically begging you to want this, to want him.
You nod immediately, your palms cupping his cheeks, a soft, giddy smile crossing your lips as you look up at him with sweet doe eyes. “Please, Joel. I’ve been wanting this. Wanting you. Please let me make you feel good.”
And as tempting as that sounds, you taking care of him, he has to politely decline with a shake of his head. “No,” he says, much to your confusion. “If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna focus on you. On your pleasure. When’s the last time someone did that for you?”
The question hits you square in the chest, and for a moment, you aren’t sure whether you can even answer his question. Because, you don’t think anyone has ever truly focused on your pleasure. Because at work, it’s not even about pleasure, it’s about entertainment. And hookups outside of work are even more underwhelming. Just quick bunk ups with men and women you barely knew.
You inhale slowly and shake your head slowly, feeling yourself become slightly emotional. “I.. I don’t know.” You reply simply, unsure if you could say more than that without your voice shaking.
He nods in understanding, his lips coming down to your forehead to press a gentle, grounding kiss to it. “Well that’s gonna change, sweetheart.”
When Joel’s large paws peel your pyjamas off your body, the sight of you in those leopard print lingerie drives him insane. Slowly and reverently, he slides the fabric of your underwear aside, baring your pretty, drooling cunt to his face. “Fuck,” he mutters softly, removing the underwear from you completely with your assistance to get a proper look at you. He leans in and presses some kisses to your inner thigh, trailing his tongue around the area to tickle your skin softly. “Beautiful pussy’s just cryin’ for me, baby. So wet already.”
You nod, a breath slipping out as your head tips back against the couch arm, the hard-ish material a little uncomfortable on your neck, not that your comfort was really on your mind when Joel’s head was dipping between your thighs, his tongue dropping from his mouth and licking a slow, flat line from your pulsing hole to your puffy, swollen clit.
The action makes you jolt a little, a hand darting down to fist his curly, salt and pepper hair, a soft sigh escaping your throat. Joel hums as he tepidly nudges the hood of your clitoris up and sucks it into his mouth, applying gentle pressure as he nurses on your pussy.
You squeal a little at the sensation, your thighs clamping around his head to pull him in more, the thought of him halting his ministrations for even a second being agonising. “Fuck!” You exclaim, starting to jerk uncontrollably from such direct pleasure. “Ohhh, yeahyeahyeah. Joel that’s so good.” You babble, your head getting hazy already, his technique perfect.
Normally when you’d be eaten out in porn, it was all for show, the man of woman lapping and drooling between your legs performatively. They weren’t thinking about what would feel good for you or coax an orgasm from you, they were thinking about what looked best.
And that’a possibly why you were already trembling beneath Joel, sobbing softly into your arm that was now draped across your face, your mouth undoubtedly drooling. Joel mumbles encouragement into your vulva, soft praises as you started to convulse. “Good girl, there you go. Cum for me, just like that.”
And you did, soft sobs erupting from your dry throat as you arch into and away from his mouth at the same time. Joel just keeps eating you through it though. Sucking, licking, kissing, relentlessly until you can’t help but push his face away, your body going lax as you pant into nothingness.
Joel lays small kisses around your thighs and mound, not leaving one area unloved. He’s patient with you like that, mouthing at you until you’re ready for him to crawl up and over your body once again. “Fuck, Joel,” you sigh exasperatedly, chuckling softly. “That was.. that was..” you trail off, unable to find the words.
“Good?” He offers, a bashful smile tugging at his lips as he presses kisses to your face. You giggle and nod, reaching up to start to undo the buttons of his shirt. “Better than good. But that is definitely one way to describe it.”
Joel groans low in his throat as you remove his shirt from his shoulders, relishing in the warmth of your palms roaming his back. You wrap your legs around his hips, digging your heels into his ass to press his bulge against your stickiness.
You lean up to whisper in his ear, gently sucking his lobe before saying, “Please fuck me, Joel.”
That was all the confirmation he needed from you. Yu were beautifully seductive, and not in a fake, porno way. Not begging him for his cock just to boost his ego. But because you actually wanted it. He could see in the way you looked at him, in the way you touched him.
Joel frantically begins to remove his pants, lifting his hips up and pulling his pants and boxers down in one go, his underwear almost certainly stained with his pre-jack. His length bobs to his stomach, proud and thick, not particularly long, but girthy, wide enough to make you swallow harshly.
You curse softly to yourself, reaching down to softly squeeze him in your hand, just to feel his warmth, his skin. Joel groans softly at the sensation and you make quick work at spreading your legs wide for him, hiking your legs around his hips to give him enough access.
The proximity of your bodies was intoxicating, the feeling of Joel’a thick, pulsing cock pressed against your entrance was driving you crazy. You look up at Joel to find him already watching you, a look that could only be described as awe etched in his features.
In one quick motion, he drives his hips into yours, pushing his dick inside of you slowly yet brutally u til he bottomed out. The stretch was intense, his tip likely to bruise your cervix. He was deep enough to knock the air from your lungs, make you drop your head back against that uncomfortable arm rest once again.
Before you can even register what he’s doing, Joel is pulling a soft, plush cushion from behind him and coaxing your head forward, tucking it behind your neck while mumbling, “Need my baby girl to be comfortable while I fuck her.”
You moan at his words, the sound of his Texan drawl sending spiders walking down your spine, making your head swim and your core tighten. Nobody ever talked you through it like this, and that was what you craved the most from a partner. It was like he could read your mind. “I love it when you talk dirty to me. Makes my pussy so fucking wet for you, Joel.” You say through moans as he begins to fuck you at a slow, yet hard pace, his length bouncing off and stimulating your g-spot perfectly.
Joel starts to grunt under his breath, every thrust punctuated with one as he fucks into your heat, relishing in your enthusiastic sounds. He bites his lip, speaking through gritted teeth. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you? Just need someone to talk you through it, huh? Tell you how fucking beautiful you are, how good you feel taking my cock.”
You nod vigorously, your avidity coaxing him to suddenly hoist your legs up over his shoulders, suddenly catching one of your feet in his large hand as he uses his other to hold your soft stomach. You arch up into him, the position making him hit so much deeper, his cock brushes the most intimate and unexplored parts of you.
But what Joel does next is completely unexpected. He brings your foot to his mouth, pressing sloppy kisses all over your heel until bringing his lips to your toes, briefly suckling on some of your little toes, the warmth of his mouth sending a charming, tickling sensation up your spine, the foreign stimulation only adding to the pleasure he was inflicting on you.
Your breath stutters in your chest and Joel noticed, chuckling softly to himself as he continues to slam into you, your breasts bouncing beneath your bra. “Nobody ever pay these pretty feet any attention?” He asks, running his thumb over your painted toes. “These pretty white toes. Just couldn’t resist, Angel.”
You moan softly, his voice heightening everything, his pubic hair rubbing against your clit perfectly. “No,” you confirm to his question. “But it feel fucking good. I think you’re gonna make me cum, Joel.” You whine, your voice pathetic and high pitched.
Your confirmation makes Joel double his efforts, reaching down to cup your jaw roughly, forcing your gaze on him, your foot falling loosely down his back like the other. “Look at me,” he commands roughly, his voice ordering and firm. “Look at me while I make you cum. I wanna feel all of it, every squeeze, every ripple of that pretty cunt while you make a mess for me. Can you do that? Can you listen to me and be a good girl?”
And it’s just the way he is. So assertive without belittling you or being domineering in an aggressive way. It was all you wanted from a guy. To be able to talk during sex, to express himself and encourage you. His words land right in your trembling core and before you know it you are mumbling soft babbles as you cum around his cock, your orgasm crashing over you overwhelmingly as Joel fucks you through it.
You feel him start to pull back after a few seconds, his hips stuttering. You can tell he’s close yet the thought of him pulling out so soon is unbearable. Before your brain can even rationalise what you are doing, you reach up and tug him down to your level, your legs dropping back around his waist as you pull him in.
Joel mutters a “gonna cum,” but you don’t care. You simply reach up and whisper into his ear. “So cum. Shit, Joel. Cum in my pussy.” You beg softly; despite the idea being awfully irresponsible.
Joel can’t hold himself back. Not when you’re so close to him, when you feel so good wrapped around him, your pussy still softly pulsing in the aftershocks of it’s orgasm. Before he can second guess himself, his thrusts turn sloppy and he’s blowing his load inside of you, staining your walls with his seed, claiming you from the inside.
And for a while, the two of you just stay there. A tangle of limbs until Joel finally pulls himself off of you. When he does, you take it as your sign to get up too. You grab your clothes and attempt to put them on before Joel stops you.
He turns around to you, still butt naked as he looks at you with furrowed eyebrows. “What are you doing?”
You are puzzled by his reaction and pause your movements, still in only your bra. “I’m getting dressed? Don’t you want me to leave?” You ask, completely oblivious. You’d assumed he would just want you to leave to your room for the night after. Most men you slept with preferred you to go straight after. It wasn’t even something that hurt you much anymore, you’d sort of become accustomed to it.
Joel tilts his head to the side, dropping to his hunkers to be at your level. “Of course I don’t want that,” he explains in shock. Shock that you would even think of him to be the sort of person to just fuck you and then discard or dismiss you like a piece of trash. “I was just goin’ to get you some water and something to clean you up with. Stay right here, baby girl,” he tells you gently, grabbing a soft blanket that was tossed over the back of the couch and covering you with it. As soon as your under it and comfortable, he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for an extra amount of time then necessary before pressing one to your lips.
He starts to stand up to go, but you grab his hand and tug him back, looking up at him sleepily. “Joel?” You ask in a quiet voice, almost vulnerable. An emotion you’re not that accustomed to showing to others.
He looks at you so much to tell you to go on.
“Thank you.” And you meant it. Not Miss Malice, not Whore, but you.
a/n: oki so sorry about the long wait, I’ve been reading like CRAZY lately!! I got a little lazy toward the end I feel but I’m pretty proud. Pls don’t be shy with interacting! I’d love to hear from you guys :) this also took me AGES to proof read.
Pairing: Dana Evans x f!reader, Jack Abbot x f!reader, Brendon Park x f!reader, Robby x f!reader
CW: nsfw, mdni, 18+, explicit sexual content, big ass harem babes, age gap (reader is mid 20s, everyone else is 40s-50s), pet names (baby, sweetheart, bunny, kid, honey, daddy, sir), subby reader, fingering (f receiving), handjobs, oral (m and f receiving), pussy slaps, spanking, light degradation, biting/marking, protected and unprotected piv sex, cum play/cum eating, after care, sharing is caring, free use | WC: 9k
It happens like most things do, over drinks and through inebriated bravery.
Dana, fed up with the job, tipsy on a few double tequilas on a night out with Jack and Robby, a rare occurrence that made the outings even more special to the three of them, pitched an idea.
It was wild and out there.
It was barely legal.
But it was enticing.
Tightened pants and flooded panties.
Made everyone just a little bit worked up, just shy enough that eye contact was very limited after that.
“Why don’t we open a sex club?”
With the investment of one more person, notorious ortho surgeon and loaded PTMC coworker Brendon Park, their silly, drunken conversation quickly became a reality.
They bought a building.
They gutted it, Robby gladly using it as a hobby for the few months it remained under construction.
Once the layout was designed, all they had to do was fill it up...
And through blushed and flustered mutterings, like the confident and professional business partners they are, they all collectively decided to ask you.
You had found it odd when Dana, out of the blue, announced she'd put in her two weeks notice. You'd only known about it because your boss had asked you to deal with the paperwork, instantly rushing down to the ED when the ticket came through.
She didn't tell you the truth, not right away. They'd all agreed to...ease you into it gently. She laid it out simply, need for a change of scenery, bored of the lack of protection and salary to match her job description.
You’ve always been Dana’s favorite, your devotion to keeping her and the rest of the nurses safe, oftentimes working overtime to figure out how to get them the best vacation times, best resources to allocate for them, best coffee pods for the break room — she adores you.
She’s pleasantly surprised that the news of her departure has you acting the way that it does. You get into the habit of bringing her coffee every morning, the one from the break room cause there was no way you could afford coffee shop coffee every morning. Brought pastries you'd made over the weekend. Actually showed her that you cared, that you were going to miss her.
So when Robby told her they'd finished construction, she invited you out to lunch to show you their new business venture.
The club is underwhelming, the bare walls and empty spaces reverberating your shy footsteps as she pushes you forward, hands over your eyes. You can't help but giggle, especially as the butterflies in your stomach flutter violently every time her front meets your ass with each step forward.
"Now it's not ready yet, that's what I wanted to ask you, kid," her hands make a show of sliding down your cheeks and landing around your neck.
Your gaze shifts through the open space. A large bar to the right, an open dance floor in front of you, surrounded by strategically placed pillars to create the illusion of privacy, an elevator tucked at the far end.
You twist your head to look back and up at her through your lashes.
"How big is it?"
She scoffs playfully at your clear innuendo, the two glasses of whine you'd had with lunch definitely loosening your tongue.
"Alright, snarky," she nips playfully, tightening her grip on your neck and turning you back towards the emptiness. "It's four floors, three for the business, one for..." she tenses behind you. "It doesn't matter yet."
Her breath against your ear makes you flutter down to your core, instinctively tightening around nothing. Dana notices, of course she fucking does.
She steps forward into you, deliberately pressing her front to your back deliciously.
"First floor's just gonna be a regular nightclub, drinking and dancing and maybe some light hand stuff," you shiver against her as she repositions her hands, her left one wrapping around your neck, squeezing the sides gently while the other roams.
You nod desperately, brain so fuzzy you need to give your consent but words were definitely not going to come out of your mouth. Only then does she allow her right hand to wander lower, grazing your heaving chest and settling like a burning fire over your stomach, waiting.
"Second floor's where things get interesting," she whispers into your ear. "A little nudity, some consensual voyeurism, definitely some under the clothes—” her hand slithers under the waistband of your skirt, landing over your lacy underwear, right over your clit. "action. If our patrons like someone and they're willing to play, we move up to—”
Two fingers swiftly drag down your clothed folds until they reach your entrance, pushing the fabric aside and sliding into you without issue.
"So wet already," she presses a kiss to your ear, fleeting and mean. "My good girl."
You moan, the sound bouncing off the walls deliciously.
"The third floor, well, I think you're smart enough to know what will go down up there."
You nod, mouth hanging open as she works you slowly with her fingers, long, dragged out motions that hit that particular spot inside of you with every thrust.
You cling to her for dear life, nails digging into her delicate skin and definitely leaving behind your mark.
"Dana—” you whine.
"Whatdaya need baby?"
Words lose their meaning, sentences disappear, all that remains are carnal, needy noises.
She tuts sternly. "Use your big girl words."
Your entire body clenches, tightening around her deliciously. She chuckles, unrelenting, slowing down.
"No!" you scream, hips moving on their own, seeking out your much needed release.
Her grip on your neck tightens, a warning.
"None of that, baby," she corrects. “What do you need?”
“To cum.” It takes every single working braincell to mutter those two words.
“Good fucking girl.”
With that, her fingers thrust back inside of you to the hilt, her movements no longer thrusting but rather wiggling inside of you, causing you to erupt into a chorus of moans and whimpers, your peak approaching quicker than before.
“Touch your clit for me, baby.”
You don’t know how you manage to do it, but you do, sliding one of your hands into your underwear and rubbing your throbbing bud in tandem with her movements.
It takes you no time after that for your stomach to clench.
“Fuck, Dana m’close—” you tighten everywhere, not even daring to breathe lest you come undone without her permission.
She lifts your gaze then, directly to face the mirror they’ve already installed behind the bar. The second you make eye contact with her, your disheveled appearance looking back at you, her devilish smirk—
“Cum, baby.”
And you fucking do.
The coil snaps, your body shaking against hers like an earthquake coursing through you. Wetness gushes out of you and drenches Dana’s hand. It drips down your legs sinfully, creating a puddle on the floor below you.
You’d be a little more embarrassed if you weren’t so fucked out, panting through the blurring of your vision, through the unbelievable pleasure making every nerve ending tingle.
It takes you a second to get yourself together, so much so that you don’t immediately feel the second pair of hands on you, stabilizing, allowing for Dana to pull away from you to clean herself up.
You watch through lidded eyes as she brings her right hand up to her mouth, tongue licking up your cum from her pruny fingers.
“Jesus fucking Christ, kid.”
It’s only then that you notice the new addition to your intimate moment, heat flaring up your entire body as you suddenly remember where you are and what you were doing.
“Don’t go shy on my account, sweetheart,” Jack flashes you one of his flirty smirks. “You did so fucking good for Dana.”
Your heart does a somersault in your chest, suddenly feeling the coolness of his touch, the stability of it, the possessive fire in his eyes. To hell with shyness.
“Thank you Jackie,” you hum, settling back against him while Dana scoffs playfully, walking to the other side of the bar and bringing out a packet of wet wipes.
“So,” he starts as his friend cleans you up. “Did Dana convince you or do you need a little more…persuasion?”
You giggle, brain finally catching up to your body.
“I mean…I’m no interior designer but I can give it a go.”
They both smirk devilishly at you.
Oh you’ll give it a go alright.
Two weeks later, you’ve quit your job at PTMC, have hired a team of interior designers with the gorgeous business black card that Jack has provided you, unlimited or whatever, and have practically furnished the entire first two floors.
The club is modern, Miami Vice inspired yet classy and sultry. They want to encourage patrons to go up the levels, to let themselves succumb to their desires in a safe and controlled environment, to have fucking fun.
You work on the legality of the service with Dana, making sure that whoever does become a member of the club has to go through a rigorous and thorough process, background check, credit check, liability waivers, all the works. You want everyone to be protected, safe, and this is the way to do it, so much so that you’ve signed on the dotted line first, after Dana made sure to add a whole clause about your…arrangement.
You find yourself on the second floor after the ink dried and she made you get her off with your mouth, profanities and praises blending into one on the private, VIP area you had so perfectly furnished.
The construction company is installing the polls, three separate stages strategically placed across the floor. The noise distracts you from the looming figure approaching you, you only feel it once it collides with your back.
You know who it is instantly. You’ve been privy to the four owners’s schedules for the past month, Brendon, Jack and Robby keeping their day jobs while you and Dana set everything up. You know the Shark is in surgery all day, Robby’s still on the day shift, and Dana’s stuck at a meeting with your lawyers, which can only mean—
“Hi Jackie,” you greet him, melting back into his hard chest.
You’ve only seen Dana and Jack at the club, the other two not having made an appearance yet but your body practically buzzes with excitement at the thought of opening night, of them taking advantage of the clause.
“Hi sweetheart,” he places a quick kiss to your cheek. “How’s it looking?”
You turn around, beaming. “Really good. The boys’ll be done with the floor in about an hour and Bren’s taking me bed shopping for the upstairs tomorrow.”
Jack’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He knows what you’re doing, why you’re dropping that particular morsel of information now. It’s a test if anything, a soldier speeding through town, announcing an incoming storm.
“Is that right?” His eyes darken.
You bite your lip, nodding your head, rubbing your thighs to emphasize.
“Your office is ready if you want to—”
He doesn’t let you finish the sentence, grabbing a hold of your hand and pulling you towards the hidden side of the floor where he knows his and Dana’s offices are.
He groans audibly as he takes in the interior. Dark wood, sturdy furniture, very Harvard professor-esque. There’s a bookshelf wall behind his large desk, a leather office chair to match and two more on the other side. To the left a gorgeous bar built into the wall, to the right, a large, velvet green couch over a soft, dark rug.
“Do you like it?”
His gaze snaps back to you, fiddling with your fingers behind your back, looking delicious in your little pencil skirt and dark maroon blouse.
“C’mere sweetheart,” he coos, holding his hand out to you.
Like a fawn on shaky legs, you cross the room towards him, head already becoming fuzzy as he pulls you into his embrace.
“It’s perfect,” he states, both hands coming to cradle your face. If he’s just talking about the room, you honestly don’t know, but the fire in your stomach becomes alight once more as he dips down to kiss you.
You whine into his mouth, his lips soft and gentle, exploring and teasing while he pushes you back against his empty desk. You gasp when your ass meets the wood, the perfect opportunity for him to shove his tongue into your mouth.
The kiss devolves into a sloppy mess after that, needy and claiming, heeding the warning and taking his chance before anyone else gets to.
You hop onto the desk without being prompted, spreading your legs so that he can comfortably settle in between them. He does like it’s second nature, his front pressing into your thigh wantonly, the outline of his stiff erection causing another moan to slip past your lips and get swallowed by his.
He detaches himself from you then, lips puffy and smeared with your lipstick, a sinful display that only has you gushing even more slick between your thighs.
He smiles knowingly at you, his hands roaming the expanse of your arms to land on your hips, pressing into you to ground.
“I know you already gave your written consent,” he leans down to give you a peck on the lips as a reward and you beam up at him. “But we will always check in for it explicitly, am I clear?”
“Yes daddy.”
He groans again, pressing his forehead against yours.
“Fuck, what did we do to deserve you?”
You giggle then, your own touch exploring the vast expanse of his chest. He’s hard yet soft, age blending the two into the perfect package. He’s wearing a basic black t-shirt and jeans today, casual yet unbelievably sexy. Settling on wrapping yourself around his neck, you play with the weathered skin, massaging it as you bring him down to kiss you again.
He obliges without much fuss, just as eager as you to finally seal the deal.
His lips distract you again as his hands roll up your skirt, exposing your sinful, white cotton panties. The smell of your arousal hits him softly then all at once, forcing him to break apart the kiss as his gaze is drawn downward.
“You’re dripping, sweetheart.” He groans above you.
“Dana had to leave before—”
You don’t get another word in as he dive in, mouth devouring you over your underwear. You fall back against the desk, hands swiftly tangling themselves in his salt and pepper curls as he laps and bites up your swollen pussy lips.
“Jackie!” You whine, over and over and over again.
“You like that, sweetheart?”
“Need more.”
“Oh, does my sweet little girl need something?”
You nod, pulling on his hair, squishing him against you harder.
He chuckles against your clothed entrance.
“Fine, I’ll be kind today.”
You practically sigh with relief before he pulls your underwear to the side and his mouth now lands directly on you. His hot tongue laps up the wetness that overflows, drinking you up like a man parched.
You don’t hold back on the noises that bubble up from your chest, knowing fully well you designed the offices to be as soundproof because you knew they were never meant to be just about business.
“Oh baby, you are delicious.”
“Thank you daddy.” You hum contently as he takes his time, licking long stripes from your clit down to you entrance, rolling his tongue into you leisurely, teasing you until you’re putty in his hands before going back up to suck and nip at your clit.
His eyes watch you intently, catch the heaving, the panting, the way your face contorts into pleasure with each movement he makes.
“Daddy…” you whisper, barely there and definitely not coherent. “Wanna cum, please.”
He stops his movements entirely, causing you to screech in pain. He smacks the inside of your thigh, causing you to stop your whining, before he stands up, his back cracking ridiculously.
You smirk, eyes glossed over with desire to the point where he knows you’re simply not here anymore. His mouth hangs open in mock offense, causing you to laugh playfully now. The sound is music to his ears, a lifeline back to the land of the living after so many years of hiding his sorrows in the darkness.
“The only way you’re gonna cum is around my cock, sweetheart.”
You’re certain that killed you. You can barely register as he unbuckles his belt, unzipping his pants and pulling his stiff erection out of his underwear. It lands, hot and heavy against your mound, and you can’t help but stare at it, dumbfounded.
You want to touch it, lick it, shove it into your mouth until you gag, until there’s tears falling down your cheeks—
“Another time, I promise,” he smirks. “But right now I need to be inside of you.”
You nod, breaking free from the spell he’s got you under and swiftly turning your body to reach back and pull open the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a string of silver wrappers.
He laughs, unrestricted and free, delighted by your cheekiness. What? You’ve gotta be prepared, at least until you all get tested.
You tear a square with trembling fingers, pulling at the tab and taking out the sticky condom. You both moan as you grab his cock, teasing fingertips smearing the precum leaking from his tip over the sensitive head before you roll the latex down his length.
“You’re so pretty, daddy,” you compliment, giving him a gentle tug towards you once you’re done.
“Thank you baby,” he kisses your nose appreciatively. “You ready?”
You nod feverishly. “Please.”
He wasted no more time, pulling your wrecked underwear down your legs swiftly.
Between your own wetness and the lube, he slides inside of you in one swift thrust. The stretch is divine, perfectly filling. Your body buzzes with satisfaction, completion, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him further against you greedily.
He obliges, settling down over you as he begins to roll his hips. You grab onto him like your life depends on it, like you need him carnally, because you do, just as much as he needs you.
“More.”
“Manners, sweetheart.”
“More, please daddy.”
That does him in, hips snapping into you sharply, with renewed abandon and lust. Wet, slapping sounds fill the space quickly, the air becoming heavy with your combined moans and grunts. You need to cum, both of you, need to cross over that threshold together, need, need, need.
“I’m close, baby,” Jack grunts into your ear. “Touch your clit for me.”
You nod, one hand letting go of him to snake between your bodies, fingers rolling over your clit as you lift up to meet his thrusts.
“Fuck yes, daddy, so good,” you cry out, feeling how his cheek warms up at the praise. “Need you to cum in me please, I need it so bad.”
“Oh baby, fuck, you can’t say shit like that to me.”
You smile against his ear, taking the lobe into your mouth and rolling your tongue over it.
“Why daddy?” You tease, the vixen you are. “Don’t you wanna fill me up and watch as you leak out of me?”
That does him in, movements become sloppy, the air being smacked out of your lungs.
“Fucking cum, cum with me right now!”
He commands and you follow, clenching tightly around him, forcing him to come undone with you. He grunts and curses into your ear, hot and delirious as he sheathes himself as far as he can inside of you. Your body buzzes with electricity, nerves snapping deliciously as your orgasm crashes through you, clinging to him like a lifeline.
He collapses on top of you soon after, both of you panting as you catch your breath. You run your fingers through his hair, nails softly raking the skin as his own run up and down your sides.
It’s perfect.
“You’re perfect, sweetheart.”
He kisses your mouth again, a soft kiss swiftly becoming needy and all consuming as you’re both determined to show your appreciation of the other through it.
This was definitely the best decision they could’ve ever made.
“D’ya wanna order lunch?”
You smile brightly. “I mean, we’ve already had dessert, it’s only fair.”
He bursts into laughter again, a sound you desperately want to bottle up and keep guarded for the rest of your life.
Brendon picks you up at 10 am sharp the next morning.
You’re already waiting for him outside the club, your light summer dress, which he requested, flowing easily with the wind as his sleek BMW comes to a stop at the curb.
You start to make your way towards the vehicle when the tinted window on the passenger side rolls down.
“Not another step, bunny,” he instructs, swiftly stepping out of the car and walking over to where you’re standing, still like a statue.
He scoops you in his arms instantly, lifting you off the ground as you wrap your arms around his neck and lean into his firm kiss.
Unlike Jack, Brendon is methodical and precise in his approach. He kisses you like he’s trying to figure out what’s the best way to make you crumble, like a puzzle he is determined to solve through information based action.
You don’t let him, your hands sneaking under his navy polo and raking your nails down his back. He growls into your mouth, in genuine warning, but you simply smile dopily, pulling back to settle yourself back on the ground.
“Hi,” you mumble.
He rolls his eyes affectionately, grabbing one of your hands to pull you towards his car while the other opens your door like the gentleman that he is. Once you’re settled, seatbelt fastened, he closes the door and rounds the car again, sliding into the driver’s seat with ease.
“How was your night?” He asks, the car roaring back to life underneath you before his hand slides over your thigh.
You turn to look at him, his sunglasses resting perfectly against his gorgeous nose. His hair is gel-free today, the slight curl to it making it look fuller. He looks delicious, shiny Rolex on his wrist, a silver chain around his neck, the charcoal slacks perfectly snug against his thick thighs, accentuating…certain assets.
You’ve dealt with Brendon your fair share back at the hospital, the majority of HR related disputes that involved him being thrown your way because the frightening man never once shook your confidence. He’d always been respectful, thoughtful and logical when you explained what had been filed against him and how to proceed. It all usually went away by having him apologize, which he mostly did to not keep dragging out conflict between coworkers that you had to mediate.
If you’re being honest, you’d expected him to ask you out at some point but he never did, ever respectful of your professional relationship under the hospital. But now, with every single line blurred beyond recognition, he was not holding back any longer.
“It was good,” you tell him. “I’m a little sore.”
He smiles, grip tightening, inching upward towards your pulsing core.
“I didn’t know Abbot still had it in him,” he teases, turning to look at you as the stop light turns red. “But I shouldn’t be surprised, I too would revert back into a horny twenty-year-old if I had you naked under me.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks in an instant, causing a Cheshire grin to spread over his lips.
You’re about to bite back when the car behind you honks obnoxiously. Brendon tenses, annoyance flooding his senses as he deliberately drags his movements, the car rolling down the street as if the two of you have nowhere better to be.
And the truth is, you don’t.
You’ve already picked out the beds, your assistant’s waiting for the delivery back at the club while you pretend to have a reason for wanting to spend time with Bren. You’re supposed to be driving to a warehouse about forty-five minutes away from the club, the perfect time to get yourself a little action, to push his buttons.
His head nurse at the OR had texted you when his surgery ended the night before to tell you it had been a doozy and that she expects him in two days with nothing but the calmest energy possible.
So you get to work quickly.
He’s concentrated on the drive but he feels you shifting, grabbing a hold of his hand and moving it higher up on your leg, under your dress this time.
A wicked grin blossoms once more and is instantly dropped as his loose demeanor swiftly shifts into piping hot desire the second his fingertips graze your bare folds.
“Oh bunny,” he tuts. “You spoil me.”
You hum contently as he begins to explore freely, pressing further into you and gathering the slick that has already leaked so he can slide his fingers through you easily.
You drop back against the cool leather seat, legs spreading ever so slightly to give him better access which he takes advantage of instantly, perfectly manicured fingers teasing your entrance as his palm settles against your clit.
“Oh fuck—”
His hand lifts off your pussy before you can even register it, smacking over your clit in punishment.
“Pretty girls don’t use bad words,” he chides, the rule instantly making your head fuzzy, your clit pulsing at the harsh stimulation.
“‘M sorry, sir,” you slur, head falling agains this rock hard arm as he returns to his previous ministrations. He leans down quickly, placing a kiss to the top of your head, never once looking away from the road.
By the time you’re out of the city, you’re certain he’s created a puddle underneath your ass, your slick the only noise filling the car alongside the little noises that escape your lips.
“Sir,” you start.
“Yes bunny?”
“Can I…” you choke as he presses into you, thick fingers leisurely pumping against your walls. “May I touch you too?”
“Of course you may,” he hums. “Just be careful, don’t want to run us out of the road.”
You nod to appease him, but you’re definitely not going to listen to him.
You shift closer to him, the center console an annoyance in your path that you glare angrily at, causing him to huff out an amused laugh. Eager hands shoot out to the evident tent in his pants, aggressively large and demanding attention.
He groans at the contact and you’re certain he’s already leaking in his boxers. You make quick way of the button and zipper of his pants, your hand sliding under all the fabric with abandon as you pull out his dick.
He’s…big to say the least, thick in all the right places. Your mouth hangs open, saliva practically dripping from the corners as you pump him dryly a few times, eliciting deep rumblings from his chest every time.
You finally let the spit drip down on his head, the hiss that he emits sending you over the moon.
“May I suck you off, sir?” You look up at him with the biggest puppy eyes you can muster, your hand never once stopping its movements, now aided by your spit and his hot precum.
“Yes.”
It’s all you need to dive in, lips wrapping around his head like a lollipop and sucking him like you’re desperately trying to get to that bubblegum center. The car slows down slightly and you just know he’s thanking every god in existence for taking out the automatic vehicle, tinting the windows, and taking you up on the very obvious lie you’d fed him to get him out of his apartment.
You make it halfway down his shaft before you choke, hitting the back of your throat at the wrong angle and having to come up for air. You spit out the saliva that has pooled in your mouth instead of swallowing it, your hands catching it and continuing their movements sloppily.
“Fuck, princess,” he hisses through gritted teeth, doing the responsible thing and parking himself on the side of the road.
He pulls you off him long enough to unbuckle the two of you from your seatbelts and pushing his seat all the way back. You yelp loudly as he picks you up, placing you down on the space he’s made between his legs and the pedals.
Lust swiftly takes over as you get back up on your knees and take him back into your mouth, making quick work of breathing through your mouth as you take him further and further down your throat with each dip. Your hands and mouth work in tandem, ravenous for his noises, for the way his stomach clenches every time your tongue swipes over his slit.
His hands tangle into your hair, helping to guide your movements, slowly regaining control over you as his hips begin to buck upwards into your mouth. You gag and choke, all for the show of it, the pleasure coursing through his body palatable from just how much his thighs are shaking.
“I won’t last much longer if you keep going,” he pants, not once pretending to slow you down. Instead, you press further into him, deliberately removing your hands so that he can push you all the way down until your nose brushes his pubic bone.
The second he feels your breath on his skin, he’s a goner, a string of profanities filling the car as he shoots his spend down your throat. Your hands grip his thighs tightly, reveling in the feeling of the muscles trembling beneath you.
You swallow diligently, the feeling of your throat constricting around him only prolonging his orgasm. By the time he’s done and you’re slowly pulling off him, his hair is disheveled, a thin layer of sweat covering down to his neck and chest.
You flop down against his thigh, nuzzling into him as his hands stroke your hair and face gently, singing your praises and lips kissing the back of your hand reverently as his fingers interlace with yours.
“Do we still need to look at beds?” He asks, making sure he’s not about to actually ruin your work task for the day.
You shake your head. “I wouldn’t mind checking yours out though.”
Brendon’s never been less afraid of getting pulled over for speeding as he races back into the city after that.
Three months after Dana quit her job, the club opens its doors.
To say it’s a success would be an understatement.
The first floor is flooded with influencers, regular customers, basically every single person that got in line fast enough to get themselves into the cramped opening. The second floor is filled with colleagues and patrons that have been approved from the extensive waiting list. You’re not inaugurating the system yet, no, you think Javadi would have a heart attack if she knew what was meant to be going on other than the, honestly, classily underdressed dancers on the stages before you.
Laughter and joy explodes out of your little group, the older residents sitting to one side of the room while the first years ogle at the dancers, throw bills and drink to their hearts content.
You’re curled up on the couch, the sheer black dress you’ve chosen for the occasion hugging your curves perfectly, velvet patterns perfectly keeping your more intimate bits hidden tastefully. You watch them enjoy themselves, the stressful high of having worked so hard for this slowly settling into your bones.
“So,” the couch dips to either side of you. “How’s this work exactly?”
You blink back into the present, finally noticing Shen and Ellis sandwiching you.
You roll your eyes at Shen’s question, knowing exactly what he’s asking.
“When we open…that part of the business,” you explain. “You’ll get to pick if you want to simply observe or…play.”
Ellis takes a sip of her drink, shifting closer to you while Shen looks practically dumbfounded.
“If we want to play,” Ellis starts. “Are you a part of the offerings?”
You turn to face her, a thrilling grin on your features as your arm drapes over her lap.
“That could be arranged.”
Shen’s eyes practically fall out of his sockets as he chokes on his drink, causing the two of you to laugh.
“Who do we have to talk to to…arrange that?”
You open your mouth to reply to him when Dana saunters into the section.
“Baby, could you go check on Robby please?”
You nod eagerly, turning to Ellis before getting up and pointing your head towards Dana to answer her previous question. Ellis grins dopily as you get off the couch, making a show of swaying your hips, stopping in front of Dana for the older woman to give you a quick peck on the side of your lips.
She’d told you early on that while her husband and her had an arrangement, she’d probably never cross that line to kiss you, which you respected dearly. Your relationship with her was different from the ones you had with Jack and Brendon, a mutual understanding of care that went beyond anything you could describe.
And then there was Robby.
You try not to take it personally every single time he purposefully avoids you. It’s no secret that the other three are taking every chance they have to be with you, to touch and tease and claim.
It’s what you all signed for at the end of the day.
Literally.
You make your way across the room, sliding your hand over Jack’s arm and telling him where you’ll be going. He nods, two of his army buddies smirking knowingly as he turns to give you a quick kiss on the lips, comforting and gentle. You catch the snickers and teases, all harmless and filled with love as you make your way over to Bren’s group with Walsh and Garcia.
“Trinity’s looking a little lonely, don’t you think?” You taunt Yoyo, sliding into Bren’s open arms and letting him nibble at your jaw possessively. The surgeon raises her eyebrows in mock offense before downing the rest of her drink and making her way over there.
You grin triumphantly, leaning up to press your lips to Bren’s in a kiss that takes both of your breath away before you’re trying to slide out of his embrace.
“Where do you think you’re going?” He questions against your mouth.
“Upstairs,” you whisper. “Dana sent me to get him.”
Brendon sighs, understanding. “Be gentle.”
“Aren’t I always?”
A laugh bursts from both him and Emery.
You simply roll your eyes, placing a kiss to his arm before leaving them to their bickering.
You nod to the security guards on either side of the elevator and they use their keycards to call up the elevator for you. The doors open almost instantly since guests from the first floor are not allowed up yet and the third floor is still closed up.
You press the button for the fourth floor, however, imputing the pin for the elevator to actually move.
They’d surprised you a week ago, Jack’s hands over your eyes as he led you up to the fourth floor. They’d been weirdly cryptic about it, not wanting you to go up there until it was finished, the final piece of the puzzle to your downtown building.
So imagine your shock when you step off the elevator to a fully renovated penthouse apartment.
The interior is warm and cozy, a large kitchen to your right, big enough for you and Bren to go crazy and cook up a storm. A jacuzzi and sun tanning deck across the vast living room right in the center, and three bedrooms down the hall to the left — the master bed for you and two extra guest bedrooms if any of them needed or wanted to spend the night.
