#i would be front row every sunday

[chillentertainer]

women and men both desired him?? yeah no wonder they did, bro was ethereal

edit by @schauschazi

[tonycries]

Brooklyn Baby - G.S.

Synopsis. Everybody wanted to fuck Suguru Geto, lead bassist of Tokyo Special Grades. Said Suguru doesn’t want to fuck anyone else but you. He couldn’t give less of a fuck if anyone walked in right now. In fact, a small part of him wishes someone would.

Pairing. Geto Suguru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, rock star! AU, fwb-to-lovers, unprotected sex, oral sex (male receiving), fingering (female receiving), Suguru is sinfully sexy and in l*ve with you, Satoru is a menace, pet names (darling, my girl), Suguru has tattoos and piercings, swearing.

Word count. 3.2k (DAMN I got carried away)

A/N. Happy Valentine’s day! *throws somewhat-fluffy smut at you and leaves* 

Art by @_3aem on X.

Also, wild west! AU longfic with someone dropping on Sunday night (EST), keep your eyes peeled yeehaw.

Everybody wanted to fuck Suguru Geto, lead bassist of Tokyo Special Grades.

You did. Your fans did. Hell, you’ve even caught your overworked band manager sneaking a few too many glances. 

And, you conclude, the groupies currently batting their lashes at him definitely did. 

You watch as they swarm to him during open rehearsal, giggling at his pretty smiles. 

Whatever, part of the job anyway.

It’s not like you two were dating. Yeah, a few fucks here and there throughout the years - but what’s one to do when on the road and in such close proximity with a guy that’s practically walking sex? 

Trying not to scowl, you turn away from the commotion, continuing to tune the strings of your trusty Fender. You’ve had your fair share of die-hard fans, so lately why did it bother you so much when Suguru entertained their thinly-veiled advances? 

“Ohoho~ Quite a look on your face there, why don’t you go and caress his biceps too?~” you hear idiot brigade member #1, Gojo Satoru, cackle from beside you. 

If looks could kill, Satoru would’ve been 6 feet under and rotting already. “I thought you stopped writing band fanfiction, Satoru.” you raise a brow. 

“THAT WAS ONE TIME.” he whines dramatically, clinging onto you and shaking you back and forth as if to knock the memory of his Wattpad tendencies out of you. “WHY ATTACK ME JUST CUZ YOU’RE JEALOUS? C’MOOON ADMIT IT.”

You were not jealous. 

Suguru knew you were jealous.

Sneaking a glance, he had to fight the urge to coo at the adorable little furrow of your brows. How unprofessional would it be if he walked off mid-conversation to kiss that pout off your lips?

He knows it’s just sex for you. But - foolishly - every time he held you he could only hope that he ran through your mind as often as you did through his. It elated Suguru to know you were getting that worked up over him. 

That is until, out of the corner of his eye, he spots Satoru draping himself all over you, whispering god-knows-what into your ears. 

The rational part of Suguru knows Satoru is a very touchy person, but why was he so…close? And why weren’t you pushing him off?

Smile tightening into something a little more artificial, he turns to the girls fawning over him. “Well, ladies, I’m sorry to say I’ve gotta go practice before Shoko yells at me again. I’ll see you all in the front row, yeah?” he lies smoothly, disappointed whines following him as he makes a beeline for your figure.

“Well! What have we here, Satoru, are you done tuning?” Suguru pops a head between yours and Satoru’s overly close ones, interrupting whatever conversation you were heatedly whispering. What was so important that you two needed to be that close to talk anyway?

He narrows his eyes at Satoru’s surprised ones, an invisible conversation taking place between them before Satoru cracks a smug grin. “Alright alright. I’ll go tune my guitar.” he rolls his eyes, heading for his electric blue Gibson. 

Your confused gaze meets the twinkling eyes now boring down at you. “Done with the meet-n-greet already?” you question, eyes darting to the group now watching you two like hawks.

The smile on Suguru’s face grows, “Yeah, remembered I didn’t do my pre-concert rituals right.”

“Oh?”

“Wanna help me with it?”

He doesn’t give you time to answer. Quickly setting down your guitar, he drags you out into the corridor - hand tightly in yours and pointedly ignoring Satoru’s wolf-whistles. 