“What do you think?” Jack murmurs into your ear as he pushes you further into the space. You’re so overwhelmed with emotions you literally can’t speak, turning around in his arms to show him the look of absolute gratitude taking over your features.
“I love it,” you manage after a while. “Thank you.”
You kissed him until your lungs burned and your lips were bruised, until the movers cleared their throat before they started to move your boxed up apartment into your new home.
A home. They had built you a home.
It was a few days after that when you got a call from Dana.
Something something pipe broke in Robby’s house, he needed to stay with you for a while.
You practically burst with happiness, the forced proximity making you giddy with excitement. He’d been avoiding you for months and maybe now he’d come to his senses since you had been terrible about putting together the guest bedrooms and he’d definitely be forced to share the master bed with you if he wanted a good night’s rest.
He slept on the couch.
Jack had been too good at picking out furniture and he’d bought the most comfortable pull out couch in existence.
You wanted to kill him.
The apartment is dark when you walk in, the little lamps you’ve purchased casting the perfect amount of ambient lighting, like a trail from the entrance to the bedroom. You take off your heels, following the sound of running water.
At least he’d taken to using the master bath, well, he was forced to since he literally does not fit in the other shower.
You take a second to look around. The bed is unmade meaning he’d definitely taken a nap after he got back from work and at the very least your sheets will smell like him when you go to sleep tonight. His gorgeous light blue suit is laid out over the sheets, still in its dry-cleaning bag. The window to the room is open, the loveseat you’ve strategically placed for…reasons angled towards it, an ashtray with a few cigarette buts and a half drank glass of whiskey beside it.
You take a seat, picking up his half finished cigarette and lighting it up. They’re comforting, taste and smell like him, make you feel warm and fuzzy, a temporary bandaid over the cracks already forming in your dam.
The door to the bathroom opens, steam seeps out into the main room and out he comes, like an adonis, towel wrapped around his waist, chest and belly naked for your salivating gaze.
“Hi handsome.”
He doesn’t flinch anymore, not like he did those first few days.
“Dana sent you?”
You nod, taking another drag and blowing the smoke towards the Pittsburgh streets.
“You’re sulking.”
“I am not.”
“Then you’re hiding, which is way worse.”
“I just—”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to go down,” you tell him. “I get it, you work with these people, you’re their boss, this is…”
“Highly unethical?”
You huff out a laugh. “I was gonna say really fucking weird.”
He cracks a smile, tired gaze shifting from your face to the floor every second.
You pat the loveseat, making space for him. “Join me then.”
His eyes snap to yours then, shock raining down on him like a tropical storm. You know you shouldn’t take it personally, but he just keeps chipping away at you every time he denies you.
“I shouldn’t…”
“Robby.”
“Honey.”
You sigh, exhausted yet understanding.
Only, this time you can’t control the tears.
They bubble out of you like a faucet you can’t turn off.
He’s on you in seconds, powerful steps crossing the room in a flash, crouching down in front of you.
He shushes you gently, one hand coming down on your thigh while the other takes the cigarette away from you, putting it out on the ashtray before he cups your cheek.
“Look at me, honey,” he pleads. “It’s not you. It’s never you.”
Your brows scrunch in further confusion, his words digging deeper. As if he’s hearing them clearly for the first time, he curses under his breath, shaking his head disappointingly at himself.
“What I mean is, it’s me. I’m the problem,” he tries to explain himself but you just don’t get it.
“But I want you,” you sob. “Why don’t you want me?”
That breaks Robby’s heart, forcing him to get up and settle next to you on the loveseat, pulling you onto him and holding you tightly against his slightly damp chest. You burrow your face in his neck, taking in the clean and warm smell of his—your—body wash.
“I do, I want you, honey, you don’t even know how much.”
“Then why?” You turn to look up at him, his own haunted expression staring back down at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world, like if he were to give himself up to you, you’ll simply disappear.
He opens his mouth to answer. Closes it a second later. He sighs deeply, choosing not to rush into any explanation but rather allowing himself the indulgence of holding you.
You understand, melting into him as he cuddles you further onto his body. Timid hands soon begin to roam the expanse of his exposed chest, running your fingers through the dark patches of hair. He shivers under your touch, jaw clenching as you tangle your grip around his necklace to give yourself the leverage you need to start kissing down his jaw.
Your touch is fleeting, barely there, only a whisper of what could be if he simply allowed it. You don’t leap, don’t take the mile, only accept the smallest offering. You know consent is the most important thing for him, for all of them, so you don’t push your luck. As much as they all care for you, Robby included, this is meant to be about care and intimacy and trust.
“I’m not…” he starts. “I don’t know how to do this.”
You don’t speak, just let him get the weight off his chest as he needs to.
“I don’t want to break your heart when this gets so real I…I don’t want you to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, certain and solid.
He shakes his head. “But I might.”
“Robby—”
“You’ll resent me for it.”
You open your mouth to speak but stop yourself. You’re not gonna hide behind half truths anymore.
“I would get over it,” you tell him. “I’ve got Jack and Bren and Dana, and honestly maybe even Shen and Ellis and who knows who else—”
He pulls back to look at you then, eyebrows raised in shock and a tinge of teasing. You crack a smile, smacking his chest lightly and rolling your eyes.
“The point is,” you put your foot down. “I’ll be okay, it’s what I sighed up for.”
He takes your hand then, pulling it up to press a kiss over the back of it.
“And who knows,” you poke. “Maybe your seven week itch can be cured with a little five on five action.”
It’s his turn to retaliate, biting down on the meat below your thumb strong enough to make it hurt.
You gasp, eyes glossing over instantly as the pain settles into your never ending pool of lust. Robby simply smirks around your flesh, tongue coming out to soothe the sting sloppily.
When he pulls back it’s like whatever animosity lingered between the two of you has been replaced by a carnal need to satisfy you.
“I gotta say, that list of kinks of yours—”
You burst out laughing, his teasing grin only broadening at that.
“You’re one to talk.”
“I am,” he states, plain and clear. “Maybe another day we’ll take ‘em for a spin.”
Your eyes sparkle with need and anticipation.
“Mikey,” you nod, mouth hanging open slightly, face angled upwards. “Please kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice, his face coming down to smash his mouth against yours possessively. He doesn’t ask for any more permission, his tongue forcing your mouth open to take him in and you do, moaning desperately as you squirm in his embrace to straddle his lap.
You’re both unapologetic, greedy and needy in your approach. He bunches the fabric of your dress until it pools around your waist, fiddling with the zipper only for a second before he’s pulling it down, grabbing all of the offending fabric and pulling it over your head. It lands somewhere with a thud, causing the two of you to laugh against each other’s lips like two horny teenagers on prom night.
“Results came back,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re clean, I’m clean—”
You don’t even have to think. “Please fuck me Mikey.”
You feel his cock twitch against the towel separating the two of you.
“With fucking pleasure, honey.”
You smile brightly, drunk on his promises already, managing to lift your ass off his lap long enough for him to tug his towel open, pull aside your lacy excuse of underwear to the side and lining himself up with your already dripping entrance.
You don’t even catch a glimpse at him, you just feel him as he sinks inside of you. He’s perfect, the middle ground between Jack and Bren, almost as good as Dana’s strap but don’t tell any of them.
You moan loudly, hands coming up to his shoulders to stabilize yourself, clenching around him involuntary. He hisses into your ear, holding you still as he desperately tires not to cum.
“Honey, I need you to let me go or else this will be over embarrassingly quick.”
You giggle, heat rising to your cheeks as you try to relax your muscles, letting him slide into you until your pelvises meet. He groans, satisfied, as you do. All the while, you’re practically panting, desperation making you impatient as all hell.
“Can I please move?” You whine, tears brimming your eyes once more.
“Oh honey,” he coos condescendingly and your stomach tightens into delicious shame. “Give your old man a second. Gotta make sure you don’t break me.”
You’re so close to bursting, to screaming and kicking and—
His hand lands on your ass with a loud smack. You whimper, falling into him, pliant and submissive before his other hand balances out your other cheek.
You clench around him in retaliation, earning you another two slaps until you settle down again, murmuring apologies onto his skin.
“It’s okay, honey,” he shushes you. “You can move now, ‘m ready.”
You nod against him, sniffing away the tears and sitting back up. His big hands come up to cup your cheeks, thumbs wiping away the wetness before he leans forward to kiss you gently.
“Thank you,” you whisper, getting rewarded with another kiss.
“Move, now.”
You plant your legs firmly on either side of Robby’s thighs, using his chest as leverage against as you slowly start to lift yourself off him, feeling the sting of his cock dragging along your walls, your combined wetness gushing as you do.
You whine, rolling your hips before slamming back down until your ass slaps against his legs. He curses, grabbing ahold of your love handles to help you bounce on him with more fervor. Your boobs jiggle tantalizingly in front of him, his depraved mind entranced by the sight, by the feeling of you around him, by the satisfaction of finally letting him have what he’s been craving for so long.
He leans forward, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, rolling his tongue, hardening the bud before he bites down and tugs. The noises that erupt from you only make him pull harder, letting you go only when you wince in pain.
“Look at you, baby,” he grunts. “Bouncing on me like a needy little girl, so eager to have my cock inside of you that it’s made you so dumb.”
You moan, nodding feverishly.
“We should’ve known you’d like this, the way you always took such good care of us at the hospital, it was so obvious, so…right.”
Oh he read the list of kinks you provided, alright.
“This is what you were meant to do, isn’t that right? Being used and shared by a bunch of people old enough to be your parents, huh?”
He accentuates each word with a sharp thrust of his hips to meet you in the middle.
“Gonna let us share you? Gift you away to our friends and colleagues,” you clench around him and he beams. “Gonna let us watch?”
“Oh shit fuck—”
Your orgasm hits you out of nowhere, your entire body exploding in a burst of pleasure that has you shaking, unable to stop yourself from clenching around him like a vice, forcing him to cum with you in a haze of trembling limbs and warmth shooting up deep inside of you.
You fall into him again, hugging him tightly as he returns the action tenfold, as if needing to fuse your bodies together. You knew in the back of your mind that the second Robby let you in, it would be impossible to kick him out, like a street dog that gets shown love for the first time, he’s chosen you just as much as you’ve chosen him.
He peppers kisses all over your face, adoration deep and eager for forgiveness, for what, you simply do not know, but you give it to him, your touch so gentle and kind he truly doesn’t know what he did right in his life to deserve it.
When he’s finally able to think, he pulls the two of you up on shaking legs, managing to set you down on the bed before he’s forced to pull out of you, his flaccid cock no longer able to keep the two of you connected. You both whine at the loss of contact, a noise that quickly devolves into a choir of moans as he gets on his knees before you and dives face first into your sticky heat.
He runs his tongue along your slit, gathering up the mess that the two of you made together, licking and sucking as much of your spend into his mouth as he can before he lifts himself back up.
You open your mouth without him having to say a single word, and if he were thirty years younger, that would’ve gotten him rock hard once more.
He lets the liquid drip from his mouth into yours, the lewdness of it all keeping you in that perfect haze. You hum as it hits your tongue, salty and something else uniquely yours, together.
You swallow. “Thank you, Mikey.”
“Anytime, honey.”
You’re back down an hour later after having to shower twice because the first one did not count for shit. You’re wearing a different dress now, the fabric hiding the bruises that have already started to form on your skin, leaving your back exposed completely to make up for the lack of skin you’re now hiding.
Robby will not let you go, his hands always having to be on you. He looks gorgeous in his suit, the suspenders Dana chose for him instead of a belt to pull up his tummy causing your brain to short circuit every time you catch the sight.
“Behave, honey,” he grumbles into your ear as he catches you staring again. “Let’s go say hi to Duke and then I’ll let you go have fun.”
“But I’m having fun with you.”
He stops abruptly. You actually mean that, and for the first time in his life, he allows himself to believe it.
He smiles brightly, unabashedly leaning down to capture your lips with his.
“Alright then.”
He parades you around the room, introducing you to his mechanic friend and beaming brightly as the two of you engage in light small talk, and for the first time in years, the weight on his shoulders lightens, enough for his two friends to notice.
Dana bumps Jack with her elbow, her gaze traveling across the room and landing on the two of you.
“Ow, what?” Jack whines as Dana crocks her head, catching Robby’s smile like a damn spotlight, shining so bright it might actually be blinding. “Oh hoho, good for him.”
“Good for us.”
Jack nods. “About damn time, we deserve it.”
“That we do.”
They clink their glasses, delightedly taking in their new life blissfully, only one thing on their minds—
Welcome to the Jackrabbit Club.
a/n: okay my loves, this is my new au. I've been toying with it for a while and honestly...fuck it, happy pride let's just go crazy. requests are open for them all, every other character is fair game too so request away. power dynamics are loosely inspired by @thykingdoncome's his best girl cause I love that series and need to shout it out every chance I get. basically, dana's the main boss, but jack, robby and park get free reign, anyone else needs explicit permission from one of them (and obviously consent from reader but let's be fucking honest). I will keep writing shit on the side, but will prioritize requests and asks <3
Charles Muntz x Assistant!Reader- Your punishment for letting the creature escape.
Yandere!Human!Hopper x Reader- He is the monster you caused. Basically he’s quite aware that he’s obsessed, and possessive to a massive fault- But according to him that’s your fault; Not his.
Human!Chick Hicks x King’s(OfAge)Offspring!Reader- An old rival of your Dad’s turns up for your parents anniversary party and you end up fucking him… at your parents anniversary party. Oh no.
Human!Yandere!Lots-O-Huggin’ Bear x NewToy!Reader- Classic Yandere in position of Power sets his sights on you immediately and makes you uncomfortable with how close he wants you all the time, without actually making his obsession totally clear. Just enough to make it weird.
Randall Boggs x Sully’sRomanticInterest!Reader- Randall has a bit of an obsession with one upping Mike and Sully, and Celia doesn’t like him much at all, so… He’s set his sights on you. Unfortunately, you’re loyal to Sully-… so Randall has to get creative.
Warnings: (Starting with Muntz and working our way down. Also colour coded so you’re able to be more aware:) Mental torture, monster-creature, Punishment, traumatising you as punishment, creepy boss to the MAXIMUM gage, non-con kiss, kiss while you’re asleep, Major possessiveness, Hopper killing a man cuz you talked to him, murder, beating, Hopper trying to convince you his actions are your fault, VERY inappropriate relationship involving age difference and fucking fathers frenemy, scandal, references to semi-public sex, self disgust, dirty talk, mental+emotional manipulation, gaslighting, unwanted physical affection, unwanted closeness, intent to isolate, harassment, blackmail, references to sex work, forced relationship, etc.
because grace learns eridian from rocky do you think he speaks to people on erid with his little piano/organ/instrument setup and theyre like lol wow. you've got a REALLY strong accent. and grace is like well im an alien, thats to be expected, right? and theyre like no that's not what we mean. it's just... you sound just like rocky :,) it's very cute actually
of course grace is delighted! but it'd be very funny if rocky had just. a massively specific regional accent. and now grace has it too. all the eridians from that area are like OMG THE ALIEN IS ONE OF US - we're adopting it. that's an honorary member of the clan. listen to it. it might as well have grown up here.
...actually i'm gonna do it. fuck it. rocky is space scottish. to me. he's mine now, i'm taking him out to look at the kelpies and the falkirk wheel and climb up ben ledi. he can go fishing in a loch. and now grace's eridian accent is their equivalent of scots. he says stuff to adrian's family (posh motherfuckers) and theyre like 'i think it's trying to communicate with us..?' meanwhile adrian, well used to rocky's accent by now, is like 'it's giving you a compliment. be nice to my spouse's alien, please.'
(adrian is like the dad who doesn't want a cat. theyre like this is my spouse rocky and rocky's... alien friend.. and then like two months later rocky comes in and adrian is letting grace sleep on top of them. he was cold, I couldn't just let him shiver, and rockys like no no beloved you're so right, and secretly rubbing his claws together like yesss just let it happen, grace will win all of erid over at this rate..)
Summary: When you and Ryland began your secret relationship, he had no idea how much of a troublemaker you were gonna be. He adored you dearly, but gods, you could be such a brat sometimes. Randomly pouting and sulking for no reason, always demanding his attention, always so needy for him. But he was always there dealing with your tantrums because like everything else, he loved your bratty side as well. Most of all, he loved how easily you melted under his touch. Before you, Ryland never knew he could be so good at taming brats.
Themes: professor x student, taboo romance, age gap, smut, explicit language, bratty!reader, brat tamer!ryland, mild bondage, mild degrading kink, some fluff
a/n: Yk that scene with the “two rings of eight” and Ryland says he hopes it’s not handcuffs?? Yeah, that got me thinking totally pure thoughts. Utterly pure thoughts. Also, this fic can be read as a sequel to this one.
There it was again. That bored, dramatic, deliberate sigh.
Ryland had been counting. This was the fifth sigh–
Oh. Another one.
Sixth sigh in the last ten minutes from you.
He could already tell what was on your mind. He always did. He could read his girl like an open book after all. But sometimes you’d get into these moods he couldn’t quite figure out. And he never knew when they were coming so it messed with him even more. As someone who had the habit of just figuring things out, it both bothered and amazed him how your moods could switch up so quickly. One moment you were his sweet, darling girl and the next you were a defiant, brooding brat.
But fuck, did he love it all.
He kept an eye on you while he worked. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was a laid back, chill evening. You were lounging on his bed with a book, pretending to read. Wearing one of his many t-shirts and a pair of those tiny, tiny sleeping shorts.
Such a tease.
He was on a sofa in the corner of the bedroom, on his computer, reading and correcting the mountain of assignments his students had submitted recently.
Silence was always comfortable between you two. Unless of course, disturbed by loud sighs from you.
Ryland looked at you and finally asked, gently, “What is it now?”
You finally looked up from your book and found Ryland staring at you. The laptop screen illuminating his face. You could tell he was tired from having stared at that screen for the past few hours. And that was your problem. Hours he’d been working, reading, correcting. Hours spent without a drop of attention from your man. But you would never tell him that, would you?
“Nothing.” You mumbled, barely audible.
“What was that?” He asked mindlessly before turning his attention back to his screen.
You sighed again. “I said nothing.” You said in a tone you normally never use. Unless you were up to no good.
That caught his attention immediately. “Okay.” He lowered the laptop screen, not fully shutting it yet. “What is this? Huh? What are we– what are we doing here?” He looked at you from above the frame of his glasses.
Gods, you always loved it when he did that.
“Nothing, like I said.” You repeated, focusing on the same page of your book which you’d been staring at for the past many minutes.
“You’re pouting? Really?” Ryland muttered something under his breath and tried again, “Baby, do you need something?”
“No.”
“Then?” He waited.
“Nothing.” You said, looking at him. “Carry on working, Dr. Grace.” You said in a bratty tone.
Ryland let out a dry chuckle. “Oh wow.” He said in disbelief. He always did take offense whenever you called him that. Especially in that tone. “Come here.” He finally said.
And while that voice of his gave you that fluttery feeling in your stomach, you did not move an inch. “No.” You said. “I’m very comfortable where I am.”
“Baby.” He called out again, tapping his thigh. “Will you please come here?”
You rolled your eyes at him. “I don’t want to. I’m really comfortable here.”
Ryland groaned as he got up from the sofa and walked over to where you lay in bed. He crossed his arms over his chest as he looked down at you. The action made his biceps pop, even more so because his silly t-shirt was just one size too small so it was extra tight around the biceps.
Stupid biceps. Stupid tight t-shirt. God damn it. You’d fold under zero pressure if he keeps this up.
“What is it?” He asked. “Was it something I did? Is that why you’re over here being dramatic? Huffing and puffing for no reason, hmm?” He sounded stern, but still playful. “Come on, stop pretending to read your book and talk to me. What’s going on?”
You looked up at him in silence.
He finally sighed himself, then bent down to your eye level. Placing his fists on the bed as he leaned on them, he said, “Look, baby. I don’t mind a brat. But if I’m gonna take care of you, you have to tell me what’s going on. What’s making you so upset, huh?” His voice was soft and gentle as he spoke. But you could see that look in his eyes.
The calm before the storm. The hidden wild side.
You knelt on the bed, hooking your finger to the waistband of his sweatpants as you tried to pull him closer. Ryland stood up straight again and carefully pushed your hand away. “Hey, no.” He warned. “We’re gonna talk first and then– stop trying to grab me. Listen. Hey,” He pushed your hand away again, “Look at me.”
You looked at him, but still tried to grab him. Reaching for his waist, his shirt, pawing at him while he pushed your hands away each time. With that defiant look in your eyes and the smirk, Ryland knew it was pointless to try and talk to you. It was always a losing game whenever you got into this mood.
“Can you focus please?” He asked, reaching to wrap his hand around your throat. Not squeezing yet, just keeping you in place. Pulling you towards him just barely. “Don’t make me bring out the handcuffs.” Ryland watched as your eyes widened in excitement. He chuckled, cocky and smug now. “Oh, this is hopeless.” He shook his head. “You needy little thing.” He muttered under his breath as he took a step back and reached into his nightstand, opening the little drawer and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
Pale pink leather, the chain connecting the straps was silver metal. It was a beautiful thing, but you could barely pay any attention to it. No, all your attention was on him. Those arms, all that glorious skin. He was making you salivate and he wasn’t even undressed yet.
“Up.” He instructed.
You obeyed immediately, getting out of bed and standing in front of him in the blink of an eye. You couldn’t even hide your excitement anymore.
“You know what to do.”
Of course you did. You turned around and put your hands behind your back so he could cuff your wrists together. Once your hands were tied, you turned back to face him, breathing slightly heavier.
“Now will you listen? Hmm? Are we gonna talk now or– oh okay. Here we go again.” Ryland pretended to be annoyed as you leaned in and kissed his neck. Once. Twice. “You always get your way, huh? Too spoiled.” He complained knowing damn well he was the one doing the spoiling. He knew he didn’t stand a chance. So he gave in. “Fine then.” He pulled your face away from his neck and said, “You want to play?” He asked. When you nodded, he said, “Kneel.”
Without another word said and while still holding his stare, you sank down to your knees in front of him. Your hands were tied, otherwise you’d have his cock in your mouth already. But since you finally got what you wanted – his attention – you didn’t mind waiting.
“So obedient all of a sudden, huh?” Ryland kept his eyes on you as he took his time, put on a show almost, as he slowly lowered the waistband of his sweatpants and underwear to free his hard cock.
The mere sight of him like this had you whining with need. He towered above you, tall, lean muscles, and that look in his eyes. Smug. Confident. He was such a sweetheart to you all the time, so on rare occasions when he got into moods like these, or more like, when you made him get into moods like these, it would drive you crazy.
You leaned in, with your tongue out already, desperate for a taste. But Ryland pulled away. “Ah. Stay.” He warned. He waited until you stopped fidgeting, then said, “See? It didn’t have to be like this. We could’ve had a nice conversation. We could’ve talked things out. You could’ve told me exactly what you wanted and I would’ve given it to you.” Ryland explained, mindlessly stroking his cock right in your face.
You were almost whimpering just looking at how smoothly his fist moved up and down.
Ryland continued, “But no. You needed this, didn’t you? You like it when I treat you like this. Don’t you, baby?”
You clenched your thighs together at the sound of that raspy voice, and nodded at what he said.
He smirked. “Will you talk now? Are you gonna tell me what’s going on with you? Use your words, baby. Tell me.”
“I just want you.” You whispered. “You’ve barely paid any attention to me all day.”
“Wow.” Ryland chuckled. “And what was that this morning then, huh?”
Oh. Oh. Yeah, this morning…
You woke up feeling… funny. You opened your eyes and found that Ryland wasn’t in his usual spot beside you on the bed. Instead he was busy down there, between your legs.
You lifted the soft covers and found him looking up at you with nothing but desire and trouble in his eyes. You let out a soft moan when he held your stare while kissing your clit, and sucking on it before letting go.
“Morning, baby.” He whispered, then got back to eating you out like he was starving.
You threw the covers off and slid your fingers into his ridiculously soft hair instead, “Ryland…” You whined, the pleasure taking over you. “I’m gonna be late for classes.” You mumbled, already feeling yourself getting to the edge. “I have work later this afternoon, you know? I have papers to write, and tests…” You gasped, forgetting what the hell you were talking about in the first place once he began fucking you gently with his tongue.
Damn his tongue and soft lips. Ryland chuckled, a cocky look in his eyes when he pulled away and asked, “Papers and what, baby?”
“Don’t be a tease,” You groaned, using your grip on his hair and shoving his mouth back to where you wanted him.
He chuckled before working his tongue against your wet slit, his fingers slowly sliding in and out of you until you came with a soft cry. But he wasn’t done yet…
Ryland smirked as he looked down at you, surely thinking about the same scene from this morning.
“Oh, so you remember now?” He teased you, stepping closer and gently tapping the tip of his cock to your lips. You opened your mouth so fast he chuckled again. “Yeah? Is this what you want?”
You didn’t answer. You just placed your mouth on his tip, your tongue slowly circling his tip in that deliberate way you knew drove him insane.
Ryland slid his hand till he cupped the back of your neck, pulling your head forward and slowly pushed himself deeper into your mouth. “Fuck me. That mouth of yours…” He hissed.
And oh he loved it every time when he saw your facial expression change as he hit the back of your throat. That little frown of yours, the way your eyes immediately began watering, the hungry little whimpers… he could come just from that. Fuck.
You kept your eyes on his perfect face as you sucked on his cock. He closed his eyes momentarily, lips parted and gasping as he tilted his head back, exposing his very biteable throat. And honestly, he looked majestic.
“Fuck…” he moaned, voice lower in pitch as you quickened your pace. He looked down as he thrust his hips forward gently into your mouth, and loved the sight of your spit coating his cock. You looked magnificent on your knees, hands behind your back, taking him perfectly.
The groans and gasps which escaped his lips made you squirm and it only added to the dampness which was forming in your underwear. And his foul mouth and his dirty words… oh.
“You look so pretty on your knees, baby.”
“Come on, show me how badly you wanted this.”
“This is all you wanted, huh? Just some cock in your mouth?”
“Look at you. You don’t even stop to breathe, huh?”
He quickened the pace at which he moved in and out of you, eager to chase his orgasm but also wanting to keep toying with you. He swore under his breath as you dragged your tongue over the slit on his tip lazily.
He looked down at you with a warning in his eyes behind those damned glasses. “Don’t tease me, brat.”
And that was all it took for you to take him back into your mouth and suck on his cock until he came undone all over your tongue. He came with a moan and a sigh, closing his eyes and relishing the warmth of your mouth wrapped around him. You swallowed all of him, licked him clean, then waited.
Ryland looked down at you, his fingers caressing your cheek softly. “You okay?” He asked. As always, just as caring as he was wild.
You nodded quickly. He laughed at how you were still licking at the corners of your mouth.
“Come on. Up.”
He cupped your face in his large hands as you stood up. He stared deep into your eyes while one of his hands wrapped around your throat, while his other hand reached down, slid into your sleeping shorts and cupped your dripping wet pussy.
You whimpered at his touch. He didn’t move his hand, he just kept it there to mess with you. “Aww baby, it’s so wet. Is that all for me?” he asked, softly, lips brushing against your flushed cheek. His stubble brushed against your skin. The feeling was familiar, and he was warm. And you wanted more.
You nodded. “Please, Ry…”
He chuckled quietly in your ear. “Oh I bet it’s throbbing, isn’t it?” He asked again, very delicately tightening his grip around your throat.
You nodded again, whimpering. He smirked against your skin.
Ryland pulled his hands away, and stepped back to admire your desperate state, whimpering, breathing heavily and clearly, dripping wet for him. He smirked again.
“Come on.” He simply said and grabbed you by the shoulders to move you. Before he pushed you down on his bed, he undid the handcuffs briefly. Massaging your wrists a little before handcuffing you again, with your hands in front of you this time.
“Is this still necessary?” You whined. “I want to touch you.”
Ryland shrugged. “Well next time use your words and tell me that. Don’t just be a brat about it. You understand?” His tone was gentle, but stern.
You nodded, holding back from rolling your eyes at him.
Next thing you knew, he had you naked and pinned you down on his bed by your throat while he stared down at you like he was famished. “Now tell me, are you gonna keep being bratty?” He spoke while his other hand parted your legs. “Or are you gonna be my good girl?” He slid inside of you without a warning.
Your soft whimpers only fueled his desire. His hand was around your throat and his cock buried so deep inside of you that he doubted you could even think straight.
“I’ll be whatever you want, please Ry…” You whispered, feeling like you were so close to passing out because he felt so fucking good inside you and he’d barely even fucked you yet.
“Just like that, huh?” He taunted through gritted teeth as he dug his knees into the mattress before fucking into you hard and fast. “Just like that and you’re the sweetest girl in the world. So polite too.”
There was nothing gentle about him, fucking you like there’s no tomorrow. He tightened his grip around your throat as he sped up into you, moaning right into your ear.
You were a complete mess under him as his other hand grabbed your cuffed wrists and pinned it above your head, making your back arch into him.
“Is this what my brat wanted?” He hissed in your ear, speeding up again. “Hmm? Some attention? Did you get what you wanted, baby? Is this good enough for you?”
The way his body moved perfectly on top of yours. You were bare but he wasn’t. The fabric of his t-shirt rubbed against your sensitive nipples and it was all too overwhelming, his voice, his words, his warmth, his weight on top of you, his cock thrusting in and out of you.
You whimpered desperately, wanting so badly to touch him. Touch his face, grab his hair. Anything. But the cuffs wouldn’t let you, also his grip on your wrists tightened. So you whined even more in pleasure, and annoyance.
Ryland sped up into you, mumbling, “You just want this all the time, don’t you, baby? All my time, all my attention. It all has to belong just to you, huh? You don’t care that I have work to do. That I have research to do that’s driving me insane. That I have lectures to plan, papers to mark, none of that. You just want this. All day. Everyday. ” He whispered in your ear, in a daze as he pounded into you. “You just wanna be fucked, and used, and– god damn it!” He cursed as he felt you tighten around him, your walls squeezing his cock in a way that messed with his brain.
He was done taunting you now. He needed to make you both feel good. So Ryland released your throat and placed his hand on your abdomen, pressing down on your front so he could feel himself inside you with each thrust.
He stared deep into your eyes, his glasses fogging up a little, while he sped up into you again. “You feel that, baby? Yeah, that’s me. That’s where you always want me, huh?” He groaned as he fucked deeper into you. “All you have to do is ask. No need to be a brat about it.” He chuckled to himself, and said, “Although I do love a brat.”
“Ry…” You hissed, your body squirming under him, your back arching off the bed. He was mean, and rough but your body craved him even more.
He pressed his lips to yours, swallowing all your moans before he pulled out abruptly, ignoring your pleas as he flipped you around and pulled you onto your knees, your cuffed wrists above your head as he pushed into you again from behind.
You moaned out loud, unable to hold back as you surrendered to him completely. Your body bending for him however he wanted it to. “Fuck…” Your moans were muffled, your face pushed into the soft mattress as Ryland gripped your hips and slammed in and out of you incessantly, moaning and grunting in the process.
“Oh stop complaining.” He hissed upon hearing your muffled pleas. He leaned over you, pressing your wrists even deeper into the mattress as he whispered into your ear, “You wanted this, didn’t you? Been a brat about it all evening. So take it how I give it to you.”
Tears escaped your eyes as the pleasure became too much to handle, and you felt that familiar pressure forming at your base again. His tight grip on your hips would surely leave a bruise, but he didn’t care. Honestly, neither did you.
You whimpered as both his hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him harshly each time.
Your voice was strained and hoarse as you moaned, and whimpered under him. The mattress soft against your heated face, a complete contrast to how he was handling you. His thrusts hard and fast. Brutal. But fuck he felt good inside you.
“That’s right, moan for me…” He growled as his throbbing cock touched you in all the right places, making you come in no time. “My perfect little brat.” He growled again as he came right after you, finally.
You were barely able to process anything, but as you were shaking and gasping for air as you came down from your high, you felt him pull his cock out of you and a moment later, he slipped his fingers back into you.
You let out a surprised moan as he fingered his cum into you again, making you arch your back and whine in pleasure even louder than before.
“Please…” you whined, unsure if you wanted him to stop playing with your body or if you wanted him to make you come again. “Ry, please.”
“Look at that, huh? You’re still greedy.” He didn’t care about how sensitive you were. He carried on toying with you, pumping his fingers in and out of you until you came again. Crying and gasping for him.
“There we go, baby.” He uncuffed your wrists before pulling you into a warm embrace, wrapping his arms around you as he spooned you from behind, both of you too tired to move and clean up just yet. “Are you okay?” He asked, kissing the side of your face and you melted into him.
When the trembling subsided, you twisted in his arms and shoved your face into his neck, whispering, “Thank you.”
He chuckled, rubbing his hand aimlessly up and down your thigh. “Anytime, baby. You know I’ll always take care of you. Even when you’re being brat.”
ryland grace and fem reader 𖥧 young prodigy ! reader
Grace barely remembers anything about you, it's all blurred memories that resemble your face. He knows you are part of the project, the fact that you're in the ship is enough proof, but.. you look so.. young. You look like the students he knows, or at least thinks, he taught back at home.
You've survived, unlike the other two people he can barely remember aswell, but you're still asleep. You're in a coma that he doesn't know how to manually wake you from, but at least you're not dead.
He doesn't know anything about you, well, he knows your name and that you look like someone who is just starting out in college, but he desperately needs you to wake up.
He needs you to wake up so he can stop crying his heart out.
content 𖥧 i try to keep reader gn but you might see fem pronouns/afab (lemme know if this happens, it's just what im used to), angst but fluff and a lot of wholesomeness, reader is unrealistically young (but they were short on personnel so its okay).
warnings 𖥧 BOOK canon typical crybaby ryland, blood and injury, mentions of death, mentions of suicide (mission), reader is implied to have sh at some point in their life (just scars gonna be mentioned).
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ chapters
0.5 ─ the introduction (reading rn)
1 ─ awake
2 ─ remember
3 ─ grace
more tba ..
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ taglist
🏷 @lvlyywntr , @rilezra , @kirarisoul , @churchl4dy , @callme-holly , @radioshepard + comment to be added !!
tropes ? found family , father figure who is trying , adopting an alien , amnesia , trauma bonding , hurt-comfort , aroace rep (ryland).
summary: jack has been trying to get the pretty pediatric caseworker from upstairs to fall in love with him for weeks now. the only problem is, you have no idea that he's even into you. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, dana evans
contents: sunshine!reader, slightly ditzy!reader, friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, humor, fluff, not proofread :P
FIC #4 / 20 FOR 20
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
PEDES CONSULT — CENTRAL 14.
The message scrolls across your pager on the elevator ride down to the bottom floor, where the chaos of the E.D. hits you before the doors have even opened. A monitor wails from somewhere inside the trauma bay. A nurse rushes by with a crash cart rattling violently against the tile. Someone in triage is crying; someone else is swearing. A thousand conversations fill the air until they turn into a dull roaring in your ears.
You enter like a sliver of sunlight breaking through storm clouds, weaving through the chaos with a practiced sort of ease. A pale blue cable-knit sweater bunches around your wrist, while a flowing ivory skirt patterned with delicate forget-me-nots sways around the tops of your sneakers with each step. You’re made of much softer stuff than the sterile brightness of the E.R. — like springtime washing over a war zone.
Robby and Jack stand together outside the closed door of Central 14. Exhaustion sits heavily in the former’s bearded face, weighed down with the regret of not clocking out an hour ago like he should’ve when he had the chance. The latter flips through the chart in his pale hands, scruffy features screwed in concentration until you enter into his eyeline.
He straightens almost instantly, hardly able to stay casual when it comes to you. “Little Miss Sunshine…” he greets with a cool grin, tucking the clipboard under his strong arm.
Your polite smile widens a little at the nickname. “You paged?”
“We’ve got a three-year-old girl. Suspected meningitis,” Robby briefs in a monotone, each word coated in a thick layer of fatigue. “High fever, lethargy, neck stiffness— labs are ugly, too.”
Your features soften instantly. “Oh, poor baby…”
Your eyes dart to the window. You catch only a sliver of the family through the edge of the curtain — young parents, likely in their early twenties, faking teary smiles for their sick baby, who sits in a too-big bed in a too-big hospital gown patterned with so many cartoon puppies.
“Parents are freaking out, obviously,” Jack adds gently, never once taking his eyes off of you. “We thought you could walk them through the admission process before we take her upstairs.”
“Of course,” you nod, with a voice as gentle as you look.
Jack passes the clipboard over to you and allows his calloused fingers to brush your softer ones for a beat longer than probably necessary. Though if you notice it, you make no mention of it as you flip through the thin pages and follow behind Robby into the dim room.
The chaos outside muffles when the door clicks shut behind you.
A young mother — Nia, the form tells you — sits in a chair beside the bed with a wadded tissue clutched in her trembling hands. Her husband, Malcolm, sits on the edge of the hospital bed, wearing the long day all over, as his daughter curls lazily into his side. Ruby Turner is clammy with fever; her round eyes are heavy with it, too. And beneath her chubby arm, is a stuffed animal wearing a lab coat and a stethoscope around its long neck.
“Hi, there…” you greet in a gentle lilt, crouching beside the bed until you’re eye level with the toddler, who eyes your warm smile with a weary suspicion. “I have to say, that is a very serious giraffe you’ve got there, Miss Ruby.”
The girl blinks back at you with sleep-weary eyes; the same dark brown as her mother’s. “Pickles,” is all she can make out through her hoarse throat. The words came out like dry gravel, which rattles harshly in her chest when she coughs hard a second later.
Her dad pats her gently on the back with a wide hand and flashes you a tired smile. “She named him Pickles,” he clarifies.
“Pickles?” you gasp. “I had a dog named Pickles when I was growing up— He looked a little like that one there.”
You motion to the shaggy white dog on her hospital gown. The girl tilts her curly head down and begins pointing at each puppy herself, aptly naming each of them Pickles. It’s the first time the child has been moderately alert, or otherwise has been willing to engage, since she arrived some hours ago. Watching you work feels a little like watching a magic trick.
“Sorry. Hi. I should probably introduce myself,” you laugh warmly and rise to full height again, shaking both of the parents’ hands. “I’m one of the pediatric caseworkers upstairs— My job is basically helping families know what’s happening next. You know, all the boring insurance details, and making sure you guys aren’t going through things alone.”
The mother nods, wiping her nose with the crumbled tissue in her fist. “So what happens now?” she asks, voice teary and trembling.
You nod with a polite smile. “Yeah, so the pediatric unit is gonna start preparing a room for her upstairs, so our doctors can give her the full evaluation she needs— They’ll probably monitor her over the next few nights, too, just to make sure everything’s okay. And you’ll be able to go with her once transport comes, of course, we’ll just need to get everything squared away with insurance while she’s getting tested.”
“So she’s gonna be okay?” the father presses, half-strangled.
You never lie to families. Not ever. It was, as you saw it, the golden rule in any hospital. Jack noticed that about you, too — because he couldn’t help but notice everything about you. But he saw how hopeful you were without ever being dishonest, without ever making promises you knew you could not keep.
“She’s exactly where she needs to be,” you answer carefully. “And she has the best doctors I know taking care of her now. You guys made a great decision by bringing her when you did.”
The mother beside you sniffles. Her exhale leaves her mouth in a quiet sob, which she buries behind her hands before her daughter can see her crying. It’s not quite sad — certainly not as much as it had been earlier that day — but rather it’s a cry of distant relief; the first time all day she hasn’t felt like the worst mother on the planet.
Robby exhales quietly through his mouth behind you — scruffy cheeks puffing, obviously eager to leave. Jack, however, just keeps on staring at you, as you turn back toward the little girl with your voice now lowered in a feigned sort of seriousness.
“Now, Miss Ruby, I’m gonna need your professional opinion on this, okay?”
The girl blinks slowly back at you.
“…Do you think Mr. Pickles needs his own hospital bracelet, too?”
Jack sees the young girl laugh for the first time all day when you’re helping her wrap a plastic arm band around the giraffe’s stuffed leg. It’s basically your superpower, the way you make all the terrifying things feel halfway manageable. By the time you’re stepping back out into the hallway, with Jack and Robby at your side, the family is a little bit steadier than they were before you arrived.
Jack eyes you up and down for a moment, before leaning in to nudge your shoulder with his broader one. Your soft sweater grazes his bare arm, and he gets a faint whiff of your pretty perfume before he leans away again.
“When did you get so good at that, huh?”
Your head whips to the side. You blink like an owl up at him “…At talking?”
“Sure, yeah,” he laughs. “At talking people off the ledge.”
“Oh.” You bounce a shoulder in a lazy shrug, then reach to pull the neck of your sweater back up again when it slips off your collarbone. “I don’t know, I just… try not to sound like a hospital brochure, I guess.”
“Hear that, brother?” Jack quips, reaching behind you to clap Robby on the shoulder. “Try not to sound like a hospital brochure next time, yeah?”
The older man says nothing. He just lifts his hand and scratches at his temple with his middle finger, discreetly flipping him off.
You laugh under your breath and head back towards the elevator, pretty skirt swishing around your ankles. “Try not to traumatize anyone while I’m gone, alright?”
“Can’t make promises like that down here, Sunshine,” Robby calls back. “You know that.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to think we should just keep you down here permanently,” Jack says with a lazy shrug. His freckled biceps flex slightly when he crosses them over his broad chest, swaying back and forth on his feet. “You know, just— bring you into every room before the doctors go in. We’ll call you the Emotional Support Coordinator.”
“Oh, would you?” you scoff a faint laugh and hit the button for the upper floor.
The doors part with a soft ding a second later. You step in through the threshold and turn to face him once more, giving him a much better view of the smile on your face.
“I mean, it’d certainly make me feel better,” he jokes.
“Well, you’re not the patient, Dr. Abbot,” you retort with a devilish grin. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got a few more years before your geriatric assessment, right?”
“A few,” he echoes sarcastically, light eyes squinted. “My opinion still counts, though.”
You shake your head at him despite the soft grin still dancing on the edges of your mouth. “You’re funny, Dr. Abbot,” is all you say, as you press the panel on the inside of the lift. The doors whir when they slide shut; your grin remains visible between them until hatch closes just ahead of you.
Jack drops his head with a chest-deflating huff when you’re gone.
Robby tries and fails to choke back his laughter.
“You are officially 0 for 6, brother,” the man jokes. He claps Jack on the shoulder, hard, as his dark eyes squint under the weight of his smiling. “It’s honestly getting a little painful now.”
Jack turns to flash him a deadpanned look. “Shouldn’t you be clocking out now?” he wonders in a monotone.
“Not anymore,” Robby scoffs. “It’s just starting to get fun.”
The pediatric floor was quieter in the mornings, you found, after switching to the day shift some weeks back. It was never truly silent, exactly, but it was still a little bit softer, as the panic from the overnight patients faded into a calmer sort of quiet.
Cartoon reruns play quietly behind closed doors, while lively children’s music can be heard from further in the main area, down the hall to your right. A softer set of lullabies, meanwhile, plays more distantly from the nursery behind the double doors to your left. And, somewhere within the soft sanctuary of it all, a wailing baby is fighting a losing battle against taking their liquid medicine.
It’s all confetti to you, really, from where you sit behind the reception desk with three different charts open on the monitors ahead of you.
There’s a highlighter in your hand, a pen behind your ear, a paper cup of cooling coffee between your teeth, and approximately fourteen unfinished tasks glaring at you from the computer screen.
You have not yet properly woken up — the same way the sun has not quite yet risen over the horizon. Your hair has been haphazardly dealt with, for one. Your cherry-colored sweater is bunched awkwardly at your waist, for another, while the white button-up you wear beneath it sticks out over top of your plaid-patterned bottoms. You vaguely noticed that your socks were mismatched when you slid into your scarlet flats, but were much too tired to bring yourself to care.
You don’t even flinch when the phone rings beside you. You reach for it with your free hand without looking, missing twice before finally plucking the plastic from the hook.
“PTMC—” You falter when you realize you still have the paper cup between your teeth. You scramble to set it back on the desk with the hand not holding the phone. You clear your throat and try again. “PTMC Pediatrics— How can I help you?”
“Morning, Sunshine.”
Jack’s low voice crackles from the other line. You can practically picture him downstairs in the E.D. just now — leaning against the workstation with a computer glowing before him; with his messy silver curls, and his tired blue-green eyes, and that stupidly handsome half-smile he gets every time he talks to you.
You’re smiling at the thought alone before you even realize it.
“Dr. Abbot?” you answer. “Do you need something? What didn’t you just page me—”
“Weren’t you the one who said I can call just to say hi before you switched to the dark side?”
(The day shift, he means.)
You scoff quietly and lean back in your swivel chair. “Well, I guess, that is preferable to getting paged about sick babies, so… I’ll take it.”
“Wow…” Jack croons drily. “You always say the sweetest things to me, you know that?”
“Well, what can I say? I’m very charming before seven A.M.”
“I think you’re very charming all the time, Sunshine.”
You falter for a brief moment, unable to tell if he’s flirting with you or if he’s just being nice and you’re the weirdo for thinking otherwise. So you shake the thought from your head and change the subject entirely.
“You sound tired, old man— Isn’t it almost bedtime for you?”
“Almost…” His sigh crackles through the faint static of the landline. “But unfortunately, there’s this case manager upstairs who won’t stop distracting me…”
You exhale a frustrated huff, utterly oblivious as you begin to gossip with him under your breath. “Is Hastings bothering you, too? Because she’s been hounding me about clearing beds up here since I came in an hour ago.”
There’s a long beat of silence on the other line, filled by the sound of distant chatter from the E.D.
“…I’m talking about you, Sunshine,” Jack clarifies.
“Oh…” you trail off, face burning hot. Your brain scrambles further when the light starts flashing on your desk, another call waiting. “That’s, uh— Sorry. There’s— There’s just someone on the other line.”
“Oh.”
You tuck the phone between your shoulder and cheek, fingers whizzing across the keyboard as you type with practiced (only now slightly anxious) hands. “So if you wanna have a conversation, you’re gonna have to trek all the way up to pedes, unfortunately.”
“Damn…”
“Yep…” you hum absentmindedly. “It’s a real difficult journey. Very treacherous elevator ride.”
“Well, you’re making a pret-ty compelling argument here, Sunshine.”
“Goodbye, Jack,” you lilt with a big dumb grin on your face, that you hope isn’t as audible in your voice.
“See you soon, Sunshine.”
You think nothing of his words when you decline his call and take another. You hardly expect to see him now, not when he’s still wrapping up the long night and briefing the day shift that’s trickling slowly in downstairs. He’s about half an hour shy of going home and collapsing face-first into his mattress — and you’re hardly special enough to lose sleep over.
Jack, however, respectfully disagrees.
And so does Dana, who saunters into the workstation to start her morning, only to find the man hanging up the desk phone with a lazy grin hinting at the edges of his mouth.
“What’s that look for, huh?” she croons in place of a greeting, shrugging off the jean jacket she arrived in and spreading it on the back of her chair before her.
Jack looks up from where he’s shoving the phone back into its cradle. “What look?” he scoffs. “I don’t have a look.”
“Oh, you most certainly have a look,” she argues.
“I have a face, Dana.”
“Uh-huh,” the older woman deadpans, half-distracted, as she logs into the monitor ahead of her, with her glasses sitting low on her nose. “And right now, that face looks like you’re the main character at the climax of a Nora Ephron movie.”
“…What’s a Nora Ephron?” Jack wonders with furrowed brows.
The corner of Dana’s mouth lifts in a crooked half-smile as she peers at him over the top of her clear frames. “Go ask Little Miss Sunshine about it. She’ll tell ya.”
Jack’s light eyes narrow in a smug sort of look as he strolls slowly past her. “Thanks for giving me an excuse to go up there, Evans,” he quips.
“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You were already on your way.”
There’s a newfound skip in his step, along with a faint limp in his prosthetic from the long shift, as he makes the elevator ride up to the pediatric floor — where he’s greeted instantly by soothing lullabies, children’s laughter, and reruns of old cartoons.
He’s swaddled instantly by the dim lighting and the soft warmth — both of which are rare to find in the cold, sterile chaos of the unrelenting E.D. just a few floors down. It’s like entering a whole new world when he steps out of the elevator.
Jack hears your voice, distant at first, but growing louder the further he treks down the hall. “No, I understand the policy, sir. You don’t have to explain it to me again—”
You exhale an annoyed sigh when the man on the other line prattles on, anyway, talking in a slow monotone as if you hadn’t understood him the first time. Despite your irritation, you perk instantly when Jack enters your vision, still in his black scrubs from the night shift, with a new exhaustion etched across his scruffy face.
He greets you with a tight-lipped smile anyway.
Your chest swells with a funny feeling accordingly.
“Sorry,” you mouth apologetically. “Just— one second.”
Jack waves a hand in your direction. “You’re fine,” he mumbles and turns away, idling awkwardly some feet away with his hands in his pockets, pretending not to hover. He marvels at the paintings on the walls, vivid scribbles from children of all ages, as he shifts on his weight — trying to relieve the distant pressure in his artificial limb.
You return to your phone call some feet behind him: “Yes, I get that. But this is a six-year-old going through extensive leukemia treatment— Delaying authorization for inpatient care would—”
You grumble an annoyed breath and drop your head into your hand when the man on the other line speaks over you once more. Jack glances over his shoulder at you, features softening instantly.
“—No, why should his parents waste their time fighting insurance, which should already be in place, by the way, when they could be spending it with their son? How is that fair?” you continue, obviously angry, but still so soft in your way. There’s a few seconds of silence as the person on the other line responds. You nod wordlessly to yourself at whatever they’re saying. “Yes, I will absolutely call back when your supervisor comes in— and every day until this is handled. Alright? Great. Bye…”
You set the telephone back on the hook with a huff.
“…Asshole,” you grumble around your breath, then get all sheepish again when your eyes find Jack’s. You cower under his softened stare. “Sorry… This insurance company’s trying to deny extended coverage for one of our oncology kids— because apparently compassion is illegal now, so…”
Jack musters a weak smile as he closes the distance between you. “I’m sure it’ll all work out.”
“Hopefully…” you sigh, a little embarrassed now, as you shrink further in your swivel chair. “So, uh... H-How was your shift?”
“Better now,” the older man croons, folding his arms along the countertop ahead of you, and leaning in until you can smell the cologne lingering on his skin — a mixture of leather and sandalwood.
“You’re such a suck-up, Dr. Abbot,” you say with squinted eyes.
His face twists into a look of faux-offense. “Well, that’s not a very nice thing to say to someone trying to invite you out for lunch, now is it?”
You brighten instantly. “Wait, really? That sounds so fun! Are Shen and Ellis coming, too— I haven’t seen them in ages!”
Jack’s smile falters slightly at the edges. “Well… Well, no, ‘cause I.. I thought, you know, it’d be just us. You know, you and me. Like a date.”
You blink owlishly back at him. “Oh…”
“Unless— Unless you don’t want to—” Jack stammers, quickly losing his ground.
“Of course I want to!” you blurt, a little louder and a far quicker than you mean to. “I just… I didn’t— I didn’t realize that you, you know, that you… liked me.”
His brows lower in confusion because, to him, it couldn’t have been more obvious that he was into you. He’d spent months tripping over himself to get your attention, including the time he ran into a crash cart ‘cause he was too busy staring at you to notice that it was in his way.
A chuckle sputters suddenly from his mouth accordingly. “I’ve been flirting with you for weeks! I mean, I’ve been calling up here just to talk to you since you changed shifts!”
“I thought you just liked bothering me!” you giggle in return, face burning hot.
“Yeah, well,” Jack tilts his silver head. “I do like bothering you, actually.”
“I like when you bother me, too…” you murmur sheepishly, struggling to meet the man’s unwavering stare as you swivel anxiously back and forth in your chair. You catch yourself smiling wider than you realize when you tell him, “And lunch sounds great, by the way.”
“Great…” Jack exhales a breath he didn’t know that he was holding, that he feels like he’s been holding in for weeks now. “‘Cause Robby’s kinda been threatening to ask you out for me if I didn’t do it myself, so… Happy to save myself the embarrassment.”
Your eyes widen with a girlish sort of horror. “Wait— Robby knew?”
“Sunshine,” Jack grins. “I’m pretty sure the entire hospital knew.”
ryland grace who gives it a go at understanding your kinks. you watch him place his glasses back on his nose as his face contorts into one of him in deep thought. and then he asks, "so, a... daddy kink? is that what you're getting at?"
"mm," you make a noise and give him a look that tells him not really. "nooo, it's more... kinky than that. i wouldn't be calling you daddy, at least not all the time. i'd be more so calling you... dad."
"dad." ryland repeats, then a lightbulb turns on in his brain. "oh, so, it's roleplay? incestuous roleplay? you want me to be your dad and you'd be my daughter?"
you nod your head. "pretty much, yeah."
ryland strokes his chin. "huh, interesting... say, you never told me much about your family—"
you know where he's going with this, so you give him the answer he's obviously wanting. "both my parents are alive and married. my dad is very present and supportive of me and my career. i love him dearly and he loves me. last time i saw him was last month when he came into town for my birthday to take me out to dinner. i don't have an electra complex. i'm just a kinky woman who wants to call her boyfriend 'dad' while he fucks her. does that answer your question?"
ryland, simply, is shocked. well, not shocked, but he also doesn't have a full understanding of the situation. his eyebrows are raised, like he's trying to make sense of the information that has been presented to him. he admits to himself that it has been a hot minute since he has taken any sort of psychology class. and frankly learning about freud and his theories disturbed him, so he didn't exactly show much interest in learning more about the psychology and neuroscience behind kinks and fetishes.
"not all kinks come from trauma, ryland, sooo... whataya say?" you slowly take steps closer to close the small gap in between you and ryland. there's a grin creeping up onto your lips as you catch ryland swallowing nervously, and god. it makes you wanna toy with him even more. once you're closer, practically pressed up against him, you look up at him with big, pleading eyes and your hands behind your back. "can i be your baby girl, dad?"
the twitch in ryland's pants is unmistakable. sign him up.
This is more than a little depraved, but would it be alright if I requested dubcon cuddlefucking with Victor? Something about him being grossly intimate while forcing himself on someone is kinda hot
I truly adore a really intimate, sweet and close Victor especially with him talking you through it no matter how intense it gets.
I also feel a bit bad because I feel like my last couple pieces/answers have been a bit lack lustre (blaming my period and illness for that (｡•́︿•̀｡) so I really locked TF in for this one!
Going to try and do fewer but higher quality answers from here on because I appreciate all of y'all and wanna give you some Good Shit!! ヾ(｡✪ω✪｡)ｼ
Tags: EXCEEDINGLY dub con, Sorta somno, intense slow fucking, prone boning, oversized dick, talking you through it.
reader has a vagina, no gendered descriptions used.
Movement and pressure. An overwhelming presence surrounds you as you are gently awoken and at first, you assume you've just wrapped yourself too tight in your blankets. Squirming around blearily, you try to free yourself of the fabric prison. The more you move, the tighter the hold and the more aware you become. Peeling open your heavy eyelids, you blink rapidly to try and adjust, your mind finally processing more information as you become more fully awake. While there are blankets on you they are shoved down towards your hips, barely hanging on as one of your legs is propped up on...something? Just as you start to really wriggle and fight, you hear a gentle, low hum.
"Husshh sweetheart, I'm right here. No need to be afraid."
The voice is familiar and that fact alone sends a bolt of confusion through you. What was your doctor doing here? Reaching around you find the massive body of Doctor Gideon pressed against yours, rocking slowly. It was then you clue in to your leg again and how vulnerable it left you. Trying to pry it free you find he's holding it against his hip, your own tilted gently back towards his as they meet again and again. You let out a moan...only to lay there wondering why. Another slow rock of his hips and you feel it again; a spark of pleasure surging through you into your gut.
Peering down over your body you put all the pieces together. You're nude from the waist down, your blankets haphazardly tangled around your ankle as your doctor slides his cock over your wet folds. He must have started while you were asleep and either the building pleasure or his repositioning of your leg woke you. Before you can gasp in fear, confusion or just disgust, you feel his lips press against your ear.
"You're safe, dear. I promise. I won't harm you."
Cooing at you like a cornered animal he tries to ease you away from panic. Every slide of his wet cock head against your clit only muddies your emotions further; a dizzying mix of pleasure and confusion. You shouldn't be enjoying this. He was technically assaulting you. Taking advantage of your sleeping form. Those cracked lips press lower, finding your pulse thrumming beneath your skin before his forked tongue slips out to leave a cool trail of saliva on your heated skin. Given his sheer size you knew you could never fight him off yet you do very little to try. No slapping or screaming, no kicking or biting. You lay there, the tension in your muscles melting away with every delicious stroke and kiss.
Feeling you ease Victor kisses you deeper, starting to suckle the tender skin of your throat. The hand that isn't holding your leg slides up to your chest to find your nipple, flicking his thumb over it and bringing it to a peak. Rolling it between his fingers he revels in your soft moans and whimpers.
"That's it, dear. Trust me, I only want to make you feel better."
His voice in your ear sends shivers down your spine making you arch into the wall of muscle behind you. Without you controlling them, your hips buck in time with his thrusts, following his cock as it pulls away over and over. As you grasp at him you find he is still mostly clothed; his jacket undone and left open and his pants shoved down towards his knees. Just enough that he can fuck you freely. As if he was in a rush to get on with it. The messy smattering of wet around your hole makes you think he may have smearing some lube over you before he started. A small nicety you appreciated but that reminded you he intended to fuck you without you knowing. As if you wouldn't wake up the second his heavy cock pressed into you.
The head of it hitches against your cunt as he tries to push it past the tight, muscular ring. Even with all the lube and wetness, you could tell this was going to sting. That thought sends another spike of fear through you as you start to squirm in his grasp again. At first Victor only holds you with his hands. Each push of his fat cock head makes you worry more and more until you're far too tense to take him. Victor sighs lowly before wrapping an arm around your torso, pinning you entirely in place as the hand on your leg slides up to your thigh. Peeling your legs apart again and with your arms pinned to your sides, you were entirely helpless to him.
"Relax. It'll only hurt a moment..."
That hushed tone drooled honeyed promises into your ear as he held you still, finally breaching your cunt with a sturdy push. A surprised yelp rips from your throat and just as you think you can't take anymore, Victor proves that he has so much more to give. While there is a sting as your muscles are stretched so suddenly, there is also a dull pressure fanning the heat in your belly. By the time he hits your cervix, you feel more full than you've ever had before. Victor's groans behind you fill your ears and rumble through your body.
"So good for me, dear. Taking as much as your tiny body can."
Sliding back out is just as torturous as pushing in, his bulbous crown raking against your walls with every inch he pulls out. Victor continues these painfully slow thrusts, squeezing you tight as he practically grinds against you at a snails pace. The pain melts away only to be replaced by overwhelming pressure and heat. Hooking your knee on his thigh, Victor uses the now free hand to graze over your clit.
The gentle slide of his fingers immediately pulls another gasp from you, the intense spark of pleasure making you jump in his bear hug. His constricting hold smothers you as you try to gasp for air between being filled to the brim and his deft fingers rolling your clit. Each ragged breath comes out in shuddering whimpers and wails, so close to cumming already it leaves you reeling.
When your first orgasm hits Victor holds his fingers in place, gingerly milking your clit as it twitches against his calloused digits. Already tight walls spasm around his cock and still he keeps his dangerously slow humping. Relived cries tumble from your mouth as you go limp in his crushing hold hoping, and assuming, that he would follow suit soon after. However just as you start to come down from your high, Victor's pace speeds up just a touch, his hips bucking harder and faster and his fingers rubbing over the still stiff nub in quick back and forth motions.
It felt like hours. Orgasm after orgasm pulled from you by Victor's experienced hands all the while he slowly fucked you into the mattress, picking up pace in increments. He only let you go to turn you onto your belly, holding your hips up to his as he crushed you beneath his weight with each gut wrenching thrust. Tears stain your face and pillow as you drool and scream into the pillow, so overwhelmed with pleasure and feeling you can barely think. All you can do is beg for him to cum, your walls raw and overstretched but still so receptive to his thick cock.
With your belly pressed to the bed, you are made even more aware of how deep he was as each motion distends your skin. Punishing your g-spot you practically crumble as a final orgasm is wrenched from you, your body entirely limp in his hands as he uses your wet, raw cunt to get off.
"J-just like that dear. So good for me. O-only a little l-ah Longer."
Victor's voice is husky and soft as he grunts and sighs, your body so tight around his shaft it borders on discomfort. The rippling of your walls around him one last time pushes him over his own edge, his body curling in on you as he growls through his orgasm. Lodging himself as deep as your body will allow him, you whimper as the feeling of his cock dumping his load inside you. Rope after rope of thick, copious cum paints your walls, his balls tightening with each twitch. A few shallow, grinding thrusts to ensure he was empty were all Victor had left in him. Thankfully, he managed to catch himself before he collapsed entirely on top of you, otherwise the weight of him may have killed you.
Panting and your dreamy moans fill the air as your hazy mind begins to drift away. You were truly and honestly exhausted and your nerves buzzed leaving you unable to hold your concrete eyelids open. Before Victor could even pull out of you, you were half asleep, your face still buried in the sodden pillow under your head. Reaching forward, Victor brushes a few hairs away from your face before leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek.
Right when he can't afford any more trouble, Cooper Howard dives into it head first.
Or, an ill-advised affair as the world goes to Hell.
Pre-War! Cooper Howard x Reader
General tags: Adultery, younger woman/older man, smut and depictions of sex, drinking, smoking, canon-typical discussions of war, angst, suspicion and paranoia, "era"-typical Hollywood behavior.
Each chapter will have more specific tags listed, list here will be updated as chapters are posted.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Introduction | Ao3
Chapter One | Ao3
Chapter Two | Ao3 *
Chapter Three | Ao3 *
Chapter Four | Ao3 *
Chapter Five | Ao3
Chapter Six | Ao3 *
*Smut or sexual content. Other chapters may allude to sex, but only marked chapters feature descriptions. Will always be tagged at the beginning of every chapter.
COOPER ABBOTT, “THE BUTCHER” needed a little helper
WARNINGS. murder, dead bodies and discussions of dead bodies, mention of skinning and non-specific mutilation, blood, toxic dynamic, age gap, surgery on both dead bodies and a living person (not graphic), talk of organs and storing them, throw up, crying/meltdown, manipulation, fingering (fem. receiving), p in v intercourse, plan b
You met Cooper Abbott for the first time in a hospital hallway. You needed hospital hours for your degree, but you didn’t know why he was there. You still didn’t, actually—you never thought to ask him. The hallway smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee, and Cooper was standing in front of a vending machine that had just eaten his dollar. He was staring at it flatly, with this bed-of-razors look in his eyes, but that vanished the second he saw you standing there, replaced with his pleasant, affable, handsome face. Cooper could put those different faces on effortlessly. He was good like that. You clocked his hands first—big, careful, surgeon’s hands, even though he told you he’s not a doctor. You didn’t totally believe him, weirdly.
Your college graduation felt like some dress rehearsal for a life that you were all-too-quickly realizing you didn’t actually want. Your classmates were all buzzing, talking fellowships and residencies and cities with glittering skylines that they’d be able to look down on with neurologist money. Eggshell white dress clinging to you, making you feel claustrophobic, you sat in the flimsy white chair and thought about the process of splitting a sternum in half, and how easy it would be to do cleanly with the right tools.
When you met Cooper for the first time, he gave you this smile. Like he already knew all that stuff, before you said a word.
“What kind of doctor are you?” he’d asked.
“Not one yet,” you’d replied.
“You look close enough!” he’d said encouragingly.
There was something gentle about the way he watched you, like you were an animal with it’s leg stuck in a trap, and he was trying to decide whether to get you out, or snap your neck and put you out of your misery.
You started seeing him at night. Only at night. Diners that were open twenty-four hours and hosted people much, much more odd-looking than you two. Parking lots behind closed shopping malls. Motel rooms under fake names. You always took the bus to go meet him, he never took you home—said it was “safer” that way. Safer for who? But Cooper didn’t specify, and you didn’t ask. You’re really good at not asking. It’s something he loves about you.
When you sat across from him, or next to him, or in his lap, he told you stories. He talked about a woman who disappeared and showed up skinned and floating down the river a couple weeks later. He told you about that man that was found hollowed out a couple towns over. Cooper never said “I did it,” never, ever—but the stories landed between you two like a blade laid carefully on the table. With every word he examined you, analyzed you closely with those eyes you were desperate to be laid bare in front of. He searched for the moment you realized, and what you thought when you did.
Maybe you didn’t know at the time, but if there had been fear, or anger, or concern that so much as flickered in your eyes for a moment, you would’ve been dead and gutted in the dumpster behind the motel in a second, and that would’ve been that.
Luckily for you, there hadn’t been.
You had to give him something in return—you told him about your anatomy labs in college. About the first incision you’d ever made, how clean it was, how your hands didn’t shake at all, even when everyone else’s did. You told him how good it felt to do such a good job cutting something. Cooper gave you a look that felt like sex, like every word you were saying was foreplay. You squirmed in your seat, your body reacted like he was undressing you.
“Just need you to look at something, sweetheart. Make sure it’s clean.”
Clean. You were good at that.
The garage was cold, so cold, and so bright. The fluorescent lights hummed relentlessly overhead, it felt like they were watching you.
The body on the table was already gone in the ways that mattered—eyes glassy, mouth slack, skin wrecked by pallor mortis. You felt calm and centered. Cooper watched you put the gloves on, listened to the snap of the latex. His face was just so relaxed, so pleasant. You were jealous of him, he was always so calm. That was the first time in your life you felt you could reach that, too.
It all made perfect sense to you, clicking into place without thinking. Muscle. Fascia. Vessels you memorized for exams, blooming under your fingers like familiar constellations. Cooper’s breathing changed as he towered behind you, watching.
Cooper never touched you while you worked. That came later. After. Once the organs were packed away with a reverent care. Once you’d scrubbed your hands raw, and he wrapped a warm towel around your shoulders like a little lamb that needed tending.
You threw up in the alleyway behind the garage, and Cooper held your hair back, rubbing your back and murmuring to you. “Good girl. Brave girl.” You clung to those words desperately. He rubbed your clit to take the edge off, massive hand down the front of your blood-spattered gray pleated skirt, circling your nerves in a way that makes your body writhe. His hand dwarfed you, covered half your face in his attempts to muffle the moans and sinful pleas that fell from your lips, held you flush against him from behind until you were shaking and releasing on his fingers in that dark, sickly lit alleyway.
After that, it became routine.
Cooper brought requests, and you fulfilled them every time.
The two of you were like-minded in your obsessive precision. Both people that needed a plan, that needed order and cleanliness. Rushed work gets sloppy, sloppy gets you caught. He liked your steady hands and your confident slices.
Your apartment fell to the wayside, you spent so much time in his carefully organized spaces—garages and basements of vacant houses, usually, that he had perfectly prepared for you. Your textbooks gathered dust in your apartment. Your diploma remained in it’s tube. Cooper called you his angel when he was in a good mood, his sweetheart, his smart, brave good girl. When he was in a bad mood, he ignored you completely. It was almost impressive, how convincingly he acted like you truly weren’t there.
You were so immersed in your work, in the delicate surgeries and the care of organ-keeping—which was harder than it sounds—you didn’t realize how much you’d lost to him. Not the work, him. You didn’t realize until you smelled his wife’s floral perfume on him.
It was a small thing, barely there, but so wrong to you. Your hands started shaking before your brain caught up.
“Where have you been?” you demanded. Your voice didn’t sound like your own.
“Home,” he was so placid, so casual.
“With… your wife?”
He laughed a little bit, like it was a silly question. It was. He was at his family home, where his family is. Of course he was with his wife.
You started crying in the most mortifying way. Loud, open mouth, spit forming a heavy string in your mouth and tears flowing past your lips and wetting your tongue with salt. Words tumbled out. You reminded him of everything you’d done for him, what you’d seen. What you’d done to those people. You were the only person who could do what you’d done for him, you thought you were special.
Cooper’s face closed like a door. He put that other face on. The one that was him but not him. The one that you never saw, unless he didn’t know you were looking.
“Don’t do that,” he said firmly. “Don’t make it ugly.”
Ugly. You slid down the wall until your butt hit the floor, knees tucked to your chest, breath coming in fragmented bursts. You told him that you can’t do this without him, that you need him, that he promised—
But he didn’t promise anything. Of course he didn’t, he never does. You both knew that.
Cooper let you tire yourself out sobbing and hyperventilating on the kitchen floor, begging him through choked cries not to sever the delicate strand that connects you. He waited until you were exhausted, covered in snot and spit and dried tears, to kneel down in front of you. He tilted your chin up with two fingers carefully, baring your puffy beet-red face to him.
“You’re spiraling,” he said it gently, his voice lulling you. “We can’t have that. Not right now.”
We.
Cooper held your face in one hand, squishing your cheeks together unflatteringly, and you sniffled wetly. He kissed you on your puffy, spit-slick lips. Firmly, a reminder of where you fit. A grounding action. You complied automatically, and later hated yourself for how totally relieved you felt in that moment, like everything had been fixed.
“There’s another job coming up, okay? It’s bigger,” he said, and your eyes were the size of saucers as you looked up at him. “I need you steady. Can you do that—for me?”
Lip still quivering, you nodded empathically. You could. Of course you could.
The next surgery took place in a basement that reeked of damp concrete and bleach. The victim was still alive when you started, but you weren’t expected to keep it that way. Cooper watched your face closely, monitoring you from his place near the basement stairs, tree-trunk thick arms crossed over his chest. You dissociated easily, immediately. It was just physiology, everything you learned in all your years of schooling. It was just practice. It was love, twisted into the shape of what you’re best at.
When it was over, Cooper leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours (covered in a thin sheen of sweat, shivering slightly)—and told you he was proud. You glowed under his words, even as something inside you calcified.
Later, alone in the bathroom, you scrubbed your hands until they were raw and red, and stared at your reflection. You looked hollowed out in a way that was reminiscent of the bodies you worked on. Dead just like them. Cooper knocked once before coming in.
He gave you what you’d been hoping for, pleading for, dreaming about the entire time you’d known him—split you open on the floor of that vacant house, your back pressed into the hardwood and knees to either side of your head. It was exactly how you’d imagined it every night since you’d met him. Precise, measured, hitting the exact spot you needed him in every thrust, making you babble and whine and scream. Somehow still punishing you, still taking something out on you, tears welling at the corners of your eyes and spilling down freely. He wiped them away and licked them from his fingers.
He was quiet, just strained breathing as his weight crushed you into the floor beneath and his hands held you where he wanted you, fingers leaving red and purple blooms behind that you’d admire for weeks and cry at the fading of. You tried to hold onto him, but he batted your hands away roughly and you didn’t try again—instead opting to dig your fingers into the ground, nails leaving little scratches behind in the wood.
You came long before he did, curling into him with a drawn-out scream, and then took what he was giving you with whimpers and drool and eyes rolled back into your head. You went limp long before he finally finished, your folded limbs putty in his grasp by the time he let out a final, ragged groan and came inside of you. The least careful thing he’d ever done.
You watched him with hungry eyes as he dressed again, bidding a bitter farewell to the bulk of his abs and his chest as he buttoned his shirt over them. You sat curled on the floor, back against the wall, your butt cushioned by your previously discarded pile of clothes that you’d scooted over to sit on. You stayed there, naked and curled up and staring at the wall, while he left to get you a Plan B. Alone in that dark, vacant house in the middle of the night, no one to hear you scream out his name or to hear the screams of his victims below. You were incandescently happy, blissed out, eyes glazed over.
This was what purpose felt like. You knew what the cost for love and happiness was. You were happy to pay it.
SUMMARY 𝜗ৎ you were raised on scripture, silence, and a father who mistook control for faith. rick grimes wasn’t looking for a miracle when he opened the locked door beneath the church—but he found you anyway and now the man who speaks for god has finally met someone he cannot command.
CONTENTS 𝜗ৎ rick grimes x preacher's daughter!reader ⸝⸝⸝ DEAD DOVE : DO NOT EAT ⸝⸝⸝ season five era ⸝⸝⸝ age gap ( rick is early 40s, reader is mid 20s ) ⸝⸝⸝ HEAVY religious trauma ⸝⸝⸝ spiritual/psychological abuse ⸝⸝⸝ mention of physical abuse ( but nothing actually happens in this part ) ⸝⸝⸝ isolation/captivity ⸝⸝⸝ religious fanaticism ⸝⸝⸝ loss of faith ⸝⸝⸝ brainwashing + gaslighting ⸝⸝⸝ wc 8.9k
CREDITS 𝜗ৎ layout inspo @/lovebugism | all dividers by @jacksabbotts
part one / part two
The apocalypse didn’t take your faith — your father did. You don’t resent God for ending the world. You resent Him for being quiet.
You resent Him for giving you a father who uses His name like a cage door.
You resent Him for watching. You resent Him for letting you pray yourself hoarse. You resent Him for letting you grow up in darkness and calling it light.
Silence was always the loudest thing in your life. Louder than hymns, louder than sermons, louder than the thud of your heart when you knelt on old pine floors and begged for something—anything—to answer you back. Louder than the dead outside, louder even than the living within the sanctuary walls.
Your father said silence was holiness.
God’s breath in the stillness. God’s hand in the hush. God’s judgment resting like fog over the rafters.
You learned to bow beneath that weight before you learned to read scripture. Before you learned the shape of your own name. Before you even knew what a childhood was supposed to feel like.
You were raised in a world carved by someone else’s fear.
Your father’s voice was the first thing you were taught to trust. It filled every corner of your home—your church—your prison masquerading as a sanctuary. It hung in the air like incense, thick and cloying, slipping through cracks in the walls and settling into your lungs. He didn’t need to shout or strike. He didn’t need to bar the doors with boards or locks or nails.
He just needed to speak for God.
And you, obedient and trembling, believed him.
“The Lord disciplines those He loves.”
“Purity is a covenant.”
“Obedience is the only path to salvation.”
“A daughter’s virtue is a father’s burden.”
You learned those lines before you learned the alphabet. They were lullabies. They were warnings. They were the rules of your small and shrinking world.
When the dead started walking, your father didn’t falter or panic. He didn’t mourn the collapse of civilization.
He preached.
“The wages of sin is death.”
“His flock shall be set apart.”
“The Lord maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside still waters.”
“But only the righteous deserve His peace.”
You repeated the verses, even when your voice cracked. Even when you hadn’t slept, when hunger gnawed at your ribs like teeth. Even when the dead pressed against the windows and your father called them the signs of the times. Mankind's divine punishment.
Even when you were fourteen days without stepping beyond the threshold of your own front door.
Fourteen days turned into months. Months turned into a year. Then into another. You stopped counting after the first winter.
You don’t remember the exact moment the church became a prison. Maybe it always was. Maybe you just didn’t understand the difference until the world outside collapsed and the world inside stayed exactly the same.
You were always meant to be tucked away, your father said.
A lamb among wolves. A light under a bushel. A daughter of God. You knew what it truly meant : you were his possession.
When you were seventeen, you were moved in the attic because your father said your childhood bedroom was too worldly. When you were twenty-two, he told you the attic was closer to God. Now at your age of twenty-six, he still tells you the same thing.
You sleep beneath beams that sag with age, their wood softening into rot. You sleep in a bed older than your mother, with a rosary hung above the headboard, its beads pale-green with wear. Your nightgowns hang on hooks like ghosts—white cotton, lace-edged, modest to the point of erasure.