Hallway sex is overrated, Suguru believes - which is why he heads for the dressing room. 

“Pre-concert rituals” his ass, Suguru just thinks he might pass away if he doesn’t get his hands on you right now. Make you feel like his.

It’s not long before the door is locked and he has you bent over the vanity, knuckle-deep in your dripping cunt. 

“S-Sugu! Why now? The concert- Hah-” You gasp in pleasure as two long fingers probe inside of you, ruthlessly searching for the spot that Suguru knows would have your toes curling and eyes watering deliciously. 

“Fuck the concert, darling. Barely even started and already so wet f’me.” he drawls out over your whimpers. “Wanted you to come over y’know? And save me from those groupies trying to get in my pants.” 

In your lust-hazed mind, you find the words to respond to him, “You s-seemed to - hah - be enjoying that.”

“Of course not.” he leaves a trail of kisses down your back, “Wasn’t my favorite girl.” he whispers into your heated skin.

He’s being rougher than usual, he knows. In the back of his mind he wonders what it was that he was so pissed at. But all thoughts of that are thrown out the window once he presses into that plushy spot inside your wet core, drawing a sinful whine from your mouth. There.

Pulling back to tease your folds with your own slick, he plunges into your swollen pussy once more, easily hitting that spot over and over. 

“Hngh- Suguru, more!” you grind your hips to meet his merciless rhythm, clenching around his fingers. 

You feel as if you’re losing your sanity when he adds in another finger, walls burning as your cunt stretches around his thick rings. 

Suguru was definitely losing his sanity. 

Anyone could walk by. The concert was about to start any second now. But he couldn’t give less of a fuck, too focused on how his fingers were being sucked back in every time he pulls out, your pretty pussy dripping all over his numerous bracelets.

He has to hold back a moan at the way your ass jiggled every time your hips buck to meet his fingers. 

Leaning down over you, he hums lowly into your ear “So desperate for me, hm?”. Pressing the erection straining against his trousers against you, he huffs out “I’m the same, darling. You drive me absolutely mad.”

He feels the way you squirm in impatience at the large outline of his dick, raising your ass in an attempt to get more friction. Eyes crinkling in satisfaction, he pushes down on his girl’s slutty hips, cold rings digging into the small of your waist. 

“Now now…not yet.” he tuts mockingly. 

“Please, Suguru. Please let me cum.”

Increasing his pace, abusing your g-spot relentlessly, Suguru knew by your breathy moans of his name that you were getting close. 

His hand moves from your waist, leaving behind purple marks to remember him by. They wander the expanse of your body - groping your curves, and pinching your nipples through your thin top - delighting in your mewls.

God, you were perfect. He really needed to take his time with you later.

Suguru’s hands, nail polish chipped and fingers calloused from years of playing, finally rest on your face. He pushes your cheeks together, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth and forcing you to look at him through the vanity mirror in front of you. Your dazed eyes meet his darkened ones. 

Suguru was so feral. The man that was usually the personification of grace and poise was falling apart at the seams. His eyes wild and grin spread devilishly as his fingers abuse your cunt never-endingly.

“Look at me when you cum.” he murmurs raspily into your neck, teeth ghosting over your rapid pulse.

You don’t know what it is that sends you over the edge - maybe it was his lustful words, or the way his fingers quirked just right inside of you. All you know is you’re cumming all over Suguru’s fingers, hands clutching the vanity table and eyes locked with Suguru’s in the mirror, mouth dropping into a gasp.

“Fuck! Suguru- Suguru!” you whimper.

Suguru watches in wonder as you ride out your orgasm, using him. He couldn’t give less of a fuck if anyone walked in right now. In fact, a small part of him wishes someone would.

Let them see how beautifully you fall apart because of him.

Finally pulling out, Suguru inspects his fingers. “Now now. That won’t do.” he purrs. 

His tongue erotically licks up your juices covering his rings, still holding eye contact with you through the mirror. He catches the way your thighs press together at his lewd act. ‘Oh? Want some?“ he teases. 

Before you can retort, he’s bullying his fingers into your mouth, making you taste yourself. 