There is nothing in that room that belongs to you.
Except the lace.
Your secret.
Your sin.
Your salvation.
You found it long before Alexandria, long before safety, long before the illusion of a community. You found it when you and your parents wandered, adrift between abandoned farmhouses and empty parish halls. It was tucked inside a drawer, folded between yellowing handkerchiefs.
A woman’s lingerie—soft, delicate, freshly clean, and impossibly beautiful. A thing made for someone who lived a life you couldn’t imagine : a life where skin was allowed to be seen, touched, celebrated.
Your father would call it temptation.
You call it proof that somewhere, once, there had been a world where beauty wasn’t a sin.
You hide it in your dresser beneath a pile of nightgowns, careful never to let it peek out when your mother dusts or straightens the blankets. You touch it with reverence, fingertips light as breath, as if it might disappear if you press too hard. You don’t wear it. You don’t dare. You don’t even unfold it fully.
You just need to know it’s there.
You need to know there is something in the world that was not dictated by your father’s voice.
Your mother says nothing. She is a shadow moving through the corridors, her eyes soft and hollow, hands always wringing, always trembling. She isn’t cruel. She’s merely broken. You don’t know when she folded under your father’s beliefs—before the world ended or after—but the crack in her spirit is old.
Sometimes you catch her staring through the windows, longing pooling in her eyes like rainwater in guttered stone. But she never steps outside, either. She never contradicts him. She never speaks of freedom.
You think she might have forgotten what it feels like.
You wonder if you ever knew.
Alexandria was supposed to change everything. A place with walls, food, people. A community. But communities have politics, and politics have blind spots.
Your father slipped into Alexandria like a wolf dressed in linen. Soft-spoken. Polite and scriptural. He hosted a prayer circle within days of arriving. He offered blessings over meals. He quoted scripture to Deanna with a gentleness that made her smile, made her nod, made her see piety instead of control.
He said you didn’t like crowds. That you were shy and had a tender disposition. He said you preferred the quiet of the church. He said you were fragile.
He said you were free to leave whenever you wished.
And he said it with a smile.
Everyone nodded. Everyone pretended to believe him. Everyone saw the way you avoided their eyes, the way you stood behind him, the way you folded in on yourself like a prayer half-whispered and half-swallowed. They saw the truth and ignored it because your father hadn’t done anything wrong.
Not anything they could prove and therefore nothing they could stop.
You kept to yourself. You prayed. You cleaned pews. You polished the same brass candlesticks until they gleamed. You scrubbed the altar cloths until your knuckles split.
You did everything your father asked.
You stayed inside.
The only light you touched was the filtered sun through stained-glass panes, fractured into colors you never saw in the sky. Blues and reds and golds that painted your skin in holy shapes you didn’t feel holy enough to wear.
Outside, Alexandria bustled, families rebuilt, children played, people laughed and fought and wept and lived.
Inside, the church was frozen.
Dust collected on hymnals. Scrolls of paper piled on your father’s desk. Your mother knelt in corners, whispering prayers you couldn’t hear. You walked the same wooden floors until you wore a faint path in the boards.
And God stayed silent.
He didn’t speak in storms. He didn’t speak in whispers. He didn’t speak through your father, no matter how many times he claimed He did.
But you didn’t leave.
You couldn’t.
Punishment becomes purpose when you live inside it long enough. Fear becomes faith. Obedience becomes safety. You tell yourself you stay because of God. But the truth is simpler, bleaker : you don’t know how to walk through the door.
You touch the doorknob sometimes. You feel the metal cool beneath your palm. You twist. You almost open it. Almost.
But then your father’s voice echoes in your mind—
“The Lord sets His chosen apart.”
“A woman’s virtue is guarded best by walls.”
And you freeze. And you let go. And you step back into the shadows.
The world outside may have ended, but your world ended long before it ever got the chance to begin.
Sometimes you press your forehead to the windowpane and watch the sunlight spill over the grass. Your breath fogs the glass. Your heart hammers. You wonder if the light would feel warm or if your skin would reject it, burn against a freedom it never learned to accept.
You’re twenty-six years old and you’ve never seen the world beyond ten paces from the door.
You’re twenty-six years old and you’ve never heard your name spoken without reverence or reprimand.
You’re twenty-six years old and you still fold your hands the way your father taught you when you were five.
You’re twenty-six years old and you still pray.
Even if the prayers taste like ash. Even if your God never answers.
The days in Alexandria pass slowly and predictably. But peace is a lie in a house built on fear.
The first sign is the hush.
Not the normal hush of the church—the familiar, suffocating silence you grew up in, the one that clings to you like incense. This hush is different. It has weight. It has direction and it is pointed directly towards you.
It creeps up the stairs before your father does. It reaches you before his shadow pools across the floorboards. It slinks under the door and wraps itself around your ribs, squeezing gently, reminding you that breath is a luxury.
Your skin knows before your mind does. It always has.
There is a particular way your father moves when he is angry. He doesn’t stomp nor rush. He doesn’t shout your name like other men might.
He just walks. Evenly, softly, like each step is part of a ritual.
Your heartbeat begins to thrum in that old, familiar rhythm—the one that kept you alive in the hole. The one that learned to listen for the hinges of the door, the cadence of his breathing, the scrape of his hand over the spine of a Bible.
He opens the attic door with a gentleness that makes the hair on your arms lift.
He always opens doors gently when he’s furious.
“What is hidden shall be revealed.” His voice is calm, conversational. The kind of tone neighbors would call warm, kind, and godly. Your stomach drops. You know exactly which scripture he’s choosing to embody today. You know exactly which version of God he thinks he is right now.
You rise from the bed automatically. Your body belongs to muscle memory in moments like this. Your hands fold themselves. Your eyes lower. Your breath tucks itself small and quiet inside your lungs.
He closes the door behind him. That is the second sign. Your father never closes doors unless he intends to make you smaller inside them.
He doesn’t look at you at first. He stays near the dresser. His fingers trail over the wood. Over the iron handles. Over the exact drawer where you keep—
No.
You swallow, your throat dry as old hymnal paper.
He hasn’t opened it yet. He hasn’t found the lace. He hasn’t seen your sin. But he doesn’t have to.
The anger in him was born long before the drawer existed. Long before Alexandria. Long before the world ended.
It is the kind of anger that comes from fear. From losing control. From knowing—somewhere deep and trembling—that you are a grown woman now, and grown women eventually stop obeying.
He stops touching the dresser.
He turns his head. Only his head. His body remains still, composed, steady as a steeple. Your father never turns fully when he’s angry. He understands the power of partial attention. He understands what it does to you.
“A little leaven leaveneth the whole lump.” His eyes meet yours. “Sin begins in small things.” Your heart slams once against your ribs.
What did you do?
You search your memory frantically, combing through the day:
Did you forget a prayer? Did you take too long lighting the candles? Did you leave a hymnbook crooked on a pew? Did he see you watching the children outside?
Did you think something you weren’t supposed to think?
Sometimes the sin doesn’t exist. Sometimes he just feels it.
He steps closer. Your pulse narrows into a single hot thread running down your spine. He doesn’t hit you. He never hits you. He barely even touches you. He doesn’t need to.
Your father’s rage is a sermon spoken through posture, through breath, through the quiet scrape of his shoe on the floor “Disobedience opens the door to corruption.”
There’s something in his hand.
Your nightgown from the wash. The one you folded imperfectly.
That’s all it is.
A crease wrong. A corner tucked unevenly. An innocent mistake that anyone else on earth would overlook. But your father sees disorder as rebellion. Improper folding means carelessness. Carelessness means distraction. Distraction means temptation. Temptation means sin.
You feel the world tilt.
You hear the echo of the hole behind your ribs.
He holds the cloth delicately between two fingers—as if it’s not cotton but evidence. As if your imperfection stained it. He smooths it out.
And then he lifts his eyes to you, and there it is—that serene fury
that calm, simmering disappointment, that holy wrath dressed in tenderness.
“Child,” he says softly, but the softness is cold, carved from stone.
“You are slipping.” Your hands tremble, not visibly, because God help you if your father were able to weaponize your fear more than he already has.
But your bones shake like reeds in the wind.
He refolds the cloth again, perfectly, edges aligned, and the corners sharp. His anger is quiet, but it is vast enough to swallow you whole.
You open your mouth—but nothing comes out. Because there are no words that soothe him. No words that absolve you. No words that exist between father and daughter when the father believes he is God’s right hand.
The attic feels smaller. The walls lean inward. The floor tightens beneath your feet. He sets the folded gown on your bed. Then straightens the sheet, straightens your pillow, straightens you with a glance.
“To whom much is given,” he murmurs, turning toward the door, “much will be required.” Your breath snags on a single, jagged thought : he is going to put you in the hole.
You don’t remember when the closet stopped being a closet or when it became the hole to you.
Maybe it never was.
Maybe it was always a mouth carved into the church’s ribs, waiting to swallow you the way your father said God swallowed Jonah. A place for repentance, for correction, for stillness. A place for you.
He never called it punishment.
“The Lord disciplines those He loves.”
That’s what he said the first time he closed the door behind you. You were too young to understand metaphor, too obedient to question motive. All you knew was darkness—thick and warm as breath—rising around you like a tide.
The closet earned its real name the second you realized you couldn’t see your own hand in front of your face. That is when you started calling it the hole.
There was no light. Not a crack beneath the door. Not a thread between floorboards. Not even the faint glow of the sanctuary candles bleeding through the walls.
The hole was absolute.
A void with edges you learned like scripture.
You measured it every time you were sent inside. Four steps long, one wall slightly bowed inward, another warped outward near the bottom where moisture had warped the wood. Three steps wide. Low ceiling—low enough that when you stood, your scalp brushed beams you couldn’t see.
You memorized each imperfection by touch alone, fingertips tracing splinters until you knew which corners jabbed, which swelled smooth as river stones. You mapped the dark like other people map cities.
The hole became your universe.
The Bible on the floor was the only object in it, though you could never read it. Your father said the Word of God should be near you in your suffering, but suffering was all you felt in that blackness.
The pages were soft from humidity, curled at the corners, and dusted with something you didn’t want to identify by smell alone.
Sometimes you held it. Sometimes you pressed it to your chest. Sometimes you screamed into it. Sometimes you prayed until your voice turned to grain.
Most of the time, you tried not to think at all.
Your father said the hole was a place to listen.
“He maketh me lie down in green pastures.”
“Be still and know that I am God.”
But there was nothing still about the hole. Your thoughts rattled against its walls like trapped birds. Your heartbeat grew so loud it became a sound outside yourself, a second presence pacing the darkness with you.
You learned quickly that doing nothing drove you mad.
So you made routines.
You cleaned invisible messes with your palms sweeping over wood you couldn’t see. You exercised, slow and careful, so you wouldn’t knock your knee on the bowed wall again. You walked in different countries—bare feet carrying you in tiny circles as you imagined snow in Russia, heat in Egypt, rain in Ireland.
You pretended to eat lunch at midday, even when your stomach was empty enough to scrape against your spine. You timed imaginary meals and imaginary mornings and imaginary nights, convincing your body to obey the rhythm of a world that wasn’t yours.
You prayed constantly.
You whispered stories into the hole just to hear another voice, even if it was your own. You recited psalms until you forgot where the psalm ended and where you began. You traced the outline of the Bible again and again until the leather felt like skin.
Most times, your father left you in there for hours. Sometimes, for days. And days in darkness stretch like lifetimes.
You learned the way air smelled when you were close to passing out. You learned the difference between hunger pains on the first day and the second.
You learned that crying filled the hole too quickly and left you breathless. You learned the sound of your mother’s quiet weeping through the wall, the way it trembled like a ghost dragging chains across cold stone.
You learned how to disappear inside yourself. How to fold your mind into something small and safe. How to hide your heart in a place even your father couldn’t reach.
Now, at twenty-six, you flinch at closed spaces like they’re hands reaching for your throat. You avoid closets, cupboards, narrow hallways.
You turn your shoulders sideways through doorframes. You sleep with blankets loose at your feet because the feeling of being tucked in makes your lungs seize.
The hole was inevitable. You don't know why you thought you could change that. Why you thought you could appeal to your father better nature when he has proved to you over and over again that he doesn't have one.
You move before you can think—because thinking is useless when fear is already dragging you by the throat. You cross the small attic in two frantic steps, fingers outstretched, voice breaking free of the cage you keep it in.
“I’m sorry—”
The door clicks shut.
You freeze with your hand hovering inches from the wood. Your breath trembles in your lungs, thin as thread. You know better. You know interruptions are dangerous. You know apologies are better offered with bowed head and folded hands and silence.
But the image of the hole claws up your spine like a living thing, and desperation does what obedience cannot.
You push the door open again and follow him down the first few steps.
“Father—please—”
He turns slowly and your apology falters on your tongue.
His eyes slide over you, not surprised to see you chasing after him, not curious, not patient. Just waiting, waiting for you to correct your posture. Waiting for you to make the next mistake.
You clasp your trembling hands together, hard enough that your knuckles ache, hard enough to hide the fact that your fingertips have already gone numb.
“I didn’t mean to . . . I wasn’t thinking.” The words shake as they fall out of you, like you’re coughing up stones. “I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything. Please—don’t put me—”
The word catches. You can’t even say it. You can’t say the name of the place that makes your lungs collapse and your thoughts unravel.
Your father’s expression doesn’t change. He never smiles when he’s angry. He just waits. You swallow. “I’m sorry.”
Silence stretches a moment. Two. Three.
You know this silence. You know what comes after it. Your breath stumbles again. So you try something else. Something shameful. Something desperate. Something you swore you’d never do again after the last time it failed—you attempt to appeal to his pride.
You soften your voice, careful, careful, careful. Like you’re offering an olive branch to a sleeping serpent. “What about the sermon?” You take a step down the stairs, then another. “Sunday is coming. What will the congregation think when the preacher’s daughter is absent?”
His blink is slow, measured but not angry nor surprised. Disappointed and disappointment is so much worse. “Father,” you whisper, “people will talk.”
There. That should work. It has before. Your father cares about appearances. He cares about being respected. He cares about being “the righteous man set apart.”
He cares about his sermons the way other men care about air. For a heartbeat—just one—hope flickers at the base of your throat. Then his head tilts. Only slightly.
But enough. His voice is quiet, even, and wholly terrifying. “You question me?”
The words drop into the stairwell like stones sinking into deep water. Your blood turns cold. “I—I didn’t—” You step back up, instinctively, breath punching out of you. “I meant only—only to remind—”
He steps toward you.
You step back.
He doesn’t touch you. He never needs to. He never has. The air around him does the touching for him.
His gaze sharpens—not hot like anger, but cold like judgment. His eyes sweep over you, taking in your posture, your trembling hands, the way you shrink when he raises his chin.
You fold. Like paper. Like grace. Like submission etched into bone. Your back hits the attic doorway. Your heart hits your ribs. And his voice—ironically soft—cuts through you, “Pride goeth before destruction.”
Your lungs seize. Because you know what this means. Pride is a sin. Questioning him is pride. Pride must be cleansed.
The sermon won’t save you. Your apology won’t save you. Nothing will.
You can feel the hole waiting for you. Downstairs, behind its door, silent, starved, remembering the shape of your fear.
Your father’s final words seal your fate, “Prepare yourself.”
He turns and walks away, not a sound out of place.
You stand at the top of the stairs, breathing like a hunted thing, trying not to think of darkness, of wood, of small walls pressing inward.
Trying not to think of the days, the hours, the silence. Trying not to think of the fact that this time, you won’t survive it the same way you used to.
Because the hole devours women.
Rick didn’t want to come.
He’d made that clear at least four times—once to Michonne, twice to Carol, and one long, pointed silence in Carl’s direction when the boy told him it “might be good for everyone” if he showed his face.
Rick was never religious man so a sermon at the last standing church in Alexandria was not a pass time he felt inclined to attend. But it had been disguised as a welcome gathering for him and his group seeing as they were the newest residents.
A whole community packed into pews like livestock being reassured they were safe. Rick didn't feel safe. He knew better than to let his guard down especially in a town that seemed almost too perfect.
Still—Carl insisted, and Carol backed him, and the look they both gave him was the kind that said: If you don’t go, none of us will ever hear the end of it.
And Rick Grimes knew when he’d lost an argument.
So he showered. He shaved. He put on clothes that didn’t smell like smoke or dirt or blood. He stepped back into the man people thought he should be, the version of himself Deanna wanted to present to the world tonight.
He felt ridiculous.
The shirt was too clean. The collar too stiff. His skin felt wrong without the familiar grit of road-dust on his throat and when he caught sight of himself in the mirror—hair slicked back, jaw bare, eyes still raw from everything he’d lived through—he almost didn’t recognize the man staring back.
He looked civilized.
He hated it.
Carl walked beside him with that stubborn quiet confidence Rick wished he still had. Carol hovered in her soft cardigan and floral blouse, looking like she belonged here more than anyone—deceptively small, deceptively gentle. They didn’t talk much on the walk. They didn’t need to.
They all heard the music drifting from the church before they saw it.
Not real music—just the sound of voices warming up, someone strumming a guitar, the kind of singing that felt too bright for this world. Too naive, too trusting. Rick felt his jaw tense.
Alexandrians had no idea what it took to stay alive.
They didn’t understand that comfort bred carelessness. That routine was a blindfold. That safety—real safety—never lasted long enough to cling to.
Rick stepped through the open doors of the church and instantly felt out of place.
The sanctuary glowed with soft yellow candlelight. Pews were polished, hymnals straightened, stained glass restored with care. The air smelled like lemon oil and warm bread, as though the world outside hadn’t ended at all.
People turned as he entered—smiling, nodding, whispering appreciatively that the newcomers had arrived. A few stared at him. Others whispered. A couple young teens pointed out Carl and whispered.
His eyes scanned the room with the precision of a man who had never stopped being hunted.
Cataloguing all doors, windows, exits, weak points, pattern of movement in the crowd.
Nothing about the place sat right with him. Then he noticed the man at the front of the sanctuary.
Black shirt, white collar. tThe posture of someone who believed himself important long before the apocalypse ever gave him reason.
The preacher.
He stood by the pulpit with the serene smile of a man who believed suffering existed for other people. His hands folded in front of him like he had never, not once, in the entire fall of civilization, dirtied them.
Rick immediately felt distrust boiling in the bottom of his stomach like acid.
The preacher’s eyes—dark, watchful, assessing—lingered on Rick a moment too long. Studied him in a way Rick had felt from men like the Governor, from Gareth, from countless others who wore masks of civility.
Rick held his stare.
The preacher smiled wider. To which only made Rick's discomfort rise. Carol touched Rick’s arm gently, grounding him. Carl slipped into a pew, motioning for him to sit. Rick exhaled through his nose and lowered himself into the seat, jaw tightening as the wood creaked beneath him.
He didn’t like the pulpit. He didn’t like the candles. He didn’t like the calm.
And most of all, he didn’t like the preacher.
The door closed hours ago.
You aren’t sure how many — the hole eats time the way fire eats oxygen — but you know the welcome gathering must be starting, because the sound above you has changed.
Voices and movement, muffled but legible, float through the vents and burn your ears. Footsteps crossing the sanctuary floor. Pews groaning beneath unfamiliar weight.
And then a burst of laughter — bright, warm, unafraid — drifting down through the thin metal grate in the ceiling.
It hits you like cold water.
You curl your knees to your chest, pressing your spine against the bowed wall, trying to make yourself smaller than the darkness already demands.
The floor is cold beneath you, the splintered wood digging through your nightgown. You stop yourself from reaching for the Bible at your feet; you don’t want to feel its damp leather tonight, don’t want to remind yourself that this place once tried to make you holy.
Your father always called the hole a place for reflection.
But tonight it feels like a grave and his voice is a eulogy.
“Brothers and sisters…”
His voice booms overhead, muffled by distance, sharpened by the vent’s thin metal ribs. You flinch instinctively. The walls vibrate with the cadence you know too well — the rhythm of a man who believes only he speaks for God.
You press your palms over your ears. It dulls nothing.
“…we gather to welcome our guests…”
You picture the sanctuary: candles glowing, hymnal spines aligned, your father standing at the pulpit with that immaculate posture, hands lifted in humble authority.
You picture the congregation smiling, nodding, breathing easy.
None of them know you’re beneath their feet.
None of them hear your breath hitch. None of them feel the panic blooming behind your ribs. None of them smell the dampness of the walls or the iron tang of old fear baked into the floorboards.
“…and may we show them the grace the Lord has shown us.”
Grace.
You almost laugh — a sound that would echo too loudly in the dark.
Your nails dig into your own arms. You can’t tell if it’s to keep yourself grounded or to keep yourself from screaming.
Above you, chairs scrape. Someone coughs. A child whispers. Someone shushes them gently.
Normal sounds. Human sounds. Sounds of life continuing without you. You close your eyes. Not that it makes a difference. You can't see anything even with them open.
The dark is a living thing here.
You breathe slowly — in, out, in, out — the way you learned during the longest punishments. But the air feels thinner than usual, as if the hole is shrinking around you, splinter by splinter.
The vent hums as more voices gather. You hear ones you don’t recognize — low, even, slightly rough. A man’s voice. Not speaking, just greeting someone, the rumble of it sinking down through the grate like a cold draft.
You’ve never heard him before.
Which means he must be one of the newcomers.
Your pulse stutters.
Not in hope — God no, hope is a dangerous thing here — but in raw animal fear. New people mean new eyes. New eyes mean new questions. New questions mean your father tightening his grip, making the walls close in even more.
“Let us pray.”
You can picture the vision of the congregation bowing their heads. You curl your fists so tight you imagine your knuckles have gone white. The vent pops softly with the shift in temperature.
And then, over the bowing, over the murmuring, over your father’s steady command, you hear it.
A footstep that doesn’t fit. Heavy, measured, purposeful. Not the shuffling of parishioners. Not the soft fall of your father’s polished shoes. Not the gentle tread of Alexandria’s sheltered residents.
A survivor’s step.
Someone who walks like the ground might attack him.
The hairs rise slowly along your arms.
You don’t know why this step sounds different — only that it does. Only that your bones recognize something your mind does not have a name for.
“—for though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”
His voice, the newcomer’s step, the congregation’s harmony — it all blends into a suffocating symphony vibrating through the walls of your cage.
You squeeze your eyes tighter. You try to steady your breath. But it isn’t prayer that comes.
It’s nausea.
The hole presses in on you, familiar and cruel. Your heartbeat stutters, fast and wild. Your fingertips go numb. Your legs curl tighter. You swallow hard, trying to quiet the panic rising like floodwater.
Above you, your father continues, voice ringing with false warmth, “—fear no evil, for He is with us.”
A lie. Your God does not walk with you here.
But someone else does.
That step again. If you didn't know any better you'd of thought the sound was getting closer to you.
You must have really begun to go crazy if you thought anyone was coming to save you.
Your father’s sermon dissolves but it doesn’t stop — his voice is still spilling through the vent in steady, practiced waves — but the words no longer separate into meaning. They melt together, forming a low, endless hum inside your skull.
Your vision pulses.
Your breath thins.
Your fingers tingle.
You are slipping. You can feel it — the edges of your mind softening like wet paper.
You curl tighter into yourself, forehead dipping to your knees, trying to breathe, trying to stay present, trying to hold onto anything that feels real. But the hole is swallowing your senses one by one.
Your father’s voice becomes a tunnel, long, narrow, echoing in your head like a battering ram. A sermon delivered from miles away and inches from your ear at the same time.
You press your palms against the floorboards, counting the grain under your fingers, but even that begins to smear into nothing. The darkness shifts, tilting like the world is trying to unseat you.
You need something solid.
You need a tether, something to stitch the fraying edges of your mind back together. And without thinking — without deciding — you start to sing.
Softly, barely even a breath.
It's a hymn you learned when you were seven. One your mother hummed during storms. "…Amazing grace… how sweet the sound…" Your voice cracks on the first word. You swallow and try again.
It’s not pretty, nor melodic nor even steady. It’s a lifeline — thin and fraying — but it’s the only thing you have left to grip. “…that saved a wretch… like me…”
Your lip wobbled and your eyes stung with unshed tears. “…I once was lost…”
You clutch your nightgown to your chest, rocking slightly. “…but now am found…” Your breath hitches. The irony burns your lungs.
You have never been found. Never seen. Never rescued. Your voice falters — but the singing doesn’t stop.
It’s either sing or go mad.
So you sing.
And above you — through the vent — the preacher’s booming voice continues, "For the Lord delivers His people from darkness—" You squeeze your eyes shut. “—was blind… but now… I see…”
Rick Grimes pauses by the front doors of the church.
Someone who was supposed to be sitting with the congregation — but who rose quietly from the pew, murmured something to Carol about water, and made his way toward the church entrance.
Someone who has lived in enough basements, enough barns, enough trap rooms and slaughter rooms to hear what others would call imagination.
One hand on the water pitcher. One hand lowering automatically toward his hip.
He frowns.
The preacher’s sermon is a distant murmur from here — muted by the sanctuary walls. The congregation’s shuffle and breath are blurred into background noise.
Which means the other sound — the faint, trembling thread of a human voice — stands out with painful clarity.
A voice singing. A voice coming from behind the closed basement door.
Rick goes still, absolutely still. His head turns slightly, the way a wolf does when it hears movement in the underbrush. The hymn continues — shaky, frightened, small.
Not joyful, not worshipful, not something anyone would sing at a welcome gathering.
Rick takes one step toward the basement door.
Then another.
The singing grows clearer as he approaches, the words warped by wood and darkness but unmistakably human. Unmistakably suffering.
His hand closes around the doorknob, slow and steady. He tests it. Locked, as he suspected. Rick’s jaw tightens.
He leans closer, listens and the hymn reaches him again — barely more than a breath. “…was blind…" His breath stops.
Rick grips the knob harder, jaw flexing. He twists again. The basement door doesn’t budge. He tries the knob once more, even though he knows damn well it won’t work.
His pulse kicks. Not in fear—but in anger. He glances over his shoulder. From this corner of the entrance hall, the sanctuary is a distant scene—soft candlelight, a warm crowd, the preacher’s voice rolling smoothly through scripture. No one notices him missing yet.
Rick exhales once through his nose, sets his stance, and leans his shoulder hard into the door. A dull thud, but it didn't seem to budge.
The singing falters—just slightly. A hesitation, as if the sound startled you. As if you’re not completely gone inside your own head.
Rick sets himself again, checks the hall again and when it is still empty, he goes in for another hit. Harder than the one before but quieter than it should be—he’s learned how to break doors without announcing it to the whole damn world. One of the only perks to having your greatest threat attracted by sound.
The frame groans. “Come on…” he mutters, breath misting the wood. He goes in for a third hit and a sharp, splintering snap echoes in his ears.
The frame gives way near the hinges—just enough. Rick wedges his fingers into the crack and forces the door open with controlled pressure, the wood bending under his hands.
A breath of cold, stale air spills out. The singing grows clearer immediately. Rick’s stomach pulls tight. For a moment, he thinks this might be a terrible idea, that he is putting his people in jeopardy when they have just found a place to call their safe haven.
But then, he hears your voice again. The new found proximity allowed him to hear the tears in your voice, the waver that made him a hundred percent certain that something was wrong.
But, you stop singing the second the footsteps reach the stairs.
They’re too heavy, too deliberate, too slow. It makes your stomach recoil and the bile rise in your throat.
They sound like him. Like your fathers.
Your breath seizes. Your fingers clamp over your mouth. Your entire body goes still, heart slamming so violently you’re sure he can hear it through the wood.
He found out you were singing. He found out you tried to anchor yourself with something sacred instead of his punishment. You squeeze your eyes shut. “Don’t… don’t… don’t…” It’s barely even a whisper.
Rick was quiet as he scanned the basement. He instinctively reached for his gun only to fall short when it wasn't there. Deanna still hadn't returned his or his people weapons. Something about the heavy artillery would make the townspeople nervous.
The smell hits him hard—damp, with the sharp hint of mildew. The kind of smell he associates with root cellars, storm shelters, old barns where everything rots.
He thinks about calling out, but he decides that might scare who ever has been trapped down here, as well as alert the congregation above that he has found out about their dirty little secret.
After scanning the entirety of the basement and not finding a soul, his shoulders sag. He hasn't heard the singing since descending down the stairs. His mind begins to doubt that he heard anything at all.
He turns back towards the stairs and a glint of metal catches his eyes. There is a small cupboard under the stairs. A door that is locked with a padlock. Rick’s heart drops into a hard, brutal rhythm.
He steps toward it, slow and steady, breath held tight. He crouches, hand extended, fingers brushing the jagged edge of the splintered frame. He feels something then—a cold rush of fury, sliding through his veins like ice.
You see a shadow under the door, a hand testing the locked knob.
Your lungs burn from holding still. You hesitate because why would your father test a door he knows is locked. A door that he himself locked when he forced you into the hole.
Then, there is a thud. It knocks you out of your skin and you scramble as far from the door as you can. Something is wrong because your father never uses force. He doesn't need to.
Your eyes fly open as another thud fills your ears. A harder hit, then doorframe groans.
Dust sifts from the ceiling of the cupboard, drifting over your hair, your shoulders, settling on your palms where they press into your knees.
Another hit.
But this one isn’t violent — it’s determined.
You realize that someone is breaking the door. Not picking the lock, not removing hinges, breaking it. You hear the sound of something sliding off a shelf or wall above you. Wood scraping, metal clinking. A tool being lifted.
What, you don't know. But from the sound of it hitting the padlock, you know it is heavy. Your heartbeat becomes static as you hear the crack of the padlock breaking and falling on to the concrete ground.
Your whole world jerks with the impact.
You let out a tiny, involuntary sound — not even a gasp, more like a swallow catching wrong.
Then, a final wrench, a splintered tear. The doorknob breaks free, clattering onto the basement floor outside your cupboard.
And suddenly, your whole vision is blinded by light. To anyone else the light might have well as been a speck of dust. But to you, who has been deprived of all your senses for hours on end, to you, it’s violently blinding.
You squeeze your eyes shut against the brightness, breath trembling. It pours into the cupboard like a flood, slicing open the darkness you’ve lived in.
You shake, not because it hurts—but because you forgot what light feels like. It warms your skin and your eyes begin to water.
And in the center of it, shrouded by the glow, outlined in white stands a figure.
Tall and broad and impossibly still. You can’t see a face nor can you see details. Just a silhouette carved by sunlight.
For a moment, this person, this man—he looks like an angel.
Not the gentle, winged kind from children's books or the peaceful ones from stained-glass windows. But the fierce ones, the messengers, the warriors who tear open darkness. The kind your father preached about but never believed in.
Your breath stutters.
Because angels don’t belong here. Not in holes, not in basements and definitely not in a space your father specifically carved for your suffering.
And yet—there is one standing in your doorway. He doesn’t speak and nor do you. You are frozen, trembling, shielding your face from the burn of daylight, unable to look directly at him.
He steps forward—not to touch you, not to drag you out, but simply to block the light from your eyes. A gesture so small, so human. Something your father would never think to do.
Perhaps, this man is an angel.
Then, he kneels.
The light still blinds you—blurred gold, too bright after so long in the dark—but the shape of him shifts as your eyes begin to adjust. The silhouette that looked carved from heaven slowly gathers detail, sharpening into something even more impossible.
But not like the men you’ve known. Not like the men your father warned you about. Not like the men your father imitated with scripture when he wanted to feel powerful.
His shoulders are broad—broader than any man you’ve ever stood near, but not hunched in superiority like your father’s. Not stiff with false piety.
His arms flex slightly as he braces one hand against the floor—thick muscle beneath clean fabric, veins rising subtly along his forearm. No man you’ve ever known has arms like that. Your father’s hands were soft from pages, delicate from ritual, pale from avoiding labor your entire life.
This man’s hands look capable of breaking doors and he just proved that they are. But they’re gentle now. Gentle in the way he rests them, palms visible, fingers relaxed. Gentle in the way he lowers his center of gravity so he doesn’t tower over you. Gentle in the way he looks at you.
His eyes—blue, impossibly so—are the first thing that steals your breath.
Not only because they’re beautiful but because they’re alive.
No man has ever met your gaze like that—not without expecting something of you, demanding something, judging something. Your father’s eyes were sharp in anger and dull in piety, never warm, never steady, never searching for truth. But this man’s eyes search your face like he’s trying to understand your fear, not punish it.
His stubble shadows his jaw, catching the light, giving him an unearthly glow. His hair is damp—he must have showered recently—and curls slightly against his forehead.
There’s a line between his brows, a crease of worry or concentration, and even that looks gentle compared to every expression your father ever wore.
He looks human, but the light behind him still shapes him into something more.
The halo comes from the window, but it frames him perfectly—outlining the slope of his shoulders, the rough cut of his jaw, the cautious bend of his posture.
The light turns his edges soft and bright, and you blink hard, once, twice, because it hurts to look at him, but not the way the dark ever did.
It hurts because you’ve never seen anything like him. You’ve never seen anyone like him.
You’ve never seen a man take up space without filling it with threat.
Even kneeling, he’s big—so big your breath catches—but his size doesn’t push at you. It shields. It fills the doorway not to block your exit, but to block the fear behind him.
Your father weaponized words because he had nothing else. This man looks like he could tear the world apart with his hands—
but he speaks softer than a prayer.
“Hey,” he murmurs, low and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he speaks too loud. His voice doesn’t echo like your father’s, doesn’t carry judgment, doesn’t drag scripture behind it like shackles. It wraps around you—steady, real, human.
Your heart trembles. Because even now, even with his face clear, he still looks like an angel.
You clutch your nightgown tighter, unable to speak, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare at him as your breath shivers through your lips.
He leans forward a fraction, voice dropping to something even gentler. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
You flinch—because every man who ever promised safety used God's voice to lie but this man doesn’t say God. He doesn’t say salvation or obedience.
He says you and for the first time in your entire life—a man’s presence does not feel like danger.
You stare at him. At the man kneeling in the doorway. The light haloing his shoulders. A face that should frighten you but doesn’t.
You realize—slowly, sickeningly—that your terror isn’t pointed at him.
It’s pointed behind him. At the stairs. At the sanctuary. At the pulpit above your head and the man whose voice has shaped your whole world.
At your father.
Your breath collapses in your chest. Your father is going to find out. He is going to see the broken lock. He is going to know you were with a man.
Not only with a man but alone with a man, unprotected and unsupervised. He is going to know someone touched the door he told you was God’s punishment.
He is going to know you didn’t stop him.
Your pulse spikes into panic so sharp it feels like knives under your skin.
You scramble backward on instinct, pressing yourself flat against the back of the cupboard until the wood digs into your shoulder blades. Your hands fly up protectively, not to shield yourself from Rick but to shield yourself from the consequences.
“N—no—” Your voice cracks violently. You can barely form the word. Rick’s brows knit, concern flickering across his expression. “It’s okay,” he whispers, soft, soothing. “I won't hurt you.”
The words hit you like a blow.
You shake your head frantically. “No.” Another violent shake. “No, no—please—please go—” He pauses, thrown.
Your breath fractures into shallow, shaking gasps.
“Please—please—you have to go—” The words tumble out too fast, tripping over each other. “You have to leave—you have to lock it—put it back—put it back—” Rick’s eyes widen, horrified.
Your terror spikes higher, sharp enough to taste blood in the back of your throat. “You don’t understand,” you choke out. “You don’t understand—he’ll know—he’ll know you were here—he’ll know you saw—he’ll know—”
Tears burn hot at the corners of your eyes—not because of the dark, not because of the hole, not because of Rick but because you understand exactly what’s coming when your father sees the door splintered open.
“He’ll punish me,” you whisper. Your voice crumples. “He’ll think I let you. He’ll think I wanted—” You can’t finish the sentence.
Rick’s expression shifts—tightens—not in anger at you, but in anger at whoever put that fear into your bones.
Your hands shake uncontrollably as you reach forward, grasping his wrist—not to pull him closer, but to push him away.
“Please,” you sob. “Please go. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t—he’ll hurt you—he’ll hurt me—please—please—”
Rick doesn’t move but not out of stubbornness. It's something in your voice—that raw, hysterical, primal terror—tells him everything he needs to know.
This is the fear of a lifetime of punishment.
This is the fear of disobedience.
He lowers his free hand, palm out, gentle, slow. “Hey,” he breathes. His voice is softer than the hymn you were singing. “I’m not gonna let anybody hurt you.”
Your breath stutters. Your chest tightens until it aches. Because that right there is the most dangerous sentence anyone has ever spoken to you.
Dangerous because you want to believe it and because you know you shouldn't.
“Please…” Your voice is barely a whisper. “Just go.” Rick’s jaw locks. You know in this moment, nothing you can say will make this man leave you.
He leans closer—not enough to crowd you, just enough that you can’t avoid the full warmth and seriousness in his eyes.
“You don’t have to be afraid of him,” he says quietly. But you flinch—visibly, violently. “Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t speak against him—”
Because if your father heard that? If God heard that?
Your punishment wouldn’t be days. It would be weeks. It would be worse than the hole. It would be something you don’t even have a name for.
Your whole body is shaking now. Rick notices and something in his expression changes.
Rick opens his mouth—to reassure you again, to promise something he has no idea he’s already sworn—and then the sound cuts through the basement like a blade.
It happens faster than breathing—your father’s voice.
It echoes off the stone, soft and measured. A single word dipped in honey and sermon-smoke. Your blood turns to ice. Your whole body reacts before your mind does.
You shove past Rick. It isn’t graceful and it isn’t strong. It’s pure, animalistic panic—your hands slamming against his chest, fingers curling in his shirt, pushing with every ounce of terror in your bones.
Rick’s breath leaves him in a soft grunt—not because you hurt him, but because he wasn’t expecting you to touch him.
The touch stops him cold.
But you barely notice.
You stumble into the open basement, falling to your knees before your father even reaches the bottom step. “Father—I—I didn’t—this wasn’t—” Your voice fractures, words dissolving in your throat. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—I didn’t let him—”
You can’t even name the punishment you fear.
Your father appears at the bottom of the staircase like a shadow descending—calm, slow, composed. His eyes flick to the broken door, the shattered lock, the splintered frame.
You brace for fury. For scripture flung like a whip. For punishment dressed in holiness. For the quiet, cold wrath that always followed your failure.
But instead, he smiles. A small one. Warm and polite and soft enough to make your skin crawl. “Upstairs now,” he murmurs gently, nodding toward the sanctuary. “Go on, little lamb. Scurry along.”
Scurry.
A word he hasn't used since you were a child. A word he only uses when company is present. A word that means behave or else.
You freeze.
This isn’t the man who locked you in the dark.
This is the performance. The pastor mask. The shepherd routine. Rick sees a father addressing his daughter. You see a predator smoothing down wool.
Your father gestures again—elegant, rehearsed, patient. “Go on now.” Your throat closes.
A million questions swirl in your mind but the most prominent being—why isn’t he angry?
Why isn’t he dragging you by the wrist, quoting scripture, and condemning you for being alone with a man?
Rick's prominent gaze on you and you alone gives you al the answer you need. Your father isn’t being kind. He’s being strategic. He is putting on a mask for Rick.
Rick steps closer to you on instinct, protective posture tightening, jaw clenched—but careful, quiet, gauging the situation.
Your father’s eyes cut briefly to Rick. To measure him or intimidate him, you don't know.
Then he looks at you again. “Upstairs,” he repeats, the smile on his face makes you sick to your stomach. “Be a good girl.” The words hit you like a lash—but you don’t move.
You kneel there, shaking, breath shallow, completely unable to make your limbs obey. You’ve never disobeyed that tone before. But you’ve never been almost rescued before either.
Behind you, Rick speaks for the first time. “What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Your father keeps smiling.
And that is the moment Rick realizes something is very, very wrong.
daddy!jack abbot who babies you so much it’s embarrassing
daddy!jack who buys you a massive 120oz insulated water bottle — complete with a matching strap so you can sling it over your shoulder — because he noticed you don’t drink nearly enough water. yes you have to take it to work with you every day, no you cannot carry a smaller bottle (even if you promise to refill it consistently)
daddy!jack who shows up to ptmc hours before his shift is scheduled to start because you forgot your lunch on the counter at home, and no, picking at chips and candy from the vending machine is not going to cut it, because you cannot subsist off of sugary crap all day. if you happen to be busy when he strolls in, he drops the lunchbox off with dana and asks her to make sure you get it
daddy!jack who gives you — a grown ass adult — a bedtime, one that is strictly enforced even when he’s at work. he knows if you get less than six hours of sleep before a shift you’re terribly fussy the whole day, and he reminds you that it’s better for your body anyway. you let him put a time limit on your phone, one that locks all your social media apps down at exactly 10pm, and he promptly bids you goodnight via text seconds after. (you get to stay up til midnight on your days off, aren’t you lucky?)
daddy!jack who picks out your pajamas and lays them on the bed for you to change into after your shift ends. sometimes they’re things you already had in the drawers, sometimes brand new, matching sets pop up out of nowhere, and sometimes he spreads one of his old t-shirts and nothing else out atop the sheets for you to find. those are your favorite kinds of days
daddy!jack who can only relax if you’re sat in his lap on his days off. it doesn’t matter if he’s watching tv, reading a book, or dozing off — he needs his baby, right where he can keep an eye on you, the whole time. sometimes — who are you kidding, most of the time — his thumb ends up in your mouth, resting in the dip of your tongue while your lips purse loosely around the knuckle, his other four fingers lazily cupping your jaw to hold you in place. you aren’t really sure how it happens, but it does, and it knocks you out cold in about 30 seconds flat
daddy!jack who picked up the habit of cutting your food into smaller pieces so long ago you aren’t really sure of when it started, and so is incapable of not doing it even when you have company. there was one time he invited robby over for dinner and, upon realizing that jack was, unprompted, cutting your steak and potatoes into teeny-tiny bites, gave him a strange, bewildered look. you snatched the plate away before whatever question he’d been gearing up to ask could leave his mouth, and jack, clearly stuck on autopilot, just snickered
daddy!jack who has to lock up your toys when he goes to work, okay? he just has to. he knows you can’t help yourself, can’t keep your thoughts and hands from wandering while he’s not there and, well, it’s just so much fucking fun watching you squirm as he shuts every vibrator and dildo you own (which is a fair amount) into a lockbox, and stuffs the only key into his scrubs pocket. it’s not good for you to just stay home fucking yourself stupid all night, anyway, y’know, and you can’t even do it right, not like he can, so he’s just doing what he knows is best for his baby. he’ll take care of you once he gets home, you just have to be patient, yeah? unless, of course, your panties are already a mess by then — then he’ll have to assume you disobeyed him, and that simply won’t do.
❀ summary: An anthropology thesis brings you to a remote Highland commune. What you find is community. Charity. Ceremony.
Their leader and the Devil's very own son, the enigmatic Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal, wears an upside down cross and a crown. Their rituals promise transformation. You’re told you can leave anytime.
But the flowers bloom late.
And angels are made slowly.
(Or: a Midsommar au)
❀ wc: 21k
❀ a/n: Oh boy. This is officially my longest one-shot to date!! But I guess Jimchosis will do that to you. Please, PLEASE mind the tags on this one. This is—without question—my goriest fic by a country mile, and I mean that in every possible way, you've been warned. Huge thanks to Abhi @scannainscanrula for the killer banner, it’s probably my favorite one I’ve ever had made for a fic!!
YOU DON'T NEED TO WATCH EITHER MOVIE TO READ THIS (certain cult dynamics carry over from both but there are no Bone Temple spoilers)
❀ warnings: dead dove: do not eat, extreme graphic violence, graphic gore, ritualistic torture, blood eagle execution, body horror, mutilation, cults and religious extremism, ritual sacrifice, murder, psychological abuse and manipulation, coercive control, indoctrination, satanism, dubcon/noncon dynamics, sexual violence themes, p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink/forced pregnancy themes, forced marriage, drugging/altered state of consciousness, (psilocybin/mushrooms), peeping tom/non-consensual voyeurism, public/mutual masturbation, oral (f!receiving), menstrual blood drinking, love spells, captivity and loss of autonomy, illusion of choice, manipulation, abusive relationship, emotional/physical abuse, this bum brushes his teeth
❀ likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
❀ Masterlist
❀ MIND THE TAGS
Caleb forgets your anniversary.
Not that you expected flowers. Or a note. Or even a “happy four years.” You know better than that by now. But it still hurts—sharp, shamefully so—when he storms through the door already pissed, slams his messenger bag into the wall like it’s your fault gravity exists, and doesn’t so much as glance at you.
Not even in the outfit he said he liked. The one you changed into after lectures—twice—because some secret, desperate part of you still wanted him to look. To pause. To notice the curve of your hip in the mirror, the earrings you dug out from the back of the drawer because he complimented them once over a year ago.
Your hair is still damp at the ends where you tried to fix it in the sink. You spent twenty minutes under the fluorescent glare of the bathroom trying to coax it into something softer, something less exhausted. You even dabbed perfume onto your wrists before he got home—as if that might anchor him to you. As if scent might do what love can’t anymore.
He doesn’t even sniff. Just kicks off his shoes and groans like the world owes him something.
“Are you fucking serious with that Shakespeare shit today?” he snaps, already heading toward the fridge like you aren’t even standing there.
You blink. “What—”
“In lecture.” His tone is venom. “You just had to correct me in front of everyone.”
You go still. “I didn’t—I was just—”
“You do this every single time, you know that?” he says, yanking the fridge open so hard it rattles. “You love making me look like an idiot. Just so everyone can see how clever you are.”
It takes you a second to catch up. “You mean—when I brought up the gendered violence themes in Titus Andronicus?”
“Yes, Jesus. Did you even stop to think for a second how that made me look?”
You hadn’t. You didn’t think he was even paying attention—he spent the second half of the seminar texting with his headphones in. You only spoke because the professor asked for clarification. Because you wanted to contribute. Because you thought maybe, just maybe, he’d be proud of you.
Instead, he twists it into something ugly.
You clutch your bag tighter. “I didn’t say anything about you. I just—”
“You always have to chime in. Always have to be the smartest fucking person in the room.” He pops a bottle open on the edge of the counter. The metal cap clatters to the floor. He doesn’t pick it up. Of course he doesn’t.
He takes a long drink, then leans back against the counter, eyes already flicking to his phone. Scrolling. Smirking at something on-screen while you stand frozen in place, your purse still on your shoulder, your hands still cold from walking home.
You watch the little twitch in his lip. The way he holds the bottle like he’s entitled to it. The way he hasn’t said a single word about how you look. How you tried.
You shift your weight. “Are we…doing anything tonight?”
He glances up, annoyed, like you’ve interrupted something important. “What?”
You swallow. “Our anniversary.”
A pause. His brow furrows. “Fuck. That’s today?”
You nod. You feel it in your throat, thick and closing.
Caleb just shrugs. “Let’s order something, I guess.”
That’s it. No sorry. No kiss. No smile. No nothing. Four years. That’s all it earns.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The weeks bleed together.
Senior year feels like drowning in molasses. The weight of your relationship sits like a stone on your chest. You wake up sore, not from sleep but from how tightly you clench at night. Your molars ache. Your jaw won’t unclench. You dress in layers because it’s easier to hide the tension in your shoulders, and the bruises he swears are from “love.”
You say “sorry” before you speak, even when no one’s listening. You’ve learned to navigate his moods like they’re weather systems. Don’t ask questions when he’s quiet. Don’t look too long when he’s angry. Don’t argue when he’s drunk. Don’t cry unless you can make it sound like laughing. Don’t talk back unless you’re ready to be punished for it.
You’ve trained yourself to hear the way his key turns in the lock and know what mood he’s in. To recognize the stomp of his feet versus the drag of exhaustion. To know the difference between a slammed door and a forgotten one. Your entire world has become a waiting room for his temper.
In class, you keep your eyes on your notebook. You only speak when called on. Your voice is small. You try to make yourself smaller. You try not to exist unless you’re useful.
That’s when she appears.
Front row. Bright smile. Loud laugh. She dresses like she doesn’t care about being noticed—which makes her impossible to ignore. You don’t know her name the first few times you notice her. You just register how she always seems excited to be here, like she’s part of some joke no one else is in on.
She wears heart earrings one day and a fake fur jacket the next. Her nail polish is always chipped, like she starts things with passion and never finishes them. She bites her pen cap when she’s thinking. She laughs too loud. Her voice carries like sunlight through clouds.
When your professor announces a semester-end partner project, your stomach sinks. You already know Caleb won’t want to help, and you dread the awkwardness of being paired with someone random.
“And for this unit…let’s see. You’ll be with Emma H.”
The girl in the front row turns. Her eyes are blue, delighted, wide.
“Hi,” she says, sliding into the seat beside you. “Emma. Or Em. Whatever works.”
You blink. “I’m—”
“Oh, I know who you are,” she grins. “I’ve seen you in lecture. You always look like you’re solving a crime scene.”
You flush. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s intriguing.”
Emma is everything you’re not. She doesn’t raise her hand—she just speaks. She doesn’t walk—she skips. She starts sharing snacks during class and texting you weird memes after midnight. Her energy makes your head spin sometimes, but it never feels fake. She listens. Really listens. And when Caleb shows up late to pick you up one day, you find yourself sitting with her on the curb, talking about everything and nothing.
“You look tired,” she says gently.
You shrug. “I’m just juggling a lot.”
“You ever think about running away?”
You laugh, dry in your throat. “All the time.”
“Where to?”
You hesitate.
“I don’t know. Anywhere quiet.”
She bumps your knee with hers. “I might know a place.”
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The first time she mentions the festival, it sounds like a joke.
You’re at the library, pretending to work on your outline while Caleb texts you increasingly possessive messages about when you’ll be home.
Emma taps her fingers on her laptop. “You ever hear of Brìgh an Fhuil?”
You shake your head.
“It’s Scot's Gaelic. Roughly means ‘vital force of blood.’ Sounds more metal than it is. It’s a spring festival my community does. Really old. Rural Highlands. Off-grid.”
You raise a brow. “Off-grid?”
“Yup. No phones, no internet, no capitalism. Just food, rituals, dancing, and bonfires under the stars.”
You laugh, just a little. “Sounds nice.”
“It is.”
There’s a pause.
“Could be good for your thesis,” she adds casually. “We don’t usually allow outsiders, but I think you’d really like it. You’d be safe with me.”
You chew the inside of your cheek. “Caleb wouldn’t go for it.”
“Does he get to decide?”
You don’t answer.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
When Caleb finds out Emma’s a project partner, he doesn’t hide his disdain. “The girl who talks like she’s on fucking mushrooms all the time?”
You frown. “She’s nice.”
He snorts. “She’s weird. You should keep your distance.”
You don’t.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The second time Emma mentions the festival, you’re crying in the girls’ bathroom, trying to cover up the welt under your eye from where Caleb struck you too hard the night before.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just hands you a wet paper towel and sits on the counter. “He hit you?"
You shake your head, but she doesn’t press. “I’m serious about Brìgh an Fhuil,” she says gently. “It’s not just a party. It’s a way out.”
Your voice is a whisper. “Why me?”
She smiles like it’s obvious. “Because someone should treat you like you matter. And you don’t know it yet—but you do.”
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The next time she brings it up, it’s with printed tickets in hand. No airline logo, just a time and a gate and a single sentence beneath it in italic serif type:
YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.
Caleb scoffs when he sees them. “Fucking hippie bullshit.”
But he doesn’t say no. And you—you don’t know why you say yes. Only that when you do, Emma’s smile is nothing short of radiant. And you feel something like hope flicker behind your ribs for the first time in months.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The airport isn’t listed on any map.
You don’t even realize that at first, too busy triple-checking your backpack, your ticket, the spare charger you probably won’t even be able to use if this place is really “off-grid” like Emma keeps saying. But you notice when the cab driver frowns at the terminal number and has to call dispatch to confirm the drop-off point. Notice when the security checkpoint is nearly silent, manned by two guards who don’t check IDs—just wave you through like they’ve been expecting you.
There’s no TSA. No families juggling strollers. No overhead announcements droning about carry-on limits. Just sterile gray floors, a series of locked doors, and a woman in white linen standing beside a private staircase, holding a small metal clipboard and nothing else.
She doesn’t ask your name. Only takes your ticket, glances at it once, then looks at you.
“Phones,” she says.
Caleb stiffens. “We’re not even at the gate yet.”
“No digital devices are permitted past this point.”
You glance at Emma. She’s already handed hers over. She smiles, light as ever. “It’s part of the cleansing.”
You hesitate only a second before slipping your phone from your bag. The linen woman takes it carefully, as if she’s handling something dangerous. Caleb grumbles, curses under his breath, but he hands his over too.
The staircase leads to a waiting area that feels more like a doctor’s office than an airport lounge. Pale walls. A row of identical chairs. One window—but the glass is frosted over from the inside. You sit beside Emma, and she laces her fingers with yours without asking.
“You nervous?” she asks.
You nod.
She squeezes your hand. “Good. Means you’re still human.”
The plane is small. Sleek. The interior hums with a quiet that feels engineered. You can’t hear the engines. You can’t feel turbulence. It feels like floating. There're no other passengers. Just you, Caleb, Emma, and a man with a shaved head seated at the front, who never turns around. No one speaks.
You stare out the window, but the sky never changes—gray clouds stacked like cotton batting, no sun, no horizon.
Caleb taps his foot the entire time. Says nothing, but his silence feels pointed. You wonder if he regrets saying yes. You wonder if he knows why you did.
The landing is smooth. You almost miss it—only notice because the pressure in your ears pops and Emma nudges you gently, already unbuckling.
When the cabin door opens, the air outside is wet and sharp. It smells like pine and moss and something faintly sweet—like the inside of a greenhouse. You step onto the tarmac and realize there’s no terminal. No signage. Just a single long van idling beside the runway, its windows blacked out, the driver already standing beside the open side door.
He’s tall. Pale. Dressed in a faded blue nylon tracksuit with stringy blonde synthetic hair, stockstill despite the drizzle.
“Blindfolds,” he says simply.
You blink.
“What the fuck,” Caleb mutters behind you. “Is this a cult thing?”
Emma’s voice is gentle. “It’s tradition. For guests. So you see the place the right way.”
“That’s insane,” Caleb says. “I’m not—”
But Emma’s already holding one out to you. Fabric soft, like silk.
You take it.
Caleb scoffs but doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t protest again when you tie it behind your head and the world goes dark. You feel the brush of Emma’s hand on your elbow, guiding you into the van.
The drive is long. Longer than expected. The road beneath the wheels changes texture again and again—paved, gravel, dirt, something that feels like packed earth. You can’t see, but you feel every turn in your gut. Hear branches scrape the sides. Hear the driver humming something wordless and slow.
At some point, Caleb asks how much longer. No one answers. Eventually, the van stops. You expect someone to remove the blindfold. They don’t.
The door slides open and a rush of cool wind hits your face, carrying the scent of smoke and crushed grass and distant firewood. A hand—Emma’s, you think—grips yours and helps you out. You take one tentative step. Then another. Then the blindfold is lifted. And your breath catches in your throat.
The world in front of you blooms.
You're standing at the top of a sloped hillside, just above a massive circular valley carved into the Scottish landscape like a sacred wound. Everything is green—too green, like something out of a fever dream. Wildflowers in every color ripple through the grass in wide, deliberate paths, like painted lines guiding your eyes to the massive stone structures in the distance.
There're no buildings. Not in the way you expect. Just rows of long wooden halls with moss-covered roofs and carved beams, small rounded cottages with ivy climbing up their sides, and one enormous central hall—dome-shaped, smooth, windowless—like the belly of something sleeping.
White-linen-clad people walk barefoot along stone paths between the buildings. They carry baskets of roots, vials of oil, sprigs of herbs. Some are singing. Some are praying. Some are just…smiling. Content.
The sky above is cloudy but bright. The air is heavy with scent: lavender, wet soil, something slightly metallic.
You hear Caleb behind you make a noise low in his throat. He steps forward, taking it all in, and mutters, “Jesus.”
Emma laughs softly. “Close.”
They separate you quickly. You barely have time to glance back at Caleb before a woman takes your hand and leads you down a path of white petals toward a smaller structure tucked beneath the trees. Emma doesn’t follow.
Inside, the air is warm and soft. Low candles flicker in alcoves carved into the walls. The floor is polished stone covered in rugs that look hand-woven, dyed in rich reds and sun-worn ochres.
The woman doesn’t speak. She smiles, gestures to a wooden bench, and brings out a basin of steaming water. You sit. She begins to unlace your shoes. You flinch, instinctively drawing back. She pauses. Tilts her head.
“I’m here to prepare you,” she says. “Nothing more.” Her voice is low. Calm.
You nod.
She removes your shoes. Your socks. Your jacket. She moves slowly, like she’s handling something fragile. When she reaches for your shirt, she waits.
You nod again.
She undresses you like a child. Folds everything with reverence. Guides you to a stone bath in the corner of the room where petals float across the surface like offerings. The water smells like mint and iron. You sink into it. Try not to shake.
After, you’re dried with soft cloth. Your hair is brushed, braided. You’re dressed in a long white linen shift embroidered with gold and purple thread at the hem. No shoes. No jewelry. Just the dress, and the feeling of being polished like something precious.
They offer no sanitary products when you ask. Just a small cloth folded in half, handed to you like a secret.
“We free bleed here,” the woman says gently. “It’s part of the process.”
You open your mouth to argue, then close it.
Later, you see another woman collect the cloth silently from the room. She doesn’t meet your eyes.
You're taken next to a long, low hall. Inside, the air smells of wax and age. The walls are lined with fabric panels—each one hand-stitched, covered in scenes you don’t recognize. One in particular catches your attention. It’s a story. Told in images.
A woman stands alone. A man sits at a feast. She bleeds into a cup. He drinks. Her pubic hair is cut. Baked into bread. He eats. He's put under a spell. They fall madly in love.
You stare at it for a long time. A quiet voice beside you says, “It’s about devotion.”
You turn. Emma’s there. Dressed in a blue and white striped tracksuit and matching jelly shoes, blonde hair free from the pigtails or barrettes she typically accessorizes with.
“It’s just folklore,” she says. “But there’s power in intention. In making someone a part of you.”
You don’t know what to say.
She smiles. “You’re doing so well.”
You swallow.
“How long have you been coming here?” you ask.
She hums. “A long time. Long enough to know it’s where I was always meant to be.”
She leans closer, brushing a piece of damp hair from your face. “I think it might be where you’re meant to be too.”
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
It begins with silence.
Not the kind that soothes, but the kind that presses inward. A silence that feels cultivated, curated, like a held breath stretched too long. Even the insects seem to understand something sacred is about to happen. You're led barefoot through dew-wet grass, the chill seeping up into your bones, the hem of your linen dress heavy with moisture as it drags against your calves. Each step is deliberate. Each footfall sounds louder than it should. The sun hangs low and swollen above the treeline, gold and aching, staining the sky like an unhealed bruise.
You walk alone now. The woman who guided you stops several paces behind, lowering her gaze as if she’s reached the edge of something forbidden. She does not speak. She doesn't touch you again. The path ahead narrows, then widens abruptly, opening into a natural amphitheater carved from earth and stone.
You haven't seen Caleb since morning. You last remember the curl of his lip when they offered him the linen robe. The way he laughed, sharp and ugly, and tossed it back at them like refuse. The way he muttered about freaks and cult cosplay and how he’d never let anyone tell him what to wear. He refused the food too. Refused the drink. Refused the songs. He said it loudly, so everyone could hear.
You didn't defend him.
You bathed when they told you to bathe. You stood naked and trembling while unfamiliar hands washed your skin with oils that smelled of crushed flowers and iron. You let them braid your hair, dress you, guide you. You handed over the cloth without argument. You let them take what you were bleeding without fully understanding why. The drink you swallowed afterward burned sweetly down your throat, leaving behind that familiar softness, that dreamy buoyancy you're beginning to associate with being here.
Now you walk. The hill crests sharply. You stop because your body tells you to, not because anyone speaks. And there he is.
Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal.
You remember Emma briefly mentioning him before, the idolized whispers of his name that had been floating through the commune more often than the summer breeze ever since your arrival.
He stands atop a raised stone platform, ancient and fractured, its surface etched with spirals and sigils worn soft by centuries of weather and devotion. Bones are woven through the carvings with gold and purple thread, delicate and intentional, as if the altar itself has been stitched together from offerings. Behind him rises a great ring of standing stones, towering and solemn, their shadows long and distorted in the afternoon light. Smoke drifts lazily through the air, though no fire is visible.
He doesn't blend into the setting.
He dominates it.
He wears a dirty purple velour tracksuit, the velvet dark and rich, royal purple catching the sunlight. The fabric clings to him in places, hangs loose in others, worn like a second skin. Heavy gold chains layer his chest, tangled and excessive, each one ending in a different symbol—cross inverted and upright, jagged teeth, keys, small bone charms polished smooth by touch. A crooked tiara rests in his loose blond curls, tilted but deliberate, tarnished yet glittering defiantly in the light.
And his eyes. They lock onto you instantly. Not scanning. Not assessing.
Claiming.
The world seems to narrow to the space between your body and his gaze. The chant of the commune fades into a low hum at the edge of your hearing. You forget to breathe. You forget where you are.
You feel seen. Not observed. Not admired. Seen like an object discovered. The moment stretches. He doesn't blink. Neither do you. Someone behind you exhales shakily. You don’t turn. You can’t.
“He's noticed you,” a woman murmurs, voice thick with awe.
You don’t know what that means, but your feet move again, carrying you forward as if pulled by invisible threads. The grass beneath you is warm now, sun-soaked, the scent of crushed flowers rising with each step. Bees drift lazily through the air. Your pulse thrums loud in your ears, in your fingertips, between your thighs.
When you reach the base of the platform, he's still staring. Then he smiles. It's not kind. It's not welcoming. It's the smile of a man who knows the ending of a story before the first chapter has finished.
He lifts his arms. The commune erupts.
Sound crashes over you—cheers, chants, laughter, sobbing devotion. You hadn’t realized how many people were gathered until they reveal themselves, spilling from the trees and the low-roofed halls, all dressed in white linen, wreaths of wildflowers and bone crowning their heads. Some fall to their knees. Others raise their hands to the sky. Several weep openly.
You aren't introduced. No one asks your name.
Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal speaks, his voice thick with a Scottish lilt, warm and melodic, dangerous in its smoothness.
“We welcome the Vessel...as it was written."
The crowd echoes, “as it was written!"
“We take her womb in welcome, as was foretold.”
“As it was foretold!"
“We welcome what she’s meant tae become. Howzat?"
"HOWZAT!"
Silence falls again, heavy and absolute.
He descends the platform slowly, deliberately, moving as if gravity answers to him. The Seven Jimmys follow—each in a different colored tracksuit, each identical in haircut and posture, eyes fixed forward, expressions devout. Among them stands Emma—Jimmima, she had politely corrected the other day, her manic brightness gone, replaced by subservient stillness.
Jimmy stops inches from you. He doesn't ask permission. He lifts his hand and presses two fingers to your forehead. His rings are cold. His touch lingers.
You don't flinch.
“Ye’ve come far, aye. Farther than folk ever dare," he says softly. His voice vibrates through you.
“Tell me somethin’, love…” he murmurs, head cocked like a priest sizing up sin. “Are yer dreams clean?”
You don’t know how to answer. Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
“Have they unknotted that mind o’ yours yet?” he murmurs. “Or d’ye still think in his voice?”
Your stomach twists.
He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns, gesturing for you to follow, and the crowd parts instantly. As you walk behind him, he murmurs to the Seven.
“She’s here,” he says, almost tender. “The bones’ve stirred wi’ heat…the silence knows. It’s ready.”
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
Dinner that night is held in the central hall—vast and circular, built from pine and yew, its ceiling vanishing into darkness that no number of candles can chase away. The walls breathe with the flicker of firelight, golden tongues licking across tapestries stitched with thread and tendon and thin, delicate bones. The air smells like smoke, honey, and wet roots—a sweetness thick enough to turn in your throat, grounded by something older and fungal beneath. You sit beside Jimmima, her hand clasping yours beneath the table, thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles into your palm. She hasn’t spoken since guiding you here, but her body is all language. Protection. Anticipation. Maybe even pride.
Across the room, Caleb eats alone. Not by choice, but design—the rest of the commune gives him a wide berth, and the Jimmy in all green stands behind him with the stillness of a tomb guardian.
Caleb’s jaw clenches as he picks at his plate, shoulders high, spine braced like he’s expecting a punch. He glares at the arrangement of roots and greens before him like it’s a personal insult. “What the fuck is this,” he mutters, loud enough for you to hear. “Rabbit food. Fucking yard scraps for strays.” He sneers as he forks a piece of roasted beet onto his tongue, then spits it back onto the plate with theatrical disgust. “Tastes like dirt and afterbirth. You people need a fucking grocery store.”
No one responds. No one even looks at him—except the Jimmy behind him, who tilts his head once, birdlike. Caleb doesn’t notice. Or he does, but doesn’t care. He scoffs again and goes back to pushing food around with dramatic disdain. You keep your eyes down, throat tight. The back of your neck prickles with secondhand shame.
Across the head of the room, Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal sits in his carved wooden throne, expression calm, body still. He doesn't eat. He has no plate. Only a cup—bone-white, polished smooth, carved with curling motifs you recognize from the tapestries. He lifts it to his lips and drinks. The liquid inside is a rich, heavy orange, darker than anything you’ve seen the others sipping. Your stomach twists. You look at the bread laid carefully on the table beside him, golden and flecked with something dark—too fine to be seeds. Your mouth goes dry. You remember the tapestry. The ritual. The spell. The preparation. Your own blood, your own hair, wrapped in cloth and carried away.
Jimmy sets the cup down slowly.
“We were promised a Vessel,” he says, voice curling into the rafters like smoke. His accent wraps around the words, thick and deliberate, every syllable offered like scripture. “Anointed wi’ blood. Carried by dream. Named in the fire.”
The commune hums in response, a low and vibrating sound that lives not in the ears but in the chest, in the bones—a resonance that makes the candlelight shudder.
“The Choir sang her name,” he continues, fingers resting lightly on the rim of his cup. “An' we listened.”
You don’t know why, but your eyes lift. His meet yours across the room.
“She’ll walk the path, aye," he says, gaze steady. "She’ll wear the crown—and she’ll no shy from the flame.”
His fingers tap once—once—against the polished bone of the cup.
“And from her…” His voice drops now, lower, thicker, reverent. “From her, the Hellborne will rise.”
The hum deepens. You don’t understand. Not fully. Not yet. But something inside you does. And it answers.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
You’re still blinking away the blur of moonlight when the door creaks open behind you. Not fully closed. Not fully shut. Like someone had cracked it open earlier and never bothered to fix it. You know it wasn’t you.
The communal lodge is cool and hushed. Too hushed. The stones at your feet feel almost warm in contrast, heat held from the late-afternoon sun. There’s a strange stillness in your limbs, like they’ve forgotten the shape of fear. You know what that is—psilocybin mushrooms, though you haven’t admitted it out loud. Not to yourself. Not to anyone else.
Caleb is still asleep on your shared cot in the far corner, his frame a loose tangle of elbows and limbs beneath the thin wool blanket. His back is turned toward you, chest rising and falling. Face hidden.
You swallow. Your throat tastes like nettles and dirt. It should be a comfort, seeing him like that—safe, still, unbothered. But it isn’t. You feel the hollow before you even sit down beside him. That gaping silence. Like whatever thin cord once knotted your lives together has frayed into loose threads. He didn’t even ask where you’d gone.
He didn’t notice you were gone at all.
You lie down slowly, not wanting to disturb him. But when your back meets the cot and the frame creaks ever so slightly beneath you, his body stiffens. Not a full stir. Not a groggy reach for you. Just a deliberate, rigid shift—one that turns him farther away.
"Where were you?" he says, voice flat. Not slurred, not sleepy. Awake.
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. It takes a moment to realize you were holding your breath.
“I—” you start, but he cuts you off.
“With that girl again?” His voice sharpens. “What’s her name? Emma?”
“Jimmima,” you correct softly, but instantly regret it.
“Right,” he snaps, twisting under the covers. “Because that’s a normal fucking name.”
“She told me it’s what they call her here. It’s just—” You don’t know why you’re defending her. Maybe because you need someone to defend. Maybe because she’s the only one who’s really looked at you lately.
Caleb pushes himself up with one arm, looking down at you. The moonlight is just enough to catch the hollow beneath his cheekbones, the tension that wires his jaw.
“I saw the way you were laughing with her,” he says. “I saw how you touched her arm.”
You blink. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I wasn’t—Caleb, she was telling me a story.”
“You’ve barely looked at me in days,” he mutters. “But you’ll cling to some cult chick the second she gives you mushrooms and a flower crown?”
You sit up straighter, pulse climbing. “You think I wanted the mushrooms? I didn’t even know what they were.”
He scoffs. “Bullshit.”
“I didn’t.”
“You think I don’t see it?” he hisses, and now he’s fully facing you, voice low and venomous. “Every day, you’re off with them. Wandering the grounds like some dumb fawn. Like you’re one of them now.”
You don’t know how to answer that. Because something in you is changing. It’s not just the drinks. It’s the softness of the mornings, the quiet rituals, the feeling of being seen. Tended to. Held.
“Why are you talking to me like this?” you ask finally.
He laughs, bitter. “Like what?”
“Like I’m your enemy.”
His face twists. “Because maybe you are.”
The words hit you square in the chest. You expect him to take them back, but he doesn’t. He just turns again. Back to the wall. Leaving you alone in the darkness.
You lie there for hours. Eyes open. Watching the shadows crawl.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
You don’t speak the next morning.
He takes his breakfast and sits with the other visitors at the long communal table, smiling like nothing’s changed. But he doesn’t look at you once. Jimmima finds you outside instead, her jelly soles silent in the morning dew.
“You look like you could use something warm,” she says gently, and she passes you a carved wooden cup filled with golden liquid.
It smells of citrus and spice. There’s steam rising from it, but not the kind that burns. You drink slowly. It’s the third day in a row she’s brought you something, and you don’t ask what’s in it.
You don’t want to know.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
Later, he accuses you of cheating.
“I saw you with that guy,” Caleb snaps.
You look up from the woven basket you were carrying, mouth dry. “What guy?”
“That tall prick you were talking to this morning. The one who keeps looking at you.”
“That's Jimmima’s brother, I think. We were talking about holistic medicine for my thesis.”
“medicine,” Caleb repeats like it’s an insult.
You don’t answer. There’s nothing you can say that he won't twist.
“I’m serious,” he says, crowding you against the woodpile. “You keep acting like I don’t see it.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“You’re a liar.”
And then—he slaps your cup from your hands. It crashes against the ground. Liquid splashes your legs. The sharp smell of fermented herbs hits your nose. For a second, you think he might hit you next.
But he doesn’t. He just looks at the mess like you caused it, then walks away.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
That night, you sleep facing the wall.
Because he told you to. Because it’s easier than fighting. Easier than letting him know how much you’re starting to prefer the silence.
You think of Jimmima’s hands instead. How gently she plucked the leaves for your tea. How soft her voice was when she told you stories about the earth having memory.
You wish she were here now.
You wish someone was.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
Your next drink tastes sweeter than the last.
Jimmima’s smile is easy, but her eyes are sharp as she passes it to you.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
You hesitate.
“Soft,” you admit finally.
She beams. “Good.”
“Why?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just traces the rim of her own cup with one finger, watching the wind move through the garden.
“The mind must be cleaned to accept the truth,” she says eventually.
You blink.
“What truth?”
She just smiles.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The next time Caleb sees you laughing—really laughing—with one of the older women near the sun dial, he storms over and jerks you away mid-conversation. You barely get out a goodbye before he’s dragging you down the path.
“You think this is a fucking game?” he snarls. “Flouncing around like you’re some enlightened hippie now?”
“Let go of me!”
But he doesn’t. Not until you’re behind the lodge. Out of view. Then he shoves you, hard, into the wall.
“You think you’re better than me now?”
“I never said that—”
“You don’t have to say it. You think I don’t see the way they look at you?”
You’re shaking now. You don’t know what part is psilocybin and what part is terror. Everything is too loud.
“I want to go home,” you whisper.
He freezes.
Then he laughs. A low, mean laugh. “You think there’s a home to go back to? You’re a fucking joke.”
The words slice deeper than any slap. He doesn’t hit you. Not yet. But something about the way he looks at you makes your skin crawl. Like he could. Like he wants to. Like you’re his to punish.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
That night, Jimmima finds you huddled by the cold fire pit. She doesn’t ask what happened. She just sits beside you and lays her head against yours.
You don’t tell her you’re scared. You don’t need to.
She already knows. Her hand finds yours in the dark.
You don’t pull away.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The bathhouse is carved from the earth itself. Stone and moss and timber, all softened by age and candlelight, tucked into the lower ridge like it bloomed there centuries ago and simply never left. You find it by accident—or perhaps not. Nothing here ever seems truly accidental.
You’ve followed the curved path beyond the east gardens, past the prayer stones and the hollow where the women dye fabrics in great bubbling pots, and there it waits: half‑open, steaming, aglow with beeswax lanterns that hang from ceiling beams like captured suns. The air smells of lavender and damp wood and the mineral tang of the spring that feeds the deep bathing pool sunken in the center.
No one's inside.
The door doesn’t creak. It simply breathes shut behind you with a sigh of pine and dust, leaving the flicker of candlelight your only companion.
You don’t undress right away. Your hands hover at the hem of your dress, fingers worrying the fabric. You listen. Wait. But the stone walls hold no echo of voices or footsteps, only the low lap of water and the rhythmic drip from the rock ceiling. A wooden bench waits in the corner, folded linens neatly stacked. There’s a rough woolen robe, too, though no one told you to come here. Not exactly.
Jimmima had only smiled at dinner when you’d asked about the ritual cleansing and said, It finds you when you’re ready.
Apparently, tonight—tonight it’s found you.
You peel off your dress in one slow motion. The fabric pools at your ankles. You fold it out of habit, placing it on the bench as if this were any other spa, any other life. You pause with your thumbs hooked beneath your underwear. Still, no sound but the ripple of water.
You take them off.
Barefoot, bare‑skinned, bare‑blooming in the low gold light, you walk toward the spring‑fed pool. The stone is cool beneath your soles, but your skin is already heating, flushed from more than just warmth. From the steam. From the quiet. From the strange looseness that’s been living in your blood ever since you started drinking the commune’s tea.
The silence wraps around you. Intimate. Anticipatory. You descend into the water.
It kisses your ankles, calves, thighs—hot and clean, the temperature perfect. You shudder once, a soft sound leaving your throat before you can stop it, then exhale slowly, sinking up to your collarbones. Your tits float just beneath the surface, nipples already tight from the heat, from the air. Your arms drift weightless beside you, hands brushing the surface like lily pads. The water smells faintly of juniper and something else—fennel? Honey?
You tilt your head back.
The candlelight shimmers on the wet stone above, and for a moment, the flickering shadows make the ceiling look alive, like it’s breathing in time with your chest. You close your eyes. Let yourself float.
You’re weightless. Unguarded. Open.
For the first time in weeks—months, maybe—you're entirely alone. Not waiting for a slap on the thigh or a muttered insult when you speak too freely. Not walking on eggshells in a room full of people who love you only when you’re quiet. Caleb hasn’t touched you in days. Not gently, anyway. Not since the outburst in the courtyard when he called you a flirt for laughing at Jimmy Shite's joke. Not since he gripped your wrist too hard in the greenhouse. Not since he began sleeping with his back turned toward you like you were a mistake he could turn away from.