The way you moan around him sends blood rushing straight to his cock. Fuck, he has to steel himself from cumming in his pants right then and there - that wouldn’t be very “sex icon” of him. 

You have no idea what you do to him.

Not willing to wait any longer, he leisurely takes a seat on the spacious vanity sofa. You whine at the loss of contact before catching the predatory look in his eyes. Suguru was going to eat you alive. 

“Come on, darling. Show me how badly you want me.” he grins, legs spreading and prominent bulge on display. 

You take a second to admire the view. Tousled black hair falling enticingly along Suguru’s muscled shoulders, tattooed dragon peeking through where his shirt was messed up. His eyes lustful, and locked on you. 

He was devastatingly handsome. Your mouth waters at the chance to get what so many people would kill for.

Suguru chuckles as you struggle to unbuckle his belt - did rock stars have to always wear such complicated trousers? 

Finally, you pull them down along with his boxers to expose his creamy thighs. Suguru’s throbbing erection lays on his abs, flushed a delicate pale pink.

Your pussy quivers with excitement as you press wet kisses to Suguru’s leaking head, precum dripping down his length to where you’d gently grasped him. A strangled hiss leaves his mouth as you swirl your tongue around the slit. You find yourself lost in his heady taste - he tastes so good.

“Having fun, darling? C’mon now, use me the way you want.” he murmurs, need laced into his voice.

You’ve never gotten used to how big Suguru is. Soft groans leave his mouth as you flatten your tongue and take him in inch by inch, eyes locked with his blown-out ones.

Suguru’s back arches as the heat of your mouth envelops him, hands bunching your hair into a messy ponytail. His pornographic groans echo across the dressing room as you suck on his cock, tongue swirling in just the way you knew he liked.

He can’t even catch his breath with the way you bob your head so heavenly, sucking the soul out of him. It drives him wild to think about how he’s got his lead guitarist on her knees, choking on his cock as your fans wait outside. 

Suguru’s eyes roll to the back of his head as you pop off his cock to take his heavy balls into your mouth, moaning around them as you suck on both erotically.

Shit, he was really feeling it today. 

Through the bangs now sticking to his forehead, he makes out the way your thighs grind against each other for relief. 

You were, too.

If this keeps up he really will lose his sanity.

“As much as I’d love to paint your pretty face with my cum, I think we both prefer it inside, no?” he grits out, cock twitching at the strings of spit and precum connecting you to him as he pulls you off. 

“Need you inside me so badly.” you nod, brain foggy and filled with only Suguru.

He’s quick to lift you into his lap, resting your ass against his pulsing cock, sly grin spreading at the way you’re already so fucked out. 

Suguru feels like he could cum just from the sensation of your juices smearing all over his length, pussy dripping and aching for his throbbing cock. 

“Oh yeah? How bad?” he purrs, eyes half-lidded and already knowing the answer.

“Please. I want you to fuck me so badly, Suguru.” 

“Badly enough that you’d fuck me out there - where everyone is? Show ‘em who I belong to?”

“Yes.” 

At your whimper, Suguru thrusts fully inside you, a moan of relief leaving you both as you finally get what you’ve been craving for. 

“Shit, so tight. Always so good for me, darling.”

Once you start, it’s hard to stop, Suguru finds. 

It happened when he first fucked you in high school - in his car after your first show, running on adrenaline and teenage hormones. And, years later, it’s happening now as he sheathes himself in your wet cunt. 

He just can’t get enough.

He fucks you animalistically, cock ramming in and out of your hole in a way that makes it feel like you’re missing something without him. Nothing in the world other than your two connected bodies. He feels you clamping down on him deliciously, ego growing at you struggling to accommodate his size. 

“F-fuck, darling. Hah- It’s s’tight. Take it like my good girl.”

“Hngh- Suguru, faster!” you groan, fingers delicately playing with the nipple piercings peeking out of his barely-buttoned shirt, euphoric at his drawn-out moans. 

Unlike Satoru - who takes off his shirt every chance he gets onstage - Suguru was one to shy away from showing skin, slutty piercings and tattoos hidden to the world. It just makes it all the more satisfying as you lick a long stripe along the dragon on his shoulder. 