But none of that exists here.
Here, the warmth cradles you. The air is sweet with herbs. The candlelight paints your skin gold. Your thighs drift slightly apart beneath the water, a dull, unfamiliar ache blooming low in your belly.
And then—
You feel it. The prickling. That uncanny, certain awareness that eyes are on you.
You lift your head slowly. You don’t rise. You don’t scramble to cover your tits, your hips, the delicate softness of your body floating like an offering in the water. You don’t even gasp. Something in you already knew. Something in you invited this.
You look toward the latticed window high on the opposite wall, just above the stacked firewood. There—barely—a glint of motion. Not an animal. Not the wind. A shape. A shadow.
A man.
At first, you only see part of him. A sliver of face between the wooden slats. One eye. Blue. Unblinking. Watching you with an intensity that makes your breath stutter. You realize he’s been there a while. Long enough to watch you undress. Long enough to watch you step into the bath. Long enough to see the way your nipples hardened, the way your thighs parted, the way your head tipped back in pleasure.
He doesn’t hide when you look at him. He shifts just enough that you can see more of his face through the lattice—his mouth slightly open, breath slow and measured, like he’s savoring the sight. Like he’s memorizing the way your body looks wet and open and glowing in candlelight.
Your breath catches, but your limbs remain loose in the water. Your hands slide beneath the surface, fingertips brushing the insides of your thighs. You feel warm all over—flushed and tingly and almost high.
The psilocybin.
You’ve been drinking the commune’s tea without protest. You know it’s laced. You knew when Jimmima giggled and said, The mind must be cleaned to accept the truth, that she wasn’t speaking in metaphor. But you drank it anyway. Each cup made you feel a little lighter, a little warmer. The euphoria blooms now in your limbs, slow and golden. You blink, and everything glows.
He steps into view. Not through the door. Not down the stone steps like a man obeying the rules of entry. He appears in the arch of the open doorway with no sound, no warning—only presence. As if he was always meant to arrive. As if this space was made for him.
Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal.
He's barefoot. Candlelight licks across the curve of his collarbone, the lean strength of his chest, the thick muscle of his thigh. He wears nothing but his tiara—silver gleaming with candle‑gold—and the inverted cross necklace resting against his sternum.
He’s naked beneath it all.
Your eyes drop before you can stop yourself.
His cock hangs heavy between his thighs, thick and soft, already stirring, the head flushed darker in the heat, rooted in coarse, dark hair. It sways slightly when he takes a step forward, completely unashamed, completely aware that you’re looking. Your pulse jumps, low and sharp, right between your legs.
His hair is slightly damp, curling at the ends from the steam. His hands hang loose at his sides, gaudy rings catching the light. His expression—placid. Devout. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach flip instead of knot.
He says nothing for a long moment. Just looks.
His gaze drags slowly over you, from your collarbones to your shoulders, then lower, to where the water cradles your chest, nipples dark and visible beneath the surface. Then lower still, to the faint shadow between your thighs, where your pussy waits just out of sight. You don’t hide yourself. You don’t cross your arms. You let him see everything he can.
His lips part. You think he might speak. You feel your own pulse in your wrists, your thighs, your cunt. Then:
“Forgive me, my bloom,” His voice is low. Soft. The edge of a promise lives in it.
You swallow.
“The Father asked me tae see ye the way He sees ye—bare…and bloomin’.”
You don't speak.
He takes a step forward.
The heat in the bathhouse thickens. The water shimmers around your ribs. You should be afraid. You should feel shame or protest or at least the echo of Caleb’s voice reminding you that your body isn't your own. But it doesn’t come. None of it comes. Only the sound of water. The scent of lavender and honey. The weight of his gaze like silk drawn across your belly.
You rise, slow as the moon. Water cascades down your skin, over your tits, down your stomach, between your thighs. You meet his eyes. Your limbs tremble beneath the weight of his gaze.
The bath water's gone still. Candlelight flickers across your slick, bare skin, making you look almost gilded—like the Saint Lucia wax dolls perched in the windowsill, waiting to melt.
You don’t move.
Neither does he.
His bare feet are silent against the damp stone as he walks, and his cock—long, thick, heavy—hangs between his thighs, half-hard and pulsing.
You can’t stop looking at it. You try. You really do. But your eyes keep dragging back down, tongue pressing nervously behind your teeth.
He notices.
And he smiles. Not a smirk. Not something arrogant or teasing. It’s slow. Ancient. Like it knows something you don’t.
“I scared ye,” he says, voice low and smooth like syrup left in the sun. “Forgive me.”
Your breath hitches. You nod, barely.
He tilts his head. “I shouldnae’ve watched so long.”
You don’t reply.
Because you had let him. That’s the truth. You’d known someone was watching, had felt the pressure of his gaze like a hand cupped between your thighs—but you didn’t stop. Didn’t cover yourself. Didn’t leave. You stayed in the bath with your pussy exposed, your back arched, your tits catching the candlelight like an offering. Your stomach tightens with guilt and something darker.
Jimmy watches you wrestle with it. He’s always watching. You don’t know how old he is—not really—but there’s something ancient in the way he moves, in the weight of his silences. He looks like a statue animated, half-holy, half-wrong. Skin pale and lean over muscle, every inch of him wiry, unhurried, coiled like scripture waiting to be whispered aloud.
“May I sit?” he asks, gesturing to the stone ledge behind you.
You nod. Again. Voice lost.
He sits slowly, knees open. The thick head of his cock twitches once in the candlelight, drawing your eyes back. It’s veined and ruddy and impossibly large, resting heavy against one thigh, like it’s just as intrigued by you as he is.
You look away—too fast.
Jimmy lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh. “No shame in curiosity, my bloom.”
Your fingers curl into your lap. Your nipples are hard. You try to fold your arms across your chest, to shield your tits from his stare, but all it does is press them together—soft and wet and flushed from the heat of the bath.
His eyes flare, just slightly. “You are beautiful.”
You shouldn’t want to hear that. You shouldn’t feel anything when he says it. Not after everything with Caleb, not after the way you’ve been yelled at, accused, called names, treated like a burden. Not after being forced to sleep turned away, after days of icy silences and the sudden slam of doors—
But you do.
You feel like you’re about to cry.
Jimmy doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t move any closer. But his voice softens. “There’s nothin’ in ye that needs hidin’. Ye were made this way. Bare. Bloomin’. D’ye ken what it means when a flower opens on its own?”
You shake your head.
“Means the soil was ready,” he murmurs, leanin’ back just enough to watch your lips part, your thighs press tight beneath the water, his icy gaze dragging over every inch. “Means the time’s come.”
The ritual tea was laced. You know that. You’d laughed at the fire too long. You’d heard the trees humming like they had voices of their own.
And now—
Now you feel soft. Like every nerve is made of sugar and wet earth and yearning.
You breathe, and it’s too loud. You move your hand, and the water ripples like silk. You blink, and his tiara glows like the moon.
You lick your lips. “Why are you really here?”
His smile fades. Not completely, but enough.
“Because the Father asked me tae look upon ye.”
You tilt your head. “And what did he see?”
He looks down. His hand moves to his cock, fingers idly wrapping around the base—not stroking, not yet, just holding himself in his palm like it’s instinct. “He saw a woman wi’ hunger in her—and no fear left for it.”
You shiver.
Your voice shakes. “Is that what I am?”
Jimmy’s gaze drags back up your body. He lingers on the shadows between your breasts, the gleam of your collarbone, the slick skin of your inner thighs. “That’s what ye could be.”
Silence.
The water steams around you. The candles burn lower. Jimmy’s hand starts to move, slow and deliberate. He strokes the thick shaft of his cock once, then again, like he’s offering a sermon in rhythm. Your pulse trips.
“I should go,” you whisper. “Caleb—”
“Wouldnae notice,” Jimmy says, voice like a blade. “He hasnae looked at ye proper in days, has he?”
You swallow.
He’s right.
Caleb hasn’t kissed you in a week. Hasn’t asked how you’re feeling. Hasn’t looked at you with anything but irritation. When he touches you, it’s rough. When he speaks, it’s sharp. You’ve shrunk around him like a wick—slowly burning yourself out to keep him warm.
Jimmy strokes himself again.
“Ye donae belong tae a man who cannae see ye.”
You try not to look. You fail.
His cock is stiff now, red at the tip, leaking at the slit. His hand is slow and practiced, never taking his eyes off your face. You can smell the musk of him—earth and sweat and something sacred. You inhale without meaning to, and the scent goes straight to your cunt. You feel yourself clench. Wetness pools between your thighs, even beneath the water.
Jimmy sees it. Of course he does. His voice drops to a rasp.
“Ye feel it, don’t ye?” he murmurs. “The way yer body begs. That ache beneath yer skin. That’s always been the truth o’ ye, my bloom. The sacred hunger. It’s no somethin’ tae punish. It’s somethin’ tae worship.”
Your hand drifts beneath the surface of the bath, trembling fingers slipping between your thighs. You’re already wet—soaking, slippery, your pussy pulsing with need. You touch yourself with a soft gasp.
Jimmy groans.
“That’s it.”
Your eyes flutter shut, lashes damp. Your fingers swirl, rubbing soft circles over your clit beneath the water, mouth parted. You can’t help the breathy whine that escapes. You’re too high, too hot, too watched. The candlelight dances across your tits, and you arch your back, your other hand rising to cup one breast, thumb flicking your nipple until it stiffens under your touch.
Jimmy strokes himself harder now.
You hear the slick sound of it. You look at him—and the sight makes you whimper.
He’s moaning low, the head of his cock flushed and angry, precum smeared down the shaft. His abs tighten as he fists himself, eyes locked on you like prayer, like judgment, like the hand of God.
“You’re divine,” he breathes.
You rub yourself faster. “Please.”
He watches you unravel. He doesn’t stop. Neither do you.
You’re riding your own fingers now, hips rocking, tits bouncing in the water, mouth open as your moans echo off the stone. Jimmy’s chains clink as he grips his cock tighter, jerking himself fast and rough, like it’s hurting him not to be inside you already.
Your orgasm breaks like fire.
You cry out, full-throated and shaking, cunt spasming around nothing as your body arches out of the bath like a woman possessed. You come hard, long, fingers buried against your clit as waves of heat crash through your spine.
Jimmy comes with you.
His hips jerk. His cock pulses. Thick ropes of cum paint his stomach, his hand, his thighs—some of it splashing against the floor between you. He groans your name like a vow.
And when it’s over—
Silence. Only the sound of water dripping. Your body slumps back into the bath, exhausted, skin steaming, pussy throbbing.
Jimmy wipes his hand on his thigh. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at you. And this time—this time—you meet his gaze without shame.
Without fear.
And you smile.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The walls are watching.
You don't realize it at first—how many of them there are. Hung in imperfect grids, dozens of sepia-toned photographs, each with the same subject rendered anew: a girl, dressed in flowers. Not just dressed in them. Draped. Swallowed. Garlanded in thick ropes of bluebells and carnations and buttercups, crown heavy with blooms, hair braided into intricate knots, a smile that was always a little too wide or a little too soft or a little too blank. Some were cracked with age. Others impossibly crisp, as though taken yesterday. But they all bore the same date etched beneath the image: Beltane.
You squint. One is from 1913. Another, 1867.
You lean in closer. You don't recognize a single one.
“Do you like them?”
Jimmima’s voice startles you. You hadn’t heard her approach. She stands a few feet behind you, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea. She's always holding tea lately. You're starting to think she never lets herself be seen without it.
You glance over your shoulder. “Are these the May Queens?”
“Mhm.” She pads closer, the slight wisp of her nylon tracksuit jacket rubbing together carried by the summer breeze, “Every one of them. We keep their portraits here. Some say it’s for legacy. Others say it’s so they never forget where they bloomed.”
You turn back to the wall. “They look...happy.”
“Of course they were,” Jimmima says softly. “It’s the highest honor here.”
You reach out without thinking, fingers hovering near the frame of a photo marked 1904. The girl was pale and round-faced, with flowers stuffed so thick into her braid it looked like a vine strangling her hair. She was barefoot, feet tucked into moss. Her eyes didn’t quite meet the lens.
“And it happens every year?”
“Every Beltane,” Jimmima confirms, moving to stand beside you now. “There’s always a celebration, but not every year has a selection.”
You frown. “What do you mean?”
“Well.” She sips her tea. “The crown has to want to be worn. The commune must see the girl. The earth must rise to meet her. You can’t force that.”
There was something almost dogmatic in the way she said it. A hush around her syllables, like a prayer kept secret.
You scan the photos again. Some are clearly more recent. You find a girl from the early 2000s, her smile glossy and full of teeth, her makeup modern. Another just five or six years ago—you wonder if she's still here, if she lives among them, faceless in the crowd.
Jimmima caught the look on your face.
“You’d be beautiful in the crown,” she says, like she’s been waiting for the right moment to say it.
You blink, caught off guard. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” She laughs. “Come on, don’t be dense.”
You feel your cheeks warm. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means you have heart. It means the commune has noticed you. It means the land has noticed you.” She leans in, her voice dropping to something more conspiratorial. “And that means you’re eligible.”
You step back. “Eligible for what?”
“The May Queen selection.” She watches you carefully now. “You’d have to compete, of course. But you’ve already caught their attention. And more than that—you’ve caught His.”
You freeze, feeling your cheeks grow warm at the mere mention of him, memories of last night in the bathhouse flashing through your mind like an erotic zoetrope.“Jimmy?”
She grins. “We don’t use that name here.”
You look back at the wall. The 1931 May Queen had eyes like yours. You wondered if she was scared when they took this photo. You wondered if she knew what it meant.
“I don’t know, Jimmima,” you say carefully. “That seems like…a lot.”
“It is a lot,” she responds brightly. “That’s what makes it worth doing.”
Her eyes glitter with something you can't name. Before you can respond, a voice behind you cuts through the space like a crack splitting ice.
“You’re not seriously considering that shit, are you?”
You turn.
Caleb's stood in the doorway, arms folded, a smug smile tugging at his lips. His hair is still wet from the communal showers. He must’ve followed you here.
“You want to run around like some flower-brained virgin in a dirt pageant?” he scoffs. “You would.”
“Caleb—”
“I mean, you fall on your face and I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”
The way he said it isn't teasing. It isn't playful. It's mean. Small.
And it works—your stomach twists with shame even though he didn't say anything true.
Jimmima’s face darkens, just for a second.
“She hasn’t even agreed yet,” she spoke lightly. “We were only admiring the legacy.”
“Yeah, well,” Caleb rolls his eyes, stepping forward, “maybe try admiring something that doesn’t look like a funeral procession for woodland whores.”
You flinch.
He sees it. He always sees it.
“Come on,” he adds, turning. “Don’t make me stand around waiting.”
You don't move.
He looks back. “Seriously?”
“I’ll catch up,” you murmur quietly.
He stares at you like you've spoken a different language. “Fine. Suit yourself.”
His footsteps echo off the stone as he leaves. The silence he leaves behind is heavy.
Jimmima sets her tea down on a nearby ledge. “He doesn’t deserve you.”
You swallow.
“He sees you shrinking,” she comtinues softly. “And he likes it.”
Your throat goes tight.
She doesn't press. Just steps closer and gently takes your hand.
“I meant it,” she whispers. “You’d be beautiful in the crown.”
You stare at the wall, at the girls who came before you. Their flowers. Their bare feet. Their strange, haunting smiles. And for the first time since you arrived—you let yourself wonder what it would feel like to wear the earth like armor.
To be chosen.
To belong.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
You say yes.
Not with fireworks. Not with some rousing declaration or sudden swirl of wind. You say it quietly, in the hush between one breath and the next, in a voice that barely rises above the weight of your own hesitation.
“…Okay.”
That’s it.
But Jimmima lights up like you’ve set her on fire. She clasps your hands in both of hers, eyes wide and glassy with delight, and presses a kiss to your knuckles before whispering something in that strange tongue you still haven’t learned. Her voice wraps around the vowels like a secret being sealed.
You don't ask what it means. You don’t want to know.
She tells you preparations begin at once. You’ll receive your first flower at dawn. There will be five days of ritual, one for each petal of the crown. Five gifts, five offerings, five tests. At the end, you will be judged—by the commune, by the soil, by Him.
“Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal,” she says, tasting each word like it’s sacred.
You just nod. You don’t know what to say.
That night, Caleb doesn’t speak to you.
He doesn’t ask where you were, or why your shirt smells faintly of lavender. He doesn’t mention the wall of portraits or the gleam in Jimmima’s eyes or the fact that you walked back to the cottage barefoot, like you were trying to feel the earth through your skin.
He just lies beside you, facing the other way, his breath shallow and cold. You lie there awake for hours, staring at the ceiling beams, wondering what you’ve done.
You don’t dream.
But something in the walls clicks, like it’s paying attention.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
You wake before the sun.
The commune is already stirring—bare feet padding across dew-wet grass, low voices humming in the distance, smoke curling out of chimneys like thin, lazy fingers. Everything smells like ash and mint and soil.
Your door creaks open on its own.
You sit up. The wind flutters in behind it. And there, just outside the threshold, rests your first flower.
It’s not in a vase or tied with twine. It’s just placed—deliberately, reverently, with the stem angled toward your feet and the bloom facing the rising sun. It’s a marigold.
You hesitate before picking it up. Its petals are warm. Almost pulsing. You swear it leaves a faint smear of gold on your fingertips.
No one's watching.
And yet you feel seen.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
Day One is a ritual of silence.
You’re not told this aloud—it’s understood. No one speaks to you. Not when you wander the gardens, not when you’re given a bundle of herbs to hold, not when a child—barefoot and no older than six—presses a wet rock into your palm like a keepsake.
They all smile at you. They all touch your wrist, your shoulder, your back. But not a single word is exchanged.
You carry your marigold the entire time.
By sunset, it’s wilted around the edges. You place it beneath your pillow that night.
You dream of teeth.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
Day Two is hunger.
You're fed nothing but milk and honey. You’re not allowed to ask why.
Jimmima brings it to you in a carved wooden bowl and watches as you drink it, kneeling beside your bed like a priestess. You want to ask what this has to do with queenship. She brushes a hand down your cheek and says softly, “The body must remember sweetness before it can be filled with light.”
You nod like you understand.
Caleb glares at the bowl when he sees it later.
“What the fuck are they feeding you?” he mutters.
You shrug. “It’s tradition.”
“Tradition,” he scoffs. “You sound like them.”
You say nothing. You’re getting good at that.
You sleep fitfully. You dream of Jimmy.
Not the man in the purple tracksuit and gold rings. Not the coaxing voice who found you naked in the bathhouse and called you bloom like it was the name he’d carved into your ribs before you were born. But the other version—the one who watches without blinking, who waits without speaking, who stood behind you once while you bathed and made your skin flush with heat before he even touched the door.
You dream of him standing over you.
And of yourself, lying still.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
Day Three is fire.
They light the torches before noon. They dress you in white.
You’re led barefoot to the firepit where the ashes of the last Beltane sleep beneath a layer of moss. The pit is surrounded by the commune—women in linen robes, elders with rings through their noses, children painted in symbols you can’t read.
Jimmy isn't there.
Jimmima holds your hand and says only: “Let the flame remember you.”
Then she sets the hem of your robe alight.
You don’t scream.
The fire isn't real—or maybe it is, but it doesn’t hurt. The smoke curls up your legs like silk, the flames dancing like they know you, and for a moment, the heat is so intimate it feels like someone whispering at your throat.
When it’s over, the robe is untouched. But your skin glows.
Caleb doesn’t speak to you that night. But you catch him watching you from across the cottage with a look you don’t recognize—part fear, part jealousy, part something else.
You fall asleep with your marigold clutched to your chest.
This time, you dream of a crown. And the heavy weight of hands, pressing it down.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The night before the competition smells like smoke and berries and something fermented enough to sting your nose.
The girls gather in the longhouse after dusk, the hems of their dress skirts brushed with pollen, hair still damp from the river. Someone has brought out a fiddle. Someone else pours the dark, cloudy drink from a ceramic jug etched with spirals and ribs. The candles are low, set into niches along the walls, their flames trembling like they’re listening.
You sit cross-legged on a woven mat, laughing.
Actually laughing.
It surprises you—the sound of it, how easily it comes, how it doesn’t snag on your throat or feel like a risk. Your shoulders are loose. Your spine isn’t braced for impact. No one here is watching you the way Caleb watches you, waiting for you to say the wrong thing.
A girl named Iona tells a story about the first May Queen she ever saw, how she thought the woman was made of flowers, not flesh. Another girl braids rosemary into your hair without asking, fingers warm and confident, humming under her breath.
Someone presses a cup into your hands.
You drink.
The psilocybin blooms slow and golden behind your eyes. The walls soften. Candlelight stretches. The laughter sounds farther away and closer all at once, like it’s happening inside your chest. You tilt your head back and let yourself feel it—the lightness, the warmth, the way your body feels like it belongs to you again.
For once, you’re not performing.
You’re just…here.
Then the door slams open.
The sound is wrong in this space. Too sharp. Too loud. Like a gunshot in a church. The laughter dies instantly.
Caleb fills the doorway like consequence.
He hasn’t changed out of his clothes. His jacket is still on. His jaw is tight, mouth already twisted like he’s halfway through an argument you didn’t agree to have. His eyes rake the room—over the girls, the drinks, the firelight—before locking onto you.
There you are.
Laughing.
Barefoot.
Adorned.
“What the fuck is this?” he snaps.
No one answers him. They don’t shrink, though. They don’t scatter. They simply go still, watching him with a quiet, unreadable calm that makes his shoulders hitch like he’s missed a step.
You stand slowly. Your body knows this routine. Knows how to make itself small without appearing to. Knows how to soften your voice, how to hold your hands just right so he won’t accuse you of being aggressive.
“We’re just—” you start.
“Just what?” he barks, stepping fully inside now. “Playing dress-up? Getting drunk with these fucking weirdos?”
One of the girls—Freya, you think—opens her mouth.
Caleb whirls on her. “Did I fucking ask you?”
The air thickens. The candles gutter. You feel the psilocybin spike, the room tilting slightly as adrenaline rushes in to meet it. Your heart pounds too fast. Your palms sweat.
“Caleb,” you say quietly. “Please.”
That word.
Please.
It lands wrong.
His eyes flash. “Don’t fucking ‘please’ me.”
You see it before it happens. The shift. The way his shoulders roll forward, the way his hand flexes at his side.
You don’t step back fast enough.
The slap cracks across your face, loud and unmistakable. Your head snaps to the side. Heat explodes along your cheekbone. For a moment, everything goes white—no sound, no light, just impact and the sharp taste of blood where your teeth catch your lip.
You don’t fall right away.
Your body tries to stay upright, tries to pretend this is manageable, survivable, something you can smooth over later. But your knees buckle, and you’re suddenly on the floor, the mat rough against your palms, the world swaying.
Someone gasps. Another swears.
Caleb is breathing hard. “Look at you,” he sneers like he's smelling curdled milk. “Parading around in their scraps like some holy whore. You really think this makes you special? That a few flowers and pity fucks from freaks who worship bones makes you anything?”
Your face throbs. You touch your cheek without meaning to. When you pull your fingers away, there’s a smear of red.
The room feels too big. Too exposed.
You break.
The sound that comes out of you isn’t pretty. It’s not restrained or polite or quiet enough to ignore. It’s a sob torn straight from your chest, sharp and ugly and unstoppable. You curl in on yourself, hands coming up too late, shoulders shaking as everything you’ve been holding back finally gives.
Caleb scoffs. “Oh, don’t start crying now.”
That’s when the door creaks again. Not slammed. Opened. Slowly. The sound draws every eye.
Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal stands in the doorway. He doesn’t rush in. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t look at Caleb at all at first.
He looks at you. Your tear-streaked face. Your hand pressed to your cheek. The rosemary tangled in your hair, the white fabric pooled around your knees like something discarded.
His expression doesn’t change. No anger. No shock. Just…stillness. A terrible, blasphemous quiet.
Caleb turns, scoffing. “What, you gonna say something now?”
Jimmy doesn’t answer him. He steps inside and closes the door behind him with deliberate care, shutting out the night. The latch clicks softly into place.
The silence stretches. It’s suffocating. The girls have gone completely still, like animals sensing a shift in the weather. The candles don’t flicker now. The air feels heavy, charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Jimmy finally lifts his gaze—to Caleb this time. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t square his shoulders. He simply looks at him, eyes dark and unblinking.
For a heartbeat, Caleb looks uncertain. You’ve never seen that before.
Jimmy says nothing. But the weight of his presence presses down on the room, dense and undeniable. His silence isn't passive. It’s not hesitation.
It’s judgment.
Caleb scoffs again, too loud, too forced. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He turns back to you. “Get up. We’re leaving.”
You don’t move. You can’t. Your body is still curled in on itself, shaking, cheek burning, chest tight like it’s been wrapped in piano wire. The idea of standing, of walking past him, of going back to that cottage feels impossible.
Jimmy watches. He doesn't intervene. And somehow, that’s worse.
Caleb waits a second longer, then mutters, “Unbelievable,” and storms out, slamming the door behind him so hard the frame around it rattles.
The room exhales all at once. Someone kneels beside you. A soft hand brushes your hair back, careful of your cheek. Another presses a cool cloth to your face. You sob into it, shoulders hitching, the humiliation settling in like a bruise beneath the bruise.
Through it all, Jimmy remains where he is. Watching. Not comforting. Not touching. Witnessing.
When your sobs finally taper off into hitched whines and breathy whimpers, something broken and exhausted, you lift your head.
He meets your eyes. And for the first time, you see something flicker there—not pity. Recognition. As if something has just confirmed itself. He turns and leaves without a word.
The door closes gently behind him. And you know—deep in your bones, deeper than fear or reason or doubt—that tonight changed everything.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
You don’t remember falling asleep.
Only waking up. Swollen‑cheeked and cold beneath a woven quilt that smells faintly of lavender and old smoke, your head heavy, your eyes grit‑lined. The light is different now—less gold, more pewter. Dusk has pressed itself against the windowpanes, turning the glass opaque and bruised. Somewhere beyond the room, you hear the rhythm of footsteps and laughter, the cracking pop of wood as kindling is broken, the low murmur of voices gathering for the night.
Life going on. As if nothing happened.
Your face aches. When you touch it—ginger, uncertain—you can feel the exact shape of his hand still mapped there. The swell of your cheekbone. The heat trapped beneath skin. The tenderness that makes you hiss quietly through your teeth.
You swallow.
The knock is quiet. Two fingers, slow and spaced apart. Not Caleb.
You sit up too fast, heart thudding, your vision swimming. The room tilts for a moment, the edges blurring as pain and exhaustion catch up to you all at once.
“Come,” you croak. Or maybe you just think it. Either way, the door creaks open.
He’s backlit in the doorway like some ruinous god—dressed in his tracksuit, curls damp at the temples like he’s come in from the mist. His tiara is gone now, set aside with ceremony you didn’t witness, but the inverted cross still glints at the center of his chest, a sharp gleam in the twilight. His hands are bare. No rings.
Jimmy Crystal steps inside without a word and closes the door behind him. The sound is soft. Final. He says nothing at first. Just studies you the way he always does—gaze slow, deliberate, the kind of looking that leaves you feeling opened up without ever being touched. Like he’s taking inventory. Like he’s committing you to memory. You expect him to sit. He doesn’t. He leans against the closed door instead and tilts his head, eyes tracing the line of your body beneath the quilt, the way you’re folded in on yourself.
You swallow. “Is he gone?”
Jimmy’s expression doesn’t change. He shakes his head once. “Naw.”
Your stomach drops. “Is he—” Your voice falters. You have to try again. “Is he coming back?”
Another pause. Longer this time. Then—soft, low, almost thoughtful:
“He'll be nearby.”
Not with you. Not allowed near you. Nearby.
Your breath hitches. You want to ask more. You don’t. You’re afraid to know what’s already written in the calm of Jimmy’s posture, in the calmness of his hands.
“He struck ye,” Jimmy continues quietly, like he’s reciting a fact, not an accusation. “That's no permitted here.”
You let out a weak, humorless laugh. “He didn’t seem to care.”
“Naw,” Jimmy agrees. “Men like him rarely do.”
He pushes off the door then. Walks across the room with that same quiet weight, that prowling grace that once unsettled you and now feels…inevitable. Like gravity doing its job. He crouches in front of you where you sit on the edge of the mattress, lowering himself until you’re eye‑to‑eye. For a moment, he just rests his elbows on his knees and looks at you.
Then he speaks.
“May I?”
You nod.
Jimmy lifts his hand—fingers cool, careful—as he touches your cheek. His thumb brushes the bruised skin with agonizing gentleness, a ghost of pressure, a lover’s hush. It’s barely anything at all, and still you flinch, breath catching despite yourself.
He stills immediately. The silence stretches between you, thick and deliberate. Then, in a voice lower than a whisper:
“Does it always feel like this?”
You blink. “Like what?”
“Like ye’re disappearin'.”
The words land harder than the slap did. You turn your face away, jaw trembling, eyes burning. Your shoulders curl forward as if you can fold yourself small enough to vanish entirely. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t chase the moment away or try to fix it. He just lets you breathe through it. Lets you feel it.
“Ye can lie,” he says finally. “But no tae me.”
You meet his eyes then—hard, defiant, but hurting. You don’t know how he sees it all so clearly. You don’t know when he learned the meaning of your silence. He holds your gaze as he asks, quiet but steady, like he already knows the answer.
“Do ye feel held by him?”
The question hollows you. Not in the way Caleb does. Not in the way that leaves you small and bleeding and trying to claw yourself back out of yourself afterward. This hollows you in a different way. A gentler way. Like someone carving out rot to make space for something better.
You try to answer. You really try. But your voice breaks halfway through the first syllable and you shake your head instead, tears stinging as you look down at your lap, shoulders caving inward.
Jimmy exhales. Not in relief. Not in triumph. Like someone grieving a truth they already knew.
He reaches forward.
You think he’s going to touch your face again—but no. It’s your hands. Both of them. He takes them in his own, cradling them between his palms, rough and warm and steady. His thumbs press lightly into the centers of your hands, grounding you, anchoring you.
And suddenly you’re not shaking anymore. Suddenly, there’s heat in your body again. There’s gravity. Weight. The sensation of being real.
Like you’ve been floating, untethered and invisible, for so long—and someone just finally said, I see you. Come home.
Jimmy’s voice is quieter now. Still low, still carrying that Scottish rasp like smoke across skin. “Do ye want tae keep fightin' for somethin' that only ever breaks ye?”
A beat.
“Or do ye want to be chosen for once?”
You can’t breathe. But you nod. You nod.
Jimmy lifts your hands and presses a kiss to the backs of them, slow and deliberate, like he’s sealing something older than words. Not a claim. A vow.
When he pulls back, his eyes are darker.
“Rest,” he murmurs. “Tomorrow will be heavy.”
You hesitate. “Caleb—”
Jimmy’s mouth curves—not into a smile, but something colder. Something final. "He will be receivin' Charity,”
The word means nothing to you. And somehow, it means everything.
Jimmy releases your hands and stands. He pauses at the door, glancing back once.
“Ye're safe the night, aye," he says.
And you believe him.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
You wake in white.
The robe they gave you the night before is still clinging to your skin, though someone has removed the bruised, wine-stained underlayers. You don’t remember undressing, only falling asleep in Jimmima’s bed while her fingers soothed over your hair. You remember her whispering a prayer in your ear. You remember her hand on your back when your shoulders trembled too hard to breathe. You remember her promising you wouldn’t be alone in the morning.
You aren't.
When your eyes blink open, there are hands on you—soft and humming, a small chorus of girls dressed in similar white, lifting your arms, brushing out your hair again, washing your skin in floral oils that smell like crushed lavender and sun-warmed citrus. They move as one body, synchronized and silent save for the rhythmic hum that bleeds from their chests. Their fingers comb through your hair and rub tinctures behind your ears, at the soft spots of your hips, the hollow of your throat.
You don’t speak. You don’t need to.
Their presence is warm and bright and maternal in a way you didn’t know you could crave. Not like this. Not the kind of care that makes you feel like a person being prepped. You feel like an altar. A vessel. Not objectified, not groped, not owned—but honored. Revered.
Your bruise is still visible. You see it when they turn you toward the mirror, a blooming handprint rising over your cheek like a rolling thunder cloud. It should look terrible. But the way they’ve painted you makes it seem intentional, almost sacred—like your pain is part of the ritual.
They crown you last. You don’t even feel it at first, the delicate weight of the woven wildflowers settling atop your head. It’s not the heavy mass of a stage prop but something natural and strange. When you look up, you catch the details in the mirror: winding vines, sprigs of baby’s breath, poppies, buttercups. Nestled among them are carved slivers of ivory—feminine and beautiful and aged. Bone.
You don’t know it’s human.
You smile anyway.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
Everything is washed in light.
The entire commune gathers in a ring of celebration around the sacred maypole, its tall white body wrapped in spiraling red ribbons and garland. The pole reaches toward the sky like a stake to heaven, shimmering in the morning dew, marked with centuries of carved names and prayers. Children run barefoot through wild grass. Women paint each other’s faces. Elders raise small ceramic horns in your direction when you pass.
Jimmima holds your hand.
She looks radiant in her ceremonial white tunic, something everyone including the Fingers wear during Beltane, her usual mischief softened into something warm and devoted. She guides you to the heart of the circle like a mother giving away her daughter—though not to a husband. To the sun. To the sky. To the dance.
You aren’t the only girl.
There are others, maybe eighteen, maybe twenty, each glowing in their own way. Some look older, some younger. All dressed in ivory linen, all crowned, all smiling. The moment doesn’t feel competitive. It doesn’t feel like bloodsport. It feels like unity. Like every girl in this ring is part of something older than her body. A ritual that will choose—not based on beauty, not on merit—but on something deeper. Something divine.
Sir Lord Jimmy watches from afar.
He’s positioned at the edge of the crowd, seated on what looks like a carved throne made from twisted, pale branches. He isn't wearing his tracksuit today. His upper body is bare save for the fur pelt draped over his shoulders, his skin kissed by the cold wind but unmoving. His eyes are heavy on you.
He hasn’t spoken to you since after Caleb struck you last night. He hasn’t needed to. His silence wrapped around you like a second robe, like an answer, like a shield.
And even now, from across the field, you feel that same veil of knowing settle over your shoulders. You know he’s watching. You know he’s here for you. The others are witnessing the tradition.
He's witnessing you.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The drinking horn is passed around, its dark wood damp with condensation. When it reaches your hands, your fingers curl around it without hesitation.
It’s sweet. Too sweet. Coated in honey and rose. The herbal tang hits your throat half a second after you swallow, burning and numbing, followed by a curious warmth that floods your stomach and rises like smoke into your head.
It’s drugged. You know that now.
You knew it before.
But you don’t fight it.
Because there’s something about this place, about these people, about this dance—you want to feel it. All of it. You want to be part of it in the way they are, eyes shining and cheeks flushed with joy, bodies moving in time to an unspoken rhythm older than any language you’ve learned.
The drum begins.
It’s not a performance drum, not a beat for an audience. It’s deep and primal and patient. You feel it in your spine. You feel it in your womb. The world around you pulses with it, ground vibrating gently under your feet.
You're placed beside the pole. Your ribbon is red. So is the ribbon of the girl beside you. All of you are red—each given a ribbon that will bind you to the pole, and to each other, until only one remains standing.
The dance begins in a clockwise spiral. It’s slow at first. Measured. You step forward when the girl ahead of you steps, winding the ribbon between your fingers, looping it around the pole. You're weaving the world together, thread by thread. And in this sacred spiral, you're not awkward or clumsy or uncertain.
You're a part of it.
The circle. The history. The choosing.
Girls begin to drop. One by one, they stumble, they laugh, they fall into the arms of waiting commune members who carry them gently from the ring. The pace increases. The rhythm intensifies. Your limbs feel like they belong to the earth. Like you’re made of air and fire and bone.
Time stops meaning anything. You spin. You laugh. You glow. You forget about Caleb. You forget about the bruises. You forget about the ache in your chest and the fear in your blood. All that remains is this moment. This dance.
You don’t notice when there are only three girls left.
Then two.
Then—
Jimmima gasps, covering her mouth. The crowd erupts. You're still standing. Your feet rooted, your ribbon perfectly wound, your breath shallow and shaking but full of life.
You’ve won.
The sun blazes low but strong in the sky, burning like a second crown above your own. Your lungs are still scorched from laughter. From dancing. From screaming breathless joy as the last of the girls around the maypole collapsed to their knees—writhing with giggles or tears or both—and you stayed standing. High and dazed, your feet slick with sweat and flower petals, the world spiraling in a syrupy golden blur around you.
They swarmed you when you won. The women first—Jimmima wrapping you in her arms, kissing both your cheeks, weeping openly. Then the men. Then the children. Petals flung, songs sung, your name echoing in your ears like thunder underwater.
You can’t stop smiling. You can’t stop floating. Even now—still dizzy, crowned in wildflowers, the carved bone digging cold and delicate into your scalp—you feel like you’ve been split open to sunlight. Like something radiant has carved its way into your chest and taken root there, blooming out of your ribs. A fever dream of acceptance.
You’re their May Queen. You belong to them now. But no one warned you what comes next.
The drums don’t stop. The singing doesn’t stop. And then you’re led—barefoot, trembling—toward the platform in the village center. You think maybe there’s more dancing. Maybe a blessing. Maybe a feast. You’re light-headed, drunk on fungus and affection and windburned praise.
Then you see the altar. And the chairs beside it. One for you. One still empty.
You’re told to choose.
“The King,” Emma whispers in your ear, her hands on your shoulders. “Your consort. Your counterpart. Your mate. You must choose.”
“What—?”
“This is tradition, darling.” Her voice is honeyed and solemn. “You must choose your May King.”
Your stomach lurches. No one said anything about a king. About a partner. About—marriage?
You look at her. She looks back with a kind of eerie, expectant calm. Like this is all very obvious. Like you’re just slow to catch on.
“I don’t—I didn’t know—”
“It must be someone here,” she says softly, like she’s soothing a child. “Someone within our bounds. Someone worthy.”
You can’t think. Your limbs feel gelatinous. Your jaw unhinged. You see faces swimming in the crowd—beaming, breathless, pink-cheeked with joy. All of them turned toward you. All of them waiting.
And then you see him.
Jimmy.
He’s watching from the back of the crowd, haloed in shadow, his inverted cross catching the dying light. He’s not smiling. He’s not swaying with the others. He’s still. Silent. But his eyes are burning. They burn for you.
And something in you answers. Your lips move before you can stop them.
“Him.”
The word hits the air like a bell. Clear. Irrevocable. You point—shaking, breathless—toward Jimmy Crystal.
“I choose him.”
There’s a moment of calm. A suspended beat in the universe. And then—chaos. No—not chaos.
Caleb.
Because Caleb is suddenly there, charging toward the altar, his face a twisted mask of disbelief and rage, his voice tearing through the air like barbed wire. “No. No, fuck that—fuck this!”
His arms flail as he’s grabbed—first by Jimmy Ink, then Jimmy Shite, and then the wiry, sharp-toothed one they call Jimmy Fox. All three restrain him with terrifying calm as he thrashes, red-faced and snarling, trying to claw toward the platform.
“You lying little bitch!” he screams at you. “You let him touch you? You let him—after everything—I brought you here!”
“Caleb—” you gasp, trying to stand, to say something, but Emma’s hands are like iron on your shoulders.
“No,” she murmurs. “You don’t speak to the unchosen.”
“Unchosen?” Caleb spits. “This is fucking insane!”
He lunges again. Jimmy Ink cracks him once in the ribs with an elbow. He folds. And over it all—cutting through the noise like thunder—is Jimmy’s voice. Authoritative. Resonant. Final. “She has spoken.”
He steps forward at last. “The May Queen, our vessel, has chosen.” He mounts the platform with an ease that feels inevitable. That has always felt inevitable.
You stare up at him as he takes your hand.
The sun dips behind him, and he’s all fire and silhouette, curls backlit, jaw rigid. He looks half angel, half beast. The crowd stills again. And then Jimmy lifts your hand high and declares for all to hear:
“The binding is begun.”
The crowd erupts. Cheers. Chanting. Bells ringing. Drums booming. Somewhere, Caleb is still screaming. Still cursing. But his voice is drowning in it, shrinking beneath the sound of devotion.
The May Queen has chosen. And her King is Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal. You don’t understand what it means yet—not fully. But the way Jimmy looks at you, the way he brings your knuckles to his mouth and kisses them like something sacred—you think maybe you will soon.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
You don’t remember walking. You don’t remember the way the crowd parts for you, or the feeling of flower petals against your bare feet, or the way the crown of bone and blooms sways slightly with each step. You don’t remember the moment your dress was changed—no longer the long, floating white from the maypole dance, but a translucent silk shift that kisses your thighs and bares your arms. You don’t remember the knife being blessed. But it’s there when you arrive.
A carved, ceremonial blade, honed from pale bone, rests on a bed of marigolds. You blink at it, and your vision warps—light streaking across your pupils like oil on water. The color of the flowers swells, breathing with golden pulse, as if the sun itself is kneeling beside you.
Someone places the knife in your palm. You’re too high to speak. Too high to move unless guided. The world smells like smoke and pollen and sweat. Behind you, the commune chants in a low rhythm that thrums through your bones—not words you understand, but vibrations, intonations, syllables for fertility, for lineage, for rebirth.
Your feet keep moving. You stop in front of him. Jimmy. You get a better look at his torso, his bare chest an altar of pale skin, thin white scars, and breath. His dark pants are loose around his hips, tied with a blood-colored sash, and his fingers are wet with something crimson and slick.
He doesn’t look drugged. Not even a little. There’s something terrifying in how still he stands, how watchful. His eyes—always eerie—seem glassier now. Like twin black lakes beneath a winter sky, full of reflection and nothing at all. He holds out his hand, palm up, and you know what to do.
The bone blade trembles in your grip. Still, you raise it. Your vision narrows to just his hand—the wide, calloused expanse of it, fingers slightly curled, waiting for your vow. You slice his palm. Blood wells immediately, fat and dark. He doesn’t flinch.
Then he takes the knife from you. And does the same. The moment the blade touches your skin, your knees nearly buckle. It’s a clean cut, but it stings. The sharpness blossoms like fire, and for a second your vision flares. The crowd gasps as your blood joins his—dripping down your wrists and onto the packed earth below.
But it’s not over. Jimmy steps closer. And tilts your chin. No warning—he presses the blade gently beneath your bottom lip. You shudder, tears springing to your eyes as the thin skin splits. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches as the crimson beads gather at your mouth, then raises the blade to his own.
His lip splits cleaner. Quicker. And then his hand is in your hair. He pulls you in.
And kisses you.
It’s not like any kiss you’ve ever had. It’s a sealing. A vow. His lips crash into yours, blood to blood, mouths open and wet and aching—and the taste is salt, and metal, and want. The copper floods your tongue. You gasp against him, but he doesn’t pull back. He deepens it, tilts your chin harder, groans something against your mouth in a voice the others can't hear.
When he pulls away, his mouth is painted in your blood. Yours painted in his. Your lip throbs, pulse beating just beneath the break in your skin. You can feel the bond settling into place—not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Physically. The psilocybin in your veins reacts to the moment like it’s divine. Your chest seizes with awe. Your body tingles, crowned in reverent submission.
The commune erupts in praise. They chant his name. Then yours.
“May Queen. May King. May Queen. May King.”
You sway where you stand, but Jimmy’s hand finds the back of your neck. Holds you steady. His thumb presses beneath your jaw like he’s anchoring your soul to your body—like you’ll float away if he doesn’t keep you there.
The next steps of the ceremony begin behind you. The preparation of the bed. The fire set to burn behind it.
The crowd gathers in the glade, eyes on the King and Queen, and someone wraps a red cord around both your wrists, binding your hands together in the marriage knot. You wanna ask what happens now. But something tells you you’ll find out. Because Jimmy’s looking at you like he already knows. And he doesn’t blink. Not once.
Jimmy doesn't release you when the chanting rises again.
The marriage knot is loosened, not removed—the red cord slipping from your wrists only to be gathered in his hand as he turns you away from the glade, palm firm at the base of your spine. The commune parts without a word. Faces blur. Firelight streaks across your vision like dragged paint. Your body is humming, still buzzing from blood and vow and kiss, lip throbbing where the blade split you open for him. You’re still swaying when he guides you forward. And this time, you feel every step.
Stone replaces soil beneath your feet. The temperature shifts—warmer, heavier, the air thick with smoke and resin and old heat baked into bone. The chanting doesn’t fade. It follows. Reverberates. Echoes now, distorted by walls that curve inward like ribs.
The Bone Temple rises out of the earth like something unearthed rather than built.
It's circular, sunken, erected pillars formed from pale stone and lashed skeletal remains—femurs bound with twine, spines set into mortar, skulls half-swallowed by lichen and candle wax stacked in a pyramid at the center of it, a memorial of human suffering and sacrifice. The ceiling opens to the sky, a ring of moonlight pouring down onto the altar at its center. Fire bowls line the perimeter, flames low and constant, fed by unseen hands.
This isn't a place of rest. This is a place of metamorphosis. The altar isn't raised. It's hollowed. A broad slab of stone worn smooth by generations of bodies, layered with furs and hides darkened by age and ritual use. The scent hits you all at once—sex, smoke, old iron, something sweet and animal beneath it. Your knees weaken.
His hand tightens on your neck, thumb pressing beneath your jaw until your head tilts back, eyes lifting to his. The crown still sits on his head. The inverted cross gleams against his chest. He looks at you like you're exactly where you belong. Then he guides you forward. The unseen watchers don't speak. They breathe together. You feel it on your skin—a collective inhale as he lays you back onto the altar, arranging you with care that borders on tenderness. The furs cradle you, warm and rough. The stone beneath them radiates heat, seeping into your spine.
He doesn't rush. He reknots the red cord, this time looping it low around your waist, cinching it snug over your hips. A claiming band. A boundary. His fingers linger there, pressing into your flesh like he’s measuring you. You shiver. He lifts the silk shift from your body, slow and deliberate, letting the fabric slide over your skin until you’re bare beneath the open sky. The firelight paints you gold and shadow. You hear a soft, reverent sound from somewhere beyond the walls—not a gasp, not a cheer. Something closer to prayer.
You aren't embarrassed. You're exalted.
Jimmy undresses without spectacle, eyes never leaving you. The fur pelt around his shoulders falls. Then the pants. When he steps free of them, the fire bowls flare in response, light climbing the walls. He keeps the crown. Keeps the necklace. He isn't discarding power—he's wielding it.
He kneels between your thighs. Spreads you open with his hands. They're rough. Certain. His thumbs press into the soft of your inner thighs, pushing them wider, holding you there as he looks at you fully, reverently, like a passage he’s memorized by heart.
You feel small.
Chosen.
His fingers drag upward, slow, unhurried, tracing the heat-slick seam of your cunt. You gasp, hips twitching, and his grip tightens—a warning. Not cruel. Controlled.
"Patience," he murmurs, voice low, carrying like scripture. "The altar must be readied. The gates opened. The womb invited."
Two fingers push into your soaked pussy. You cry out. They slide in easily—your body welcoming him, desperate for more—and he doesn’t stop there. He moves with deliberate pressure, curling, stretching you open inch by inch. You feel him everywhere. In your jaw. Your spine. Your womb.
He watches your face as he works you open, eyes dark and unblinking, fingers scissoring, testing, spreading you until your thighs tremble and your breath shatters. The cool metal of his rings kisses your slick folds. He adds a third finger slowly, stretching you wider, deeper, until you’re gasping, clutching at the furs.
"Ye were made for this," he says softly, voice thick with idolization. "Made tae be filled. Tae be bred. This cunt exists tae be used for creation."
His mouth follows. The first drag of his tongue makes your vision white out. He eats your pussy like an act of devotion, messy and unrelenting. His fingers never stop. He holds you open and fucks you on them while his tongue works your clit with reverent circles. You sob, hips jerking, overwhelmed. It’s too much, too holy. The psilocybin in your blood turns everything inside-out.
"Good girl," he praises, muffled between your thighs. "Give it tae me. Let your God drink from your cunt."
When you come, it’s not one orgasm—it’s a cascade. A scream torn from your throat as your whole body writhes, walls fluttering helplessly around his fingers. He doesn't stop. Not until you're sobbing, dripping, wrecked.
Only then does he rise. His cock is heavy and flushed, hard and wet at the tip, and the sight alone makes your thighs fall further apart, remembering that intimate exchange you shared in the bathhouse. He wraps his fist around it, strokes once, then presses the blunt head to your entrance.
"This is where I plant ye," he murmurs, tiara gleaming. "Where the bloodline begins. Ye’ll take every drop, wife, and ye’ll thank me for making ye mine."
Then he fucks into you. All at once. You scream. Your pussy stretches, parts, swallows him in one brutal, holy thrust. Your back arches, mouth open in a soundless sob. He holds himself there, cock buried to the hilt, thick and pulsing and so deep it feels like he’s breaching something sacred.
You feel him in your belly.
"Mine," he growls, voice sharpened with awe. "My hole. My wife. My sacred little incubator."
He starts to move. Not gently. Slow and deep, grinding into your cervix with every stroke. He fucks you like the altar was made for this—for you—for the obscene slap of his hips on your thighs, for the wet squelch of your cunt sucking him in again and again.
You’re gasping. Whimpering. Clawing at his back, his arms, the stone.
"Ye feel that?" he pants, breath hot against your cheek. "That’s my cock reshaping your cunt. That’s yer pussy milking me for every drop."
You cry out again, and he bites your throat—teeth dragging along the skin, hard enough to bruise. You’re shaking beneath him, legs spread wide, his name falling from your lips like prayer.
"Ye’ll drip for days," he snarls, fucking harder. "Ye’ll leak down your thighs in front of the commune and they’ll know what I did tae ye. What I made."
Your orgasm hits so violently you choke on it. He fucks you through it, relentless, hips snapping into you. You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Your cunt spasms around him, fluttering tight, clenching like you need to be bred.
"That’s it," he growls, "take your blessing. Take yer fucking purpose."
He groans into your mouth as he spills inside you. Hot. Endless. Possessive. He stays inside, grinding into your overstimulated pussy as cum floods your womb, his cock twitching, pushing it deep. You feel it leaking out, dripping between your ass cheeks, but he doesn’t move.
"Ye’re mine now," he breathes, "marked in blood and seed. Ye’ll carry me. Ye’ll birth for me."
He presses his hand to your belly. Flat. Claiming. Forever. And whispers, "so let it be done."
You don’t know if you hear it with your ears or your bones. But you feel it settle in your cunt. In your womb. In your soul. You’re not empty. You’re filled. You’re his.
Forever.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
You're still leaking him when they lead you to the stone. Still split open, stretched wide, slick between your thighs from where his seed took root. You can feel it trickling down the backs of your legs as you walk—or are walked, rather, because your feet barely move. The red cord around your waist hasn't been removed. It trails behind you like a leash, like a tail, like a marker of what’s been done and what you’ve been made for.
The firelight licks your skin. The furs cling. You don't protest. Because you're his. And he's bringing you home.
The Bone Temple empties behind you, but the chanting doesn't stop. It continues as a pulse through the dark—lower now, guttural, weighted with something that isn’t ecstasy anymore. Something heavier. Something close to mourning.
No one touches you except Jimmy.
You pass commune members on your way. They drop to their knees. They don't look at you. They look at your womb. At your belly. At what might already be growing inside.
The moon is high when the glade opens again, revealing a half-circle of figures gathered beneath the stone arch. Torches blaze. Incense chokes the air. The altar behind you is still wet. You feel the evidence of your making with every step—every sore muscle, every sticky pulse between your legs, every raw, stretched ache deep in your cunt. You never want it to fade.
They’ve set two figures before the fire. Bound. Kneeling. One is a commune member. A boy—no older than twenty—with pale lashes and a trembling jaw. He doesn't cry. He doesn't move. He stares straight ahead with wet, wide eyes.
The other is Caleb. Your Caleb. You know it’s him even though the chanting makes it hard to think. He’s gagged but his expression says everything—rage, disbelief, the kind of frantic betrayal that only men like him feel when they’ve lost control.
He tries to rise when he sees you. Fails. His hands are tied at the wrists and elbows behind his back, knees digging into the soil. His shirt is half-ripped, dirt smeared across his chest, and there’s blood dried along one side of his neck—from the last time Jimmy “charitied” him for speaking out of turn. He's still beautiful in the way a corpse is beautiful before it remembers it should rot.
You don't flinch when he looks at you. You don't turn away. Jimmy stops behind you. The firelight throws a long, jagged shadow across the clearing, stretching his form over the ground like a broken angel. His tracksuit hangs open at the chest, still streaked with sweat, having gotten redressed after the consummation. His rings catch the light. His crown is tilted slightly back on his head, curls haloing his face like something Biblical.
The Jimmys emerge behind him—seven masked silhouettes, including Jimmima. Silent. You feel them watching. Waiting.
Only Sir Jimmy speaks.
He lets the silence stretch. Lets Caleb shake. Then raises his arms like wings and speaks in that unholy cadence—the one that splits the air open and makes your knees weak.
“The altar's been made fertile,” he begins. “The seed's been sown. The future's promised.”
Your breath catches. The crowd bows. Jimmy doesn’t look at them. He looks only at you. “But the Devil’s son cannae rise on inheritance alone. The soil’s got tae be fed. The past stripped clean. The vessel unburdened.”
He walks toward the two kneeling men. You don't follow. You stand naked before them, thighs sticky with his cum, pulse hammering beneath your skin like something desperate to escape. But you don't speak. You listen.
“Every mother’s got tae make a choice. Every womb’s got tae choose what it’ll carry.” He smiles now—slow, sharp, and terrible. “One’ll feed the flame. The other’ll watch the dawn.”
He stops just behind the two figures. “On yer left…” he purrs, and gestures to the commune boy, who doesn't flinch. “One of us. Born tae serve. Raised tae kneel. A willin’ offerin’. On yer right…”
He turns to Caleb. A low, amused scoff escapes his mouth. “This one…” he hums, crouching down to grab a handful of Caleb’s hair and jerk his head up, “this one was yer burden. Yer cage. Yer rot.”
You feel your stomach turn. Caleb snarls behind the gag, straining against Jimmy’s grip, but it’s useless. Jimmy leans in.
“Did ye ever tell her,” Jimmy hisses, dragging Caleb’s face up by the jaw, “how ye begged her tae stay when she tried tae leave? How ye called her a fuckin’ whore when she cried after? How ye only touched her when she was too scared tae say no?”
Gasps ripple through the crowd. Jimmy smiles wider. “She screamed for me,” he says, eyes never leaving Caleb’s. “She bled for me. Came so hard on my cock it soaked the altar. And I’ll fuck her raw every night ‘til I’ve pumped her so full o’ seed the whole commune’ll hear it slosh—‘til I’ve filled her wi’ the heir o’ the Devil’s very own son.”
He lets go. Caleb slumps. You’re trembling—not from fear. From the weight of it. From the finality.
Jimmy turns back to you. “You must choose,” he says simply. “The sacrificial angel—or the loyal lamb.”
The crowd chants in rhythm behind you, soft and slow.
Choose. Choose. Choose. Choose.
You look at Caleb. Then the boy. Then Jimmy. Your mouth opens. The word sticks for a moment—lodged between ribs, caught behind tongue—and then slips free, barely audible over the drumbeat of your pulse.
“Caleb.”
The crowd doesn’t cheer. They exhale. A long, solemn release. A confirmation of what they already knew.
You’re still shaking.
Jimmy bows his head. “Thy will be done.” You're taken by the arms—gently, carefully—and led back to the temple’s edge while the Jimmys advance on Caleb. The one in silver removes something from his jacket.
Ropes. Hooks. Something glinting.
They move in perfect unison. The commune boy bows his head in relief. He's spared. Caleb isn’t so lucky. You don't blink as the Jimmys close in.
Caleb flinches. It’s instinct, not bravery—his body jerking backward as if his bones still believe in the possibility of flight. But there’s nowhere to run. The earth holds him down like judgment. His knees sink deeper into the soil as the first masked figure steps forward, face obscured by bleached hair and a stitched together mask repurposed from a suede green adidas trainer. The others move with him, silent and sure, a phalanx of ritual precision. Their feet disturb nothing. Even the fire seems to bow away from them.
Only Jimmy stands apart. Unmasked. Crowned. Watching. You feel the wind shift behind you as the Bone Temple’s great torches are extinguished one by one, leaving only the central pyre to cast light over the clearing. Shadows rise like spirits along the stone arch. The carved wings etched into the altar behind Caleb seem to flicker and pulse, as if something ancient is waking beneath the rock.
You don't weep. You burn. You're still bare. Still sticky. Still ruined in the most holy of ways. The red cord around your hips has loosened, fallen low against your thighs, soaked with sweat and something more. Your knees tremble with every breath, but you don't fall. You stand because Jimmy told you to stand. And you listen now. You obey.
The commune sings something low and wordless. A sound without melody. A thrum that builds in your sternum like dread—or rapture. The boy you spared has been led away, shoulders trembling in what may be relief or guilt or both. He'll never forget your face.
But all your focus is on Caleb.
They strip him fast. Ritual fast. Hands move in tandem. Fabric is cut, not unbuttoned. The gag is torn from his mouth but no words come out, only the sound of his breath—ragged, snarling, afraid. His chest rises and falls in panicked bursts. His wrists remain bound, elbows locked behind him. When they force him to kneel taller, arms tugged unnaturally backward to open up the rib cage, he starts to scream.
Jimmy raises a single hand. And the screaming stops. The Jimmys obey. Everyone obeys. The sound dies like it was snuffed out by the Devil himself.
You watch. Your toes curl into the dirt as Jimmy steps forward at last. Not with the grace of the commune, but with something else—something feral. Something purposeful. His tracksuit clings to his chest, streaked with sweat and blood and soil. He isn't cloaked like the others. He doesn't hide. His crown glints where it sits just askew atop his curls, and the inverted cross on his chest gleams like a dagger between his pectorals.
He flexes his hands as he approaches. The rings crack. They aren't just decorative. You’ve known that for some time now. They're weighty, thick, shaped to hurt. Bone and silver, gold and teeth. He wears one shaped like an angel’s wing. Another like a flame. And another—your favorite—bears the sharp-toothed grin of something not quite human.
He doesn't speak at first. He kneels beside Caleb, who's shaking now. The dirt on his skin has mixed with blood, and he won’t stop jerking—head, shoulders, wrists, breath. Until Jimmy grabs him by the jaw.
The communion begins.
Jimmy doesn't rush it. That's the worst part. He stays crouched in front of Caleb, one hand still cupping his jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge hard enough to make his teeth click. He forces Caleb’s face upward until their eyes lock—until there's nowhere left to look but at the man who is about to unmake him.
“Ye see her?” Jimmy asks quietly.
Caleb’s eyes flick to you despite himself. You don't move. You don't look away. You stand naked and crowned and slick, red cord hanging low at your hips, Jimmy’s work still warm between your thighs. You aren't shaking anymore. Whatever fear once lived in your body has been burned out and replaced with something else—something steadier. Something chosen.
Jimmy hums in approval. “That’s good,” he says. “Ye should look. Angels are made with witnesses.”
He releases Caleb’s jaw. Then he stands. The air shifts with him—pressure dropping, lungs tightening. The commune leans forward as one. You feel it ripple through the clearing like a held breath. Jimmy rolls his shoulders once. Twice. The rings catch the firelight as he flexes his hands again, testing weight, alignment. He steps back just enough to give himself room.
Caleb opens his mouth.
Jimmy hits him before the scream can form.
The sound is wet and catastrophic—bone on metal, flesh giving way beneath force meant to break. Caleb’s head snaps sideways, spit and blood spraying into the dirt. He collapses forward, barely held upright by the bindings wrenching his arms behind him. Jimmy doesn’t stop. He never stops.
The second blow lands lower—ribs—a brutal, arcing swing that caves breath out of Caleb’s chest in a choking wheeze. You hear something crack. Maybe more than one thing. The sound echoes against the stone arch like applause.
Jimmy steps in close.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Each strike is deliberate. Measured. Not frenzy—ceremony. He alternates hands, rings blooming red, knuckles already slick. Caleb sobs now, the sound raw and involuntary, leaking out of him like something he can’t hold in anymore.
Jimmy grabs him by the hair again and yanks his head back. “For the record,” he says conversationally, “this is what us hippies call Charity."
Another punch—straight to the mouth. Teeth clack. Blood pours freely now, dark and fast. “Ye think Charity is soft,” Jimmy continues, voice calm as a priest’s. "Folk always do. They confuse it wi’ mercy. But Charity’s no about sparin’ pain.”
He strikes again. “And it's no about forgiveness.” Again. “It’s about release.”
Caleb’s body sags, muscles failing, knees digging ruts into the soil. His face is already swelling, features losing shape beneath Jimmy’s hands. His breathing has gone thin and hitching, each inhale a gamble.
Jimmy pauses. Just long enough for hope to try to crawl back in. He crouches again, bringing his face level with Caleb’s ruined one, rings dripping. He brushes a thumb beneath Caleb’s eye, smearing blood across his cheekbone like war paint.
“This is where ye let go,” Jimmy murmurs. “This is where ye stop clingin’ tae the lie that ye ever mattered.”
Caleb tries to shake his head. Jimmy straightens. And brings both fists down together. The sound this time is different—deeper, uglier. Something structural gives. Caleb screams at last, the noise ripped straight from his spine, sharp enough to make the commune shudder as one.
You feel it between your legs.
A dark, shameful throb. Jimmy exhales slowly, satisfied. He steps back and nods once.
The Jimmys move in. They don't touch Caleb, not yet. Not with blades. Not with hooks. They only hold him—forcing him upright, spreading his posture wider, pulling his shoulders back until his chest is thrust forward unnaturally, ribs flared and exposed.
Jimmy circles them. Circles him. “Ye see,” Jimmy begins, addressing the crowd now, voice carrying, “The body’s got tae be taught before it’s opened. Pain loosens what pride keeps tight.”
He stops directly in front of you. Looks at you. His rings, his hands, are red to the wrist. “Ye understand,” he says softly.
It isn't a question.
You nod. Jimmy smiles. And turns back to Caleb.
“Good,” he says. ““Then we can get tae work.”
One of the Jimmys steps forward, producing a length of cord—thicker than rope, dark with age. Another produces iron hooks, dull and cruel, clinking softly as they’re laid out beside the fire. The smell of blood has gone copper-thick in the air. Caleb is barely conscious now. His head lolls. His breath rattles. His body has been reduced to something pliable. Something ready.
Jimmy kneels once more and presses his forehead briefly to Caleb’s—a mockery of intimacy.
“Be grateful,” he whispers. “No everyone gets tae become an angel.”
He stands. And nods. The first hook sings when it leaves the fire. It’s not sharp—not in the way knives are sharp. It’s blunt at the curve, heavy, designed to pull rather than pierce. When the masked Jimmy holding it steps forward, the iron hums with heat and old use. You smell it before it touches flesh—scorched metal, blood memory, something ancient.
Caleb makes a sound. Not a word. Not a scream. Just a broken animal noise dragged out of a throat that no longer knows how to form language.
Two Jimmys brace him from either side. They force his chest forward, wrenching his shoulders back until his spine bows and his ribs strain beneath skin already mottled purple and red. Jimmima steps behind him and lifts his chin again—not gently. Fingers dig into bruised flesh, nails pressing hard enough to leave crescent moons.
Jimmy watches, standing just to the side, hands clasped loosely behind his back, crown gleaming, tracksuit darkened with sweat. He looks pious now. Focused. Like a man about to conduct an orchestra.
“Charity,” he says, voice steady, carrying. “It’s the act o’ openin’ what’s been shut. It’s the removin’ o’ burden.”
The hook presses to Caleb’s back. Right between the shoulder blades.
Caleb thrashes. The Jimmys don't let him move. The hook goes in.
There's resistance at first—skin stretching, refusing—and then a wet, tearing give as it breaks through. Blood wells instantly, slick and hot, spilling over the curve of the iron and down Caleb’s spine in rivulets. Caleb screams. This time it doesn’t stop. The sound claws its way out of him, raw and hoarse, echoing off the stones and trees until it feels like the forest itself is screaming back. His body convulses violently, muscles locking and unlocking in panicked bursts.
Jimmy lifts a hand. The screaming continues. He allows it.
“Ye feel that?” Jimmy asks calmly, stepping closer, crouching so his face is level with Caleb’s twisted one. “That’s the moment pride slips out the body.”
Another hook. The second Jimmy steps in from the other side, mirroring the placement. The hook sinks into flesh just below the opposite shoulder blade, tearing through skin and muscle with a sound like fabric ripping apart. Caleb’s scream fractures into sobs. Blood pours freely now, soaking his lower back, splattering the dirt beneath him. The earth drinks greedily.
You smell iron. Smoke. Something sweet and wrong. Your thighs tense. Your belly tightens.
Jimmy stands. "Hooks arenae punishment,” he says, addressing the crowd as the Jimmys begin to pull—slowly, carefully—testing tension. “They’re invitations. They ask the body tae let go.”
The pull begins. Caleb arches involuntarily as the hooks are drawn back, stretching the skin between them until it shines. His spine bows, ribs flaring grotesquely. You hear wet tearing as muscle fibers give way under strain. He sobs. Chokes. Begins to plead.
Jimmy ignores the words.
“They always beg here,” he continues, voice smooth. “They mix up fear wi’ repentance.”
The Jimmys pull harder. Skin splits further. A deep, ragged line opens down Caleb’s back, blood spilling in sheets now, steaming in the cool night air. You can see muscle beneath—red and striated, shuddering with each tortured breath. Caleb’s head lolls back.
Jimmy steps in close and grips his jaw again, forcing eye contact. “Stay wi' me,” Jimmy murmurs. “Angels donnae look away.”
The Jimmys reposition the hooks, anchoring them higher now, pulling outward and upward. The sound that comes from Caleb’s body is indescribable—a tearing, sucking noise as flesh separates from bone.
His back begins to open.
Not cleanly. Nothing about this is clean. Skin peels back in uneven flaps, muscle ripping free in wet strands. Blood sprays with each movement, splattering the masked faces of the Jimmys, dotting Jimmy’s chest, streaking across your calves where you stand.
Jimmy steps back and raises both hands. “Behold,” he intones, voice ringing, “The body, given over. The burden, unfastened.”
The Jimmys pull.
Hard.
The skin tears fully now, splitting from spine outward, exposing ribs slick with blood. White gleams through red. The back is no longer a back—it's something opened, something transformed into an offering. Caleb’s scream breaks mid-note. His body jerks violently once. Twice. Then dissolves into shuddering, gasping inhales that barely move air.
Jimmy watches his face. Watches his eyes. “They always go quiet here,” he says softly. “That’s when the soul starts tae listen.”
One of the Jimmys steps forward with a blade. Not sharp. Wide. Heavy. Designed to separate.
Jimmy takes it from him. He tests the heft once. Then presses the edge to Caleb’s ribs.
Caleb convulses. Jimmy leans in close, mouth near Caleb’s ear. “This is Charity,” he whispers. “An' ye're about tae be set free.”
The blade goes in.
The first crack sounds like a branch breaking underfoot. Jimmy’s blade presses into the curve of Caleb’s rib, just below the spine. He uses the flat of his palm to drive it deeper—not sawing, not slicing, just separating, forcing space where there's none. The bone gives reluctantly, audibly, a deep groan followed by the sharp pop of a joint unseating. Caleb spasms. He’s long past words now. His throat only produces noise—ragged, strangled, punctuated by breathless hiccups of pain. His face is a mask of blood and snot, his eyes blown wide and unfocused. His skin gleams slick in the firelight, every inch of him trembling.
Jimmy shifts position, working the blade beneath the next rib. “Ye know,” he says calmly, conversational, “The first angel was made when Cain struck Abel. That’s when the world split. One soul made holy. One made whole.”
He twists the blade. Another crack. Another rib separates. Caleb jerks like a puppet with cut strings. The Jimmys hold him steady, murmuring low chants you barely hear—something guttural, syllables from a language that may have never existed outside this place. Blood spills over their hands, coats the hooks, drips in steady rhythm into the dirt.
Jimmy continues. Patient. Steady. Methodical. Rib by rib, he opens Caleb’s back like a cabinet, like a book, like a confession. Each break is brutal—some needing extra leverage, others snapping easier than they should. The lungs begin to show beneath the shattered cage, pale and twitching.
You can’t look away. You’re breathing hard now, chest tight, thighs clenching instinctively with each new fracture. Blood has begun to pool around Caleb’s knees. His heart is still beating. You can see it—fluttering erratically beneath torn muscle and split flesh.
Jimmy wipes sweat from his brow with the back of one bloodied hand. Then reaches in. No gloves. No hesitation. He slides his fingers beneath the lungs like a butcher. Careful. Glorifying. And begins to lift.
The lungs come up slowly, squelching and slick. They glisten like raw meat, still pulsing weakly, still trying to pull air despite the ruin around them. Blood spills in thick ropes over Jimmy’s wrists. He sets them gently—deliberately—atop the spread ribs, arranging them like wings.
The clearing goes still. Dead still. Even the fire seems to hold its breath. You feel it first in your spine—a crawling, cold sensation that prickles every nerve. Then in your chest—a thud, a skip, a stillness.
Then Jimmy speaks.
“This,” he says, standing behind Caleb’s mangled body, hands soaked, crown shining, spreading his own arms wide, “is the makin' o' angels.”
Behind him, Caleb’s broken body mimics the gesture—chest torn open, ribs flared, lungs splayed. A grotesque mirror. An angelic silhouette. The crowd begins to chant again. Not choose this time. Something else. Said with familiarity. History.
“He flies. He flies. He flies.”
You’re shaking. Not in fear. In awe. In heat. In understanding.
Jimmy steps away from the corpse. It no longer resembles Caleb. It no longer resembles a man.
It resembles a sacrifice.
You feel your pulse in your fingertips. In your throat. Between your legs. Your womb clenches, as if stirred by the ritual itself. As if something inside you heard the call and answered.
Jimmy turns to you. He's soaked. Gleaming. Beatific in the most horrifying way. And he smiles. Not the predator’s grin. Not the smug curl. But something holy.
He walks toward you slowly. You don't move. When he reaches you, he lifts one hand and cups your jaw. His thumb traces your cheekbone, leaving a streak of Caleb’s blood across your skin like a benediction. Then he lowers his hand and places it on your belly. Right over your womb.
“Now,” he says, voice like thunder behind silk, “we rise.”
You exhale.
The wings are spread. The angel is made. And so are you.
But the altar doesn't cool. Even long after the ritual ends, even after Caleb’s lungs cease their twitching and the chanting has faded into dogmatic hums, the air remains heavy and hot—thick with blood and breath and something older, something coiled in the belly of the land.
You stand in it.
Jimmy’s hand hasn't left your womb. The crown tilts gently on his curls. Blood paints him to the elbows. His chest rises and falls with steady rhythm, and there's something in his eyes now—not possession, not hunger, but certainty.
The angel's been made.
Now it’s time to name the mother.
A Jimmy steps forward, masked in a stitched blue suede and an orange and purple tracksuit. She holds something wrapped in crimson cloth. She doesn't speak. None of them do. Not now. Not during this part. Sir Jimmy takes the bundle from the Jimmy’s hands and peels the cloth away with slow, careful fingers.
Inside is a crown. Not of flowers this time. This one is wilder. Twisted from vine and ashwood. Adorned with small bone—finger bones, bird bones, delicate spines—all bleached white and woven into the shape of petals. Wildflowers are threaded between them, wilting slightly from the heat, still fragrant. The scent of lavender and blood.
He lifts it in both hands and turns back to you. His voice, when he speaks, carries through the glade like a wind through hollow places:
“She chose.”
The commune murmurs in response. Kneeling figures bow their heads as one. Some touch their foreheads to the earth. Others sway where they sit, hands pressed to their hearts or their bellies or the stone.
“She bled. She bloomed. She believed.”
Jimmy steps close again, bare feet silent in the dirt. The crown in his hands is sacred, trembling slightly with the weight of it. Or perhaps with the weight of you. “She was made sacred by pain. Chosen in flame. Bound in blood.”
He sets the crown upon your head. “And now she is Mother o' the Future.”
The commune rises. All of them—hundreds, maybe more—their bodies a sea of movement, their voices one seamless wave:
“Mother. Mother. Mother.”
Your breath catches. The bones press cold into your scalp. The flowers are still damp from the cloth. You smell death and soil and sweetness. You feel Jimmy’s hands on either side of your face, cradling your jaw like something fragile, like something holy.
He presses his forehead to yours.
And then, for the first time, he kneels. Before you. Head bowed. Arms lifted like wings.
The commune follows. Every Jimmy. Every member. Every voice. All of them on their knees, heads bowed before the woman made altar.
You aren't trembling. You're burning. You're the flame that doesn’t consume.
You're held in bloom.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The celebration begins slowly. Not with drums or dancing. With feasting. Communal plates are passed. Sweet mead. Fresh bread. Roasted root vegetables, honeyed fruit, wild things turned tender over fire. It isn't raucous. It isn't loud. There's laughter, yes—soft, stunned, grateful—but the tone remains worshipful.
Children bring you water. Women braid your hair. Men weep openly at your feet. You're touched, but not inappropriately. Not lustfully. You're untouchable now. You're theirs, yes—but not to claim. You're the mother of what comes next. And nothing is more sacred.
You don’t remember sitting down, but you're seated beside Jimmy now, on a stone shaped like a throne. He drinks from your cup and places it back in your hand. He tears bread for you and presses it gently to your lips.
You eat. You swallow. You're fed.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The body is gone by morning.
Caleb, that is.
The angel he became isn't. His wings remain. Not the lungs—they would decay too fast. But the ribs, the bones—they're charred, cleaned, bleached, rearranged. By the time the sun rises, they’ve been reshaped into a new arch beside the altar.
The commune calls it The First Flight.
You don't speak of him. Not anymore. There's no need.
Later—days, maybe, or moons—the sickness comes. Not a bad sickness. Not the way your mother meant it when she used to spit the word in warning. No. This is the sickness of becoming. Of quickening.
The scent of the fire no longer clings to your skin. It emanates from within. Your hips ache. Your chest tightens. Your stomach curls around something new.
Jimmy knows before you do. He touches your belly with both hands, presses his lips there like prayer. When you tell him you’ve missed your bleeding, he only smiles.
“I know.”
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
It isn't a goodbye. There is no leaving.
You forget the sound of traffic. You forget the shape of your apartment key. Your phone is buried in the woods somewhere, split in half, its battery drained.
Your name is no longer yours. You're only Mother now. Some days, Jimmy calls you Wife. Other days, Sacrament. Once, when you were naked in the river and he watched you with that smile he only wears in twilight, he whispered, “My cathedral.”
You felt it bloom then—that heat. That seed. That legacy.
You're never alone anymore. Not even in your sleep. Not even in your blood. He's with you. And inside you. And around you.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
They ask what you'll name the child.
You don't answer. You don’t have to. She already has a name.
You feel it like a heartbeat.
And when the time comes to give birth—beneath a harvest moon, the commune circled close, Jimmy holding your hand with blood still on his knuckles—you scream not in pain, but in purpose.
And when you're crowned once more, it isn't with bone or flower.
summary: Born during the first few years of the Rage Virus outbreak, you grew up in a brutal world where survival trumped compassion. In the remains of society, your community saw youth as a liability. Weak, disposable, and easily replaced. You were treated like nothing, sent beyond the gates to scavenge through infected ruins while the lazy and powerful 'overseers' stayed behind.
It was all you ever knew, normal really, until the day you crossed paths with a strange bunch of folks wearing wigs, bright colours and eager defiance.
They were weirdos, loud and intimidating. So was he really, but they were one thing you longed for - free.
wc: 8.2k
Edited, shocking I know.
You can find Part Two here.
warnings: post apocalypse, future dark!romance I guess? seeing as it's Jimmy, cult dynamics, power dynamics, manipulation, religious themes, coarse language, abusive tactics from your former group, mentioned mistreatment/starvation from former group, intimidation, mentiond of alcohol, trauma bonding, power imbalance(?), blood, gore. slow burn babyyyyy.
I'm trying to get better at world building, please let me know what you think!
--
Home was safe.
Home was all you needed.
It was a fortress of pine wood mixed with steel, tucked deep into the highland forests of Scotland's outskirts. Thick fences were woven in barbed wire, encompassing the entire compound. It had rusted with age, being trapped in ivy and other various plants.
Home had sharpened stakes pointing out to the unknown, a line of buses and old camper vans with flattened tires welded as a form of blockade from the infected.
There was only one way in and one way out, which always confused you. But you knew better than to voice your concerns.
Regardless, it was safe and had been standing for over 25 years - if the infected were going to cause an issue with the walls, it would've happened by now.
At least, that's what you would tell yourself to help you sleep at night.
Inside, woodsmoke paired with dampened earth surrounded you, just enough to mask the sweat of those working on their chores.
Everything smelt like woodsmoke here. It clung to everything and everyone like a second skin. The frail clothes on your back, the machete by your hip, even the breath in your lungs. The trees were shield. They hid you all from what lay outside in the dark. The infected, the weather, from whoever remained in what was left of the UK.
The fences and the trees were the only consistent things in your life. You'd never known anything else, nothing that stayed for very long at least.
Home was a compound where an old hydroelectric station used to run, having closed down long before the Rage virus took over. It didn't work, having long since corroded before your group found it - but it was enough. Shipping containers and broken down vans were used as homes, stacked and connected by rope bridges.
Those in the council lived in the turbine room, concrete and without holes, a luxury most dreamed of. The forest canopy hung above, various branches littered with lanterns and jar lights that had to be manually lit every night.
Most of the residents of Home were older, early forties and well past. All hardened survivors who could remember what the world used to be like before the infection started. They would reminisce of electricity, of working cars, hell, some even said they missed working their jobs pre infection.
Now, everything smelt of blood, of mildew and nature. They would mention mundane things like birthday parties and shopping malls, how much they missed grocery shopping and going to bars.
You didn't. You were born after the virus took over, just a few years later. There wasn't anything you remembered that you should miss, just your dad.
Your mother had passed during your birth, the community not wanting to spare what already short supply of medicine they had on someone who willingly got themselves pregnant.
Your father passed just shy of your twelfth birthday, having not returned from a supply hunt.
You missed people you never met and someone you could barely remember. There weren't any photos. No reminders of their voices. Just two expendable members of Home that meant two less mouths to feed.
They didn't let you mourn - they didn't see a point. Gatherers were considered expendable, and the ultimate 'gotcha' of such a tedious job was being killed whilst outside the Home.
It was funny in a way to those inside when someone didn't return, often placing bets on whether it was an infected, suicide or a runaway.
You knew your dad would never have willingly left you behind, so you prayed to whoever would listen that his death was swift and painless - something that he deserved after all of his hard work protecting a community that wouldn't return the favour.
But you knew that wouldn't have been the case.
From what little memory you had - your dad was kind, protective, teaching you how to read and how to protective yourself with little tips and tricks of the outside.
Where traps should be placed, where people would hide even the most small but useful supplies. It was these lessons that stopped the council from throwing you out after he didn't return.
As disposable as you were, useful you are.
You were in your twenties now, and you well and truly knew your place. They made you a gatherer just weeks after your dads death, twelve and out into the world.
The compound wasn't exactly a democracy.
The Council were made up of the survivors who had initially found the place. It was a mixture of ex-military, ex-police, ex-anything that gave them some sense of superiority over those who came later to the station.
The ones who actually ordered everyone around were called the overseers, strutting around and barking orders like the war hadn't been lost years ago, leaving the infected to rule the earth.
There weren't many young people your age around either, actually, you were considered one of the youngest in the compound. The council didn't allow newcomers unless they could benefit the group, and those with children were never considered. Their belongings would be confiscated, and they'd be sent on their way to their deaths.
The very few people around your age didn't gather or scavenge either. They didn't hunt - nor did they know how to even hold a weapon. Didn't do anything really. They were higher up in the hierarchy - council children.
They weren't allowed to get their hands dirty, they were the future after all.
Being insulted daily, made to feel small and stupid. When your supply finds were small, or your hunts weren't up to their high standards - you were punished.
Starved of rations you had found. Starved of game you had hunted. Made to sleep outside the walls if you stepped out of line, or if they deemed your findings insulting, branded.
It was normal, it was Home.
There were only a few other gatherers in their forties, but they wanted next to nothing to do with you. To them, you were considered a liability as both a young woman and 'inexperienced' to the new world.
When they sent you out alone at twelve, you had begged and cried to be let back in, scratching at the metal gates until your fingernails bled.
The world was dark, it was chilling, and infected certainly didn't care if you were a child. The world would grip you in it's claws, sinking it's teeth in until nothing but blood remained.
But it wasn't the infected who hurt you.
It was a human who first inflicted pain, your first ever punishment for not listening and following orders.
The scar on your hip was a clear reminder that if you stood out line again, someone would be there with a blade to set you straight.
No one was kind, and you forgot what the word even meant. You were a stain to these people - just another mouth to feed.
You didn't care anymore.
You learned then and there that survival didn’t care about fairness. You worked hard. You pulled your weight until your feet were blistered. You shut your mouth and kept your head down.
And that’s what you did every day since, day in day out. This routine kept you inside the gates of Home for now, and after awhile, it became normal.
You did what you had to in order to keep a roof over your head.
This is what life was supposed to be.
-
You were already dressed and halfway to the gate when someone calls your name from behind, roughly grabbing at your backpack.
"Ye didn't sign out," A gruff voice startles you, and you turn slowly, keeping your eyes trained on the ground. It was one of the overseers, Russ. His beard had gone mostly white with age, and he walked like he owned the place.
Which - technically he did. Still, he hated you all the same, and you wondered if it was because - much to his dismay, you survived more gatherings than anyone else. "Where d'ye think yer going with that bag?"
"It's mine, my last pack was ripped off by an infected sir," You reply flatly, gripping the straps of your backpack tightly. "S'all I have."
"So ye just took it? And without signing out?" His wrinkled hand reaches out, gripping your chin roughly and forcing your head up to look him in the eye.
He wore gold rings across his middle and pinky finger, one engraved with the word 'king', the other a cross. The metal felt cold against your skin. "Is that what I'm hearing?"
"No - No, I bought it with my rations," You say quickly before tilting your head towards one of the watchtowers, seeing two figures looking back. "I have signed out, already wrote in with Pete and Colin... Sir."
His eyes narrow, and you know deep down he believed you. He just wanted to find a problem, wanted to have a reason to scold you in front of everyone.
You turn your attention to the front of his vest instead, the very piece of leather never leaving his body in the years you’ve known him.
Weathered but loyal.
You supposed it was just like him in a way.
Russ' boots crunch in the gravel as he shifts on his feet and he reluctantly lets you go, making sure to send your head back roughly as he does so.
He steps forward just a little, hunching down to your level with narrowed eyes. "Y'know, all that lip and attitude will get ye in trouble one of these days," he mutters, his voice thick with threat. "We don't want a repeat of last time, do we now hen?"
You stare at him, your jaw aching from how tightly you clench it. Last time still left a slight ringing in your left ear.
This was already your fourth run this week, having brought back a stag just two days prior, having nearly got your shoulder torn into by an infected doing so.
But you kept your mouth shut. Instead tightening the straps of your bag and nodding. "Sorry sir," you matched him with a more quieter tone. "May I go now please?"
"Mmh, Michael said he wants to see ye when yer back," He starts to back away from you. "Think he wants something' from ye."
You didn't reply, just giving him a sharp nod.
The gates had started opening behind you with a rusty and deafening groan, and Russ nods once, telling you to go be useful.
The Watchers didn't like opening the doors out of sheer laziness, having to pull the levees with muscle they clearly lacked.
There were no ceremonies, no well wishes or even a mutter of 'be careful'. Just eyes watching you, bows and arrows in their hands, ready to mark you down as a no return if you don't show up in the morning.
It was better this way. No one could hurt you and get away with it out here.
You decided to venture further out than usual, keeping moving like you always did. Quietly and with intention, knowing the weight of other people's survival depended on you. It pressed into your spine like a steel capped boot, weighing on you with every step.
The forest stretched on forever, endless greenery and damp soil. Eventually, you had walked far enough to no longer hear Home, and it gave you some relief.
The trees started to whisper with each gust of wind, the sound of nature and birds providing you with some reassurance of there being no nearby infected.
It was the kind of vast wilderness that swallowed everything whole, and you had realised when you were younger that it was part of the reason that not many infected nor non infected had found the compound.
A broken tree marked the start of a new venture, it's trunk having been splintered by lightening many years ago. Past it, you had never journeyed before, and an arrow was already notched, ready for anything that may step your way - whether it be an animal or an infected.
The land felt different out here, the trees especially.
Older, taller, and more to your acknowledgment, none cut down for any nearby shelters. You had never walked this trail before, and you were sure no other gatherer had either.
It was considered high risk on the map the gatherers before you had made, the terrain too uneven, too close to packs of infected and far from any safe spaces.
High risk was good.
It meant more chances of returning Home with a packed back. The stag hadn't been enough last run despite feeding everyone and then some, not that you were allowed seconds. Russ and the other overseers had just stared at you with those scornful frowns, urging you to do better, to be better.
The council children, despite being in your age group, just snickered at you, hiding behind their parents.
You’d bitten your tongue until you were adamant it bled, until you could taste iron. And now you were here, walking deeper into the unknown than anyone from Home had before.
Because at the end of the day, it wasn't enough. It was never enough.
You were born having to prove yourself.
Over and over again.
After hours of walking - you came across a stream, taking the time to rest and refill your water canister. Your thighs burned slightly as you sat on a rock and you looked around, taking in the sights.
It was beautiful all things considered, that is if you ignored the whole lingering threat of death at every corner.
Your breath appeared in front of you with every exhale, a reminder of just how cold and sharp the morning was. Your clothes weren't exactly suited for the climate either, but you had to choose with your rations whether to buy new clothing or a backpack, and so you sat by the waters edge, rips and tears in your shirt and trousers.
Your shoes were one hard run from falling apart, and so you walked with caution, taking notice of the rocks and roots that hid in the mist.
Every step was calculated after you left the stream. Bow in hand, machete at your hip. Every click, you would pause, waiting to hear any telltale signs of infected, for the rustle of birds, anything.
Bloaters, runners, alphas... anything.
But there was nothing.
And that was almost worse.
It was past midday when you found an old trail. Nature had well and truly taken it back, but there was no mistaking it had once been walked on in the past.
It took you past what used to be an old farmhouse, long collapsed with it's roof eaten by rot. Beside it lay another trail, a narrow break in the underbrush.
You hesitated, wondering whether to stay on your chosen beaten path or opt for the new, albeit more edged out path. If supplies were out there, they'd be hidden in places like this.
Hidden in the earth.
Forgotten about.
Places that others, not just from your group, would fear to follow.
You adjust the straps on your back, double checking the machete on your hip before gripping the bow in your hand tighter. The air was colder the more you walked, and every now and then, you would spot the remains of fences, something once man made hiding beneath.
There would even be literal remains, skeletal figures lying in and amongst the tall grass, having been killed during the early days.
When you were a kid, the idea of death would scare you, naturally, but now it gave you something to think about.
You would often wonder if any of the many bones you'd find belonged to your dad. Or about who they might've been before they met their end.
You were envious in a way, jealous of their peace.
Most of the houses you found were one hard fart away from collapsing, and so you kept on with a steady pace. Eventually, you came across a low set house that didn't appear on your map.
It was stone built, half of it being swallowed by the earth. Ivy strangled it's windows, reminding you of the rusted fences back Home. The roof however, much to your shock, was mostly intact.
You circled it a few times, bow raised as you peered into any window that wasn't smashed or glazed over. The door was locked, or more so blocked by something inside.
It didn't budge as you shoved your shoulder against it, and you sighed, making the decision to climb through the closest window that wasn't littered with shards of glass.
The air beneath your feet had swirled around you as you landed on the ground with a huff. It was stale, reeking of something once forgotten, but to your delight - no stench of death, no stench of infected.
You moved quick, having swapped your bow for your machete. Items were strewn across the hallway as you walked, a sign whoever had left here was in a hurry.
It reminded you of what your dad had once said - that a lot of people didn't have time to prepare when the virus started. Many had escaped, or tried too, with just the clothes on their backs.
In what used to be the kitchen, you found drawers that hadn't been opened in a long time. Two packets of pasta, a bag of what looked like white rice, a roll of wire. You bagged them all, heart thudding at such rare finds.
It still shocked you that some things could last this long without expiring. In what used to be a bedroom, you found what probably would make every overseer cheer, whiskey.
Dusty and it's label well and truly worn, it was unopened, and you wondered if its original owner had been waiting for something special to drink it. It weighed your bag down, but you ignored the strain, pressing on.
They might even praise you for the find, might even let you have a sip of the luxurious drink. But deep down, you knew better - you had found plenty of fancy drink in your time gathering, and not once were you allowed to try.
You weren't sure what was so special about it, but you knew that when the overseers and other council members had a lot of it - they were nicer. They didn't yell as much, call you names.
Not useless this time, you thought. They’ll have to admit that, at least.
You couldn't help but smile - they might even thank me.
You'd never been thanked for anything before.
Upon finding some more various items that could be traded with, gloves, a scarf and even a pocket knife - you left, climbing out of the same window you arrived in.
It was mid afternoon now, and you knew you would have to find some shelter soon. The house was honestly your best bet, but with still a few hours of daylight left, you wanted to keep gathering.
You made note of it on your map before venturing out once more, your pack noticeably heavier now.
Every step felt quieter now. More careful and concise. Your map read that were was a village ahead, or what would've once been a village, but you moved around it.
It was marked with a clear red X.
It belonged to the infected.
So you stuck to the beaten track like before, the light dimming through the trees. It would've been a few hours before sunset when you heard it.
Or stopped hearing if anything.
The birds had stopped their singing, even the wind felt different.
You didn’t trust the quiet. Quiet brought bad.
Your path opened to the remnants of an old road, swallowed by ferns and weeds. You followed it hesitantly, knowing that eventually it would bring you to some more man made buildings.
Your stomach dropped as something darted in front of you, a blur of ginger and white, and you relaxed just a little, watching as the fox scurried off further down the road. You waited with your arrow notched, pointing to the ground.
No growls. No shrieks. No twitching infected.
Still, a running animal always left you on edge.
Another hour passed. Maybe two, you recklessly stopped keeping track, wanting nothing more than to try and find more for the compound.
You had found a small shack buried beneath broken beams. It was dangerous but you had left with a lighter and a box of bandaids. You stood in front of it's broken door, zipping up your bag when something caught your eye.
Another blur of colour in the trees, but this time, it was vibrant.
Red.
You blinked, and it was gone.
But there was no denying that something, someone had been watching you.
Your heart pounded in your chest, and you quickly threw your bag back onto your back, once again lifting your bow. Your eyes scanned the tree line, not finding anything.
It was an infected, you would've heard them, hell, you would've been attacked by now.
You should’ve turned back. You knew that. But something about the carelessness of it all pulled at you.
You moved slower now. Quieter. Bow in hand.
Following in the direction of the colourful blur, you crouched, looking at the soil. The footsteps were clear, deep and heavy in the dirt and you shivered, knowing you were in fact being watched.
You followed the tracks for what felt like hours, but you knew it would've only been over ten minutes.
Your mind screamed at you to turn around, to find somewhere to sleep and return Home - but that childish part of you, the little part that the compound hadn't completely cut down was jumping at the chance of exploring.
Eventually the tracks disappeared as you came across another stream, almost like a divide between the land. A log lay in the middle, and you looked around, knowing whoever it was had crossed and done so quickly.
The sun was beginning to set, and so you continued, following after them with haste.
You were tracking the footsteps again when a scream sung out.
Snarls followed it. Wet. Gurgling with shrieks.
Infected.
You moved without thinking, swift and quickly, jumping over tangled roots and into trees with each tussle of your backpack. The forest opened above a shallow glade when you noticed them.
Two people, non infected, were surrounded. Except, they weren't screaming in fear like you had thought, instead they were grinning from ear to ear, makeshift weapons in their hands.
The infected had them cornered. The pale, blistered skin of the monsters causing a contrast to the bright clothing of the strangers.
Are those wigs?
They wear wearing blonde wigs.
You blinked, confused and bewildered. Apart of you wondered if the dust you had been inhaling was making you see things - but one of the non infected, a woman in red, screams again in delight, raising her weapon as she strikes the first infected that came too close.
They were wearing tracksuits.
The other, a man in a white, raised his own weapon, taking out another. They both fought against the infected as they ran towards them with their grins never falling, but more infected piled in, and eventually the two were once again pushed back.
You snapped out of whatever daze had taken over you, lining up your arrow with an infected that lunged for the woman.
It fell at her feet, and she looked up with widened eyes, locking onto where you stood in between the trees, even taking the time to wave at you before striking another down.
You kept firing, taking out the bloodied bodies as they continued charging. Shot after shot, they fell down in a heap, arrows lodged in their heads or throats.
They were laughing.
The woman swings a baseball bat around, the man practically dancing between lunges, wielding what looked like a pronged staff. Their wigs whipped around with each swing, tangled and long.
You weren't sure if they were insane or just... confident. Something about the ease of their movements, the way they work side by side. They weren't new to this by any means, and it shocked you, seeing people close to your age outside.
One infected breaks from the little circle they pounced from, fast and silent, heading straight for White's blind side. Your body reacts before your mind catches up, letting another arrow slices through the air and into the infected's eye socket from behind.
It drops mid-sprint, falling into a heap by White's feet. He spins, wild-eyed, then follows the arrow’s direction back to where you're standing.
You’re standing taller now, bow still raised. Your heart hammering in your chest.
You had never done this before.
The most you had ever had to do with strangers was the occasional trading - never putting yourself at risk.
And yet, you just did. Your arrows dwindled in numbers, stuck into the many infected who lay in the dirt.
Red throws her head back and laughs, waving again - this time for you to come down from your little hill. "Hey!" Her breathing was laboured, an attempt to catch her breath as White took out the last runner. "Come on down!"
The two strangers are still catching their breath, though neither seemed shaken or worried. If anything, they’re thrilled. Their eyes flick between you and the dead infected with something close to admiration and familiarity.
"C'mon!" She yells again, not seeming worried about her volume by any means.
You hesitate, not being used to strangers - let alone friendly ones.
The clearing smelt like blood and damp moss. The wind has shifted, colder, and the sun was sliding behind the hills fast, dragging darkness across the glade by the minute.
The area was becoming dangerous by the second, and this many runners usually meant an Alpha wasn't too far away.
But the pairs attitude was careless in away, and so you make your way down, sliding against the grassy hill until you were level with them.
Red tracksuit steps over a corpse, holding out her hand. "Thank you muchly," Her voice was light, but breathless. "Jimmy Ink,"
You eye the hand, not used to to such formalities, nor genuine gratitude. It felt abnormal, foreign in a way, almost undeserving. Maybe she didn't mean to thank you, the words slipping out her mouth by accident.
Slowly, you raise your hand and she takes it, shaking for the both of you. "Where you from? Haven't seen you around these parts."
The man in white wipes his hands on his already stained trousers before taking your hand afterwards, introducing himself before you can speak.
His wig sat crookedly, wispy bangs clinging to his forehead with sweat. "Jimmy Snake, you?"
It confused you to no end, the whole 'Jimmy' schtick, but you knew better than to question people.
You give them your name with a nod, looking around incase any more infected were hiding. "You were watching me up by that house." It wasn't a question, you knew she was.
Ink shrugs with another playful grin. "Guilty."
"Okay... Well - it was nice meeting you two, I'll uh, I'll be off now," You give them an awkward thumbs up, not used to conversing with people outside of the compound. They were incredibly unusual, a stark difference to the people you had grown up with. "I'm just gonna get my arrows and be on my way."
They looked almost upset at your instant dismissal of them, clearly used to people their age being more receptive. It didn't matter. There wasn't time for a back and forth.
"What? Wait - wait, no," Snake says, shaking his head. "You don't live around here yeah? Where are you gonna go?"
"Sun's coming down," Ink matches his concerned tone. "Why not come back with us? We owe you one."
“Aye,” Snake immediately cuts in again, watching as you shake your head, walking around to start collecting your arrows from the dead infected. “It's not far."
"I don't know you guys," you mutter, bending down to pull an arrow that was lodged in someone's skull. Your boot pressed on the naked skin of their back, using them as leverage to free your arrow with a huff. "S'fine, just - you go your way and I'll go mine, y'don't owe me anything."
You take a step back.
Ink is still talking, gesturing to somewhere behind them like they’re pointing to salvation. Snake flashes another lazy, sideways grins like it might be enough to reel you in.
But you’ve heard this pitch before, albeit from other survivors much, much older than you. Clearly ones wanting something more.
The same story.
Safety. Supplies. People.
“No.” You say, flat and final, a tinge of fear lingering beneath your skin at your harsh tone. People were dangerous.
People were more savage than the infected who laid dead at your feet.
Their smiles flicker, eyebrows furrowing.
You adjust your bow on your shoulder and start walking. Not fast. Just enough to say this conversation is over - we are done here. The wind bites at your neck as you move back up the ridge.
You had already turned around, walking away when you hear them muttering amongst themselves - hearing snippets about another 'Jimmy' and 'like the stories'.
“Hey,” Ink calls after you. “We’re serious, you'll love it, we'll even throw a little party."
You don’t respond.
You’d rather take your chances in the dark than deal with strangers who giggle when taking down infected and wear wigs.
It didn't concern you, and so you continued back to the hill when a flock of birds fly overhead causing you to flinch, followed by a stillness in the air.
Like the forest itself had started to hold it's breath in anticipation.
Then the sound comes.
A low, guttural growl, not like the other shrieks that belonged to the infected. Not panicked or feral. Controlled. Deep.
Too deep for a normal human throat. It vibrates through the ground, through your broken boots and into your spine.
Your blood felt like ice.
An Alpha.
The others - runners, they would scream as they charged.
But Alphas - they watched. They waited.
And when they moved, it was never alone. Alpha's were just that, in charge of their packs.
Behind you, you hear someone exhale sharply, Snake.
“Sounds close.”
Ink mutters with him. “Mm hm."
You turn halfway, hands shaking slightly as you swap your bow for your machete - trying to pin point the direction of the feral infected.
You didn't stand chance if one found you - a machete was a fucking paper cut to those large freaks.
The glade grew darker as orange and purple hues peaked through the trees, the dark well and truly lingering around the corner.
You glance over your shoulder, Ink and Snake are still there with almost knowing smiles. They weren't running. Just waiting.
For you.
You stare at them for a moment. The wind tugging at the blond strands of their scratchy wigs. Blood dried on their ridiculous tracksuits, the one thing that echoed your own appearance.
You don’t say anything, looking over at them as you stop moving.
Ink notices first. “Change of mind?”
You turn around, nodding lowly as you grip your machete tighter “At least if you kill me - you won't pull my spine out," you walk towards them as they laugh. "Rather deal with you lot than what's out there."
It was the truth, and they respected it. Any sane person would avoid an Alpha at every opportunity.
Snake grins once again, no smugness present. Just understanding. "You're gonna love it, trust me."
You didn't trust them. You just didn't want to be ripped apart by an overgrown infected, so you ignored his comment.
Ink waves you along with a call of your name, her friend having already turned around and beginning the walk. "C'mon, tracker."
She waits for you with a gentle smile, noticing your hesitancy. But still, you wait, letting her walk head as you follow behind them, scanning the tree line with your machete in your grasp.
The growl echoes again, deeper this time, and you find yourself closer too them before you even realise it.
They don't comment, don't belittle you for already going against your word.
"You been out here for awhile?" Snake asks as you walk, not even seeming phased by the nearby Alpha, eyes locking onto your bow. "You hunt?"
You nod. "I'm a gatherer."
It felt unusual talking to people this close to you in age, not used to proper conversation that didn't follow with an insult or a request for supplies. Ink and Snake walked just a metre in from of you, just enough to give you space, clearly having sensed your uncertainty about them.
You trail behind, machete in hand, eyes constantly peeking around and scanning your surroundings. It worried you how careless they were acting, not even walking with haste.
They move ahead like they've walked this path a hundred times, which clearly they have. Every now and then, one of them would place back, making sure you were still with them.
All three of you walked further into what felt like unknown territory. It was darker, the sun having well and truly set. The Alpha hadn't caught your trail yet, nor had you heard any familiar growls, but that didn't settle the pit in your stomach.
"So where's your camp?" Ink asks, looking over her shoulder.
You didn't answer, just staring at her before looking back to the trees.
Snake fills the silence, giving their friend a knowing glance. "You clearly run back to somewhere."
"Not important," You don't look at them when you finally answer. "It's just Home."
Ink scoffs. "Short 'n sweet, nice."
You keep walking, almost worried that your truthful answer might've upset them. "No it's uh, it's actually called Home, just a compound."
"And they send you out to scavenge? Where's your partner?" she asks.
"Partner?" you say, looking almost confused by their once again shared glances. You’ve seen pity before. This doesn’t feel like that. "No partner, I gather by myself."
Snake frowns, now looking over his shoulder too. "You should always have a partner," he elbows Ink as he says it. "How long you been running for?"
"Since I was twelve."
Neither of them responds right away.
Ink’s voice shifts. Lower, calmer even, but her irritation was evident. You wondered if you had said something wrong. “They sent a kid to do runs?”
It was your turn to be confused. Of course you were sent to do runs. The sooner you could prove your worth, the better. "You had to pull your weight, the council made sure of it."
Snake mutters something under his breath, but you don’t ask for him to repeat.
"It's better this way, lose one gatherer instead of two," you add, almost defending your situation. "What's wrong with that?"
"That's... messed up Tracker," Ink grimaces, and your stomach drops, feeling bemused. "Real messed up."
You finally look up, meeting her gaze head on. "That's normal, no?"
Snake glances once again to Ink, but neither of them answer.
"What does your family think about that?" Ink asks after their pause.
You shake your head, your eyes now narrowing as the dark closes in. You didn't have a torch, but the two in front of you didn't seem worried. "No family."
"Friends?' She follows with, her voice hopeful.
“No.”
The quiet that followed you was heavier. You decided to flip the questions back, a little surge of confidence trifling through you in an attempt to change the subject. “What’s with the Jimmy thing?"
Snake cracks a grin, though it wasn't as sharp as the others. "It's just who we are."
"Everyone is Jimmy with us," Ink continues for her friend. "Keeps things equal, keeps things fun."
"Whose your overseer?" You ask with a squint.
"Overseer?"
"Whose in charge," you repeat, your hand spinning your machete around to avoid the cramping on your fingers. "Runs the place."
"Sir Jimmy Crystal," They answer at the same time, their tones pleasant - proud even.
You were so used to sirs, men who ran places with iron fists. But they seemed happy to mention him.
As if sensing your thoughts, Ink once again peeps over her shoulder. "Hey, he's not like whatever it is you're dealing with, he's good - good to us."
"I don't... I don't know what you're talking about." You didn't understand, nor did you like her tone.
"Yeah, you do. You've got that little look to you, like you've been thrown around."
You glance at her, almost embarrassed at being read so easily. Again, it confused you.
Was it not normal?
"No judgment here," She assures you, stopping so that you caught up. She walks with you now, Snake just ahead. "I was the same once, then I found this lot, found Sir Jimmy."
Still, you don’t answer.
"It's true," Snake cuts in, still listening in. "He's looked after us, kept us safe - wouldn't have made it out here without him."
"Sure."
Ink nudges you gently with her elbow. “I think he'll like you.”
You frown. “He doesn’t know me.”
“He doesn’t have to,” She says in a matter of fact tone. “He reads people, got this sixth sense n' all."
“You talk like he's some kind of prophet." You could already sense what kind of person this 'Jimmy Crystal' was.
"Either way, I think you'll like it at the Sanctuary," You can't help but notice she didn't deny your choice of words. "I know everyone will love you, especially after what you did today."
You shift your pack higher on your shoulder with your free hand, the weight starting to get to you, just nodding. You were sure that when you arrived at their 'sanctuary' that you'd either be torn to shreds and robbed or ignored.
Either way, you were too exhausted to care, the day finally starting to weigh down.
--
After what felt like an hour, the woods began to thin, the familiar smell of woodsmoke greeting you. Distant laughter echoed through the trees, not panicked or reserved - genuine.
Your steps slow without meaning to.
A fucking castle.
It was incredibly old looking, some sections in disarray. But for the most part, and from what you could see from outside, it was in good condition. You had seen countless scattered around the countryside in your time, most in ruins or beyond repair.
Ahead, torches were flickering across stone walls - high and sturdy, patched together from what used to be an old fort. A bunch of figures wave down from two watchtowers standing either side of a sturdy gate.
The gate opens quickly, it's sound matching the one back Home.
"This is the Sanctuary,” Snake says, patting your shoulder as he runs ahead. "C'mon!"
You were shocked at what lay ahead. It felt almost impossible, like a scene you had only read about.
Life.
Real life.
Everywhere, not just hiding away like the council in their concrete walls.
People rush forward, faces lit by fire and something even rarer - joy, relief. It alarmed you to no end.
“They're back!” Someone calls out.
“Guys!”
Voices raise, laughing, calling out. Someone whistles, and then others join in, a ripple of noise that echoes across the open courtyard.
Had they been away for weeks?
Did everyone think they were dead?
You’re weren't ready for the way everyone rushed forward. Men and women, all in tracksuits of various colours.
All different ages. Kids even. You weren't expecting to see literal children, having been some time since you saw anyone under the age of 20.
Most were wearing the same chopped up blonde wigs, some messy, some were braided, others were just resting on their heads like afterthoughts.
Some didn't wear one at all, either hair buzzed, sporting shaggy curls or other unusual styles.
There's no rule, just a shared sense of strangeness.
They pull Snake and Ink into embraces like they’ve come home from war.
And then, one hugs you.
It caught you off guard, tensing instantly, the grip on your machete tightening. They weren't trying to disarm you or pat you down, merely patting you on the back like you had returned from a long journey.
Arms were thrown around your shoulders, large smiles, a woman around your age beaming at you with a missing front tooth. "Welcome home."
Home.
No. This wasn't Home. This wasn't anything like Home.
Ink just laughs, gently guiding their friend off of your shocked frame. "Easy, easy - don't scare her off just yet."
"I'm not staying." You mutter, instinctively, but no one was listening.
They just... stare. Happy. Content. It bleeds out of them all in waves.
Ink urges you forward, and you finally look around.
It was massive.
The sanctuary is built around the castle, it's outer stone walls still surprisingly intact. Vines climb up the barriers and wooden scaffolding reinforce the still standing towers.
Tall torches burn along the interior perimeter, reminding you of Home, jar lights scattered around cast a golden red hue over everything. Inside, the sanctuary looked almost like a village - rows of man made cabins, albeit mismatched, rest side by side, their walls made from salvaged scrap.
It was a noticeable difference to the vans and shipping containers back Home. The homes looked lived in, loved. Hammocks swayed in between trees and beams, some already holding people resting.
That alone caught you off guard.
People are lounging.
Others sit by fire pits, meat crackling ahead. A group of 'Jimmy's' sit around it, passing around a jug and laughing over something you can't hear.
You already catch yourself scanning for any weak points, an exit, any weapons. It was habit. Reflexes that never left.
But there weren't any. There's storage huts. Smokehouses. It was clear even the castle was being lived in.
More people wave at you as you pass. Smiling like they already enjoyed your company.
You don't return the gesture, but you don't glare either.
"Over there's an old office," Ink leans in as you both step further into the centre of the sanctuary, pointing to an old building that had been built before the fall. "It's where we store a lot of our clothes, y'should go for a shop."
"Shop?" You ask, eyebrows furrowing. You knew what the concept was, but you didn't know how you could 'pay' for anything.
"Yeah, grab some things - you're cold aren't you?" She tilts her head towards your outfit, causing you to look down at your stained and ripped clothes. "'Cause I'm cold just looking at you."
Your shirt had plenty of tears, just like your trousers. Your jacket no longer zipped up, and your shoes were well and truly losing their outsoles.
You shook your head. You weren't allowed new clothes if you hadn't earned them, or more so paid for them with your rations. Any clothes you found when gathering were given to the council. "I can't trade for anything."
"What? No - Tracker," She stops, putting her hands on your shoulders like you had ben friends for decades. "You don't trade, if you need it - you take it."
Your eyes widened at the idea of just taking something, immediately stuttering over your words as you tried to dismiss the notion.
"Hey hey, It's okay, we don't have to worry about that now," She just laughs, resting her hand on your shoulder as she continues guiding you. "We should get a move on anyway, I'm sure He'll be waiting."
You look up as she continues talking, raving on about how you'll fit right in, how he'll love you, how you're just what is needed.
The castle looms over everything, weathered and ancient but clearly taken care of. Lived in. Some windows were shattered, boarded up with more scavenged scrap. It's towers held more people on watch, lit up by more torches.
At the very top of the main tower, you see a singular figure.
Standing. Watching. Hair swaying in the wind.
Their arms were folded behind their back, and they were the only person not standing in the light.
You didn't have to ask, and you knew that Sir Jimmy Crystal himself was observing everything that was happening.
He was gone before you could ask Jimmy Ink if you were right, his shadowed figure disappearing somewhere into the castle.
Ink looks towards you again before her gaze looks down, noticing you were still gripping your machete. She raises an eyebrow, and you mutter an apology, quickly sliding it into your holster.
It wouldn't be difficult to pull out again if need be.
She guides you over a stone bridge, and you peer over the edge with each step, seeing rushing water beneath. You could already tell that if infected found their way in - the castle was a failsafe.
You follow Jimmy Ink past doorways draped in beaded curtains. There’s laughter echoing from somewhere deeper in the structure, a soft, distant sound. No one seemed tense. No one is watching the windows for any threats.
The inside is not what you expected.
You thought it would be like the outside, cold stone and dust. A ruin patched together with more scrap. Instead, it’s alive, just like the little village that surrounded it.
The air inside was warm, a grand fireplace standing at the end of the room. It smelt of lavender and smoke, and you noticed jars of the plant littered around. Mismatched fabrics were strewn across the walls in wild patterns, connecting to each other like someone had hand stitched them themselves.
Candles flickered in old bottles resting in alcoves, lighting up the room alongside the fireplace. Rugs in an assortment of colours covered the stone floors, overlapping each other.
It was oddly inviting despite it's cold exterior. Someone had tried to turn a once war torn fortress into what felt like a children's dream of royalty. There we even toys scattered around, the odd teddy bear and action figure spread amongst the organised chaos.
It was colourful. Loved.
And yet, beneath it's inviting interior, you could feel the pressure in the air, like the walls were alive and watching everything.
You're led into what was once clearly a throne room, the high ceilings, tall stained glass windows, the way the room narrowed towards a raised platform. Beanbags, cushions and couches were all around leading towards a throne that rest in the centre.
A tall and carved wooden throne, hand made and intimidating. Around it, the space was warm, matching the room outside. Thick furs, a low table where cups and candles sat. A painted mural rest behind, a sunrise, small figures raising their arms towards an almost glowing figure outlined in gold.
You already guessed who it was meant to be.
Footsteps echo through the hallways outside, stopping just where you had once stood. You turn around, seeing Jimmy Snake and another man beside him.
Sir Jimmy Crystal.
He's the complete opposite of what you were expecting, much like your original opinion of the castle he resided in.
He’s hard not to look at. Even if you try to avoid looking him over.
He was older than you by a few years, having clearly been around when the Rage Virus took over.
The dark purple tracksuit he wears looked almost shiny under the candlelight. His blond hair, real hair, falls to his shoulders, half brushed, half wild.
On his head, a little crown - almost childlike in design, reminding you of the pictures in the books your dad would sneak in and read to you.
He wears it with an unbothered confidence.
Gold rings rest on every finger, some stacked, reminding you of Russ. Around his neck, various chains and an upside down cross, polished like a holy relic.
He's handsome in a way that shouldn't matter to you. His teeth are rough and marked by time, but none of it detracts.
"Our little tracker," he says as he approaches, arms wide and voice wrapped in velvet. "I just heard what ye did out there, quite the warrior if I hear correctly."
Immediately your eyes cast down, looking to his feet. You've been around enough authority figures to know your place by now. You nod, barely.
His head tilts, noticing your instant change in demeanour.
"None of that now, lift yer head," He tuts, walking closer until he stood just a blink away. "Ye don't look down in my house, I think you of all people earned better than that,"
It worried you. There was going to be a catch. Slowly you raise your head, and you meet his gaze. "Much better," He says, smiling again as he holds out his hand.
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
dededos
origamiaround
turnnoffyourmind
kianamaiart