Feels like your little secret. You wanted to be the only one to see this ethereal sight.

“Ah- So good, darling.” Suguru leans back, allowing you more room to play with him as you please. Cock twitching - so close - as you bore into his eyes, sucking his flashy piercings. 

He ramps up his pace, bouncing you on his cock in a way that was carnal. It was so feral, the way his balls sting as they smack your ass, a ring of spit and precum forming around his base. 

His cock aches for release, but he wants to see you cum first. His pretty girl, cumming all over his throbbing cock.

You pull yourself off his swollen nipples and attach your mouth with his, tongues swirling sensually as he kisses you like he needed you to breathe. 

He’s almost as unforgiving with his mouth as he is with his cock. Almost.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“YOOO I don’t know if ‘pre-concert rituals’ was a code-word for something else but we’re on in twenty minutes.” the unmistakable voice of Suguru’s best friend - and occasional bane-of-his-existence - made you two jump apart. 

“The ultimate cockblock.” Suguru sighs out - his pace, however, does not slow down. Each harsh thrust makes it difficult to muffle your yelps of pleasure from Satoru, who was still calling for you two from outside.

Noticing your predicament, Suguru grins dangerously. “Oh? My poor girl finds it hard to stop her moans? Aww, better try harder unless you want dear Satoru finding out.” he mocks in your ear. 

Both humiliated and turned on by his words, your dripping pussy clenches around his cock. He lets out a choked-up groan, biting hard into the crook of your neck to stop it.

A satisfied smile spreads across your face, “Who should try harder now, Suguru?”

Ah, perfect. You were perfect, perfect for him.

As Satoru’s yells about “cutting a chunk out of Suguru’s pay” disappear across the hallway, both of you let out exhales of relief.

“Dangerous game you played there, mister.” you raise a brow, teasingly.

He chuckles out, before pulling you to him closer by the waist. Lips ghosting over your own, he whispers “Only with you, my darling.” 

Slightly more clear-headed but still dripping with lust, you meet the bounce of Suguru’s hips with your own. Eyes still locked with yours, he stuffs you with every inch - tip kissing your cervix so painfully good. 

The steady slapping of skin and synchronized moans fill the room, blocking out the cheering of the audience awaiting your band. 

Yet, the air crackled with something different this time. For the first time, it didn’t just feel like just mindless fucking.

Bite mark on your neck stinging, you could feel Sugurus heartbeat thundering under your touch - synchronized with your own.

In this moment it felt like just you two in this world. 

You wanted to be the only one in his world. Not his fangirls, not some manager, not anyone else. 

Maybe that was the reason for your courage, feeling like everything has finally come to a boiling point. 

“S-Suguru.” you breathe out as you feel yourself getting closer. 

“Mhm?” brows furrowed, he looks up at you with a tenderness in his eyes that does not translate to the merciless cadence of his hips. 

“Be mine.”

And that’s all Suguru ever wanted. 

With a final hard thrust of his cock, he pulls you into a searing kiss that sends you both over the edge. He cums in hot spurts, thick ropes of seed filling your quivering cunt. It was feral - and it made you feel like his. 

Suguru’s seed drips down the side of his length, forming a white ring at his base as he fucks it deeper into you, letting you ride out your highs together.

As your climaxes bate, he buries his face in your neck, kissing softly over the mark from before. “To be yours is everything I could ever want, darling.” he breathes out, hugging you closer as if to hide this vulnerable moment. But you feel the heat of his cheeks on your skin.

Embracing him, you gather his beautiful black locks in your hand, fingers deftly taking the hair tie around your wrist to tie his long hair into a messy ponytail. 

Pulling back, you admire Suguru’s angelic features. Face flushed, lips swollen, and dark eyes half-lidded as he stares up at you in surprise.

“Wanted to see your pretty face.” you huff out a low laugh.

The expression on Suguru’s face is indescribable, such pure adoration in his eyes. 

Voice low, he murmurs words meant only for you, “I…I’m in lov-” 

“HEYYY I’m serious, stop doing the devil’s tango and GET THE FUCK OUT.” Satoru’s voice bellows once again through the door, shattering the little bubble you and Suguru had found refuge in.

“Ah- um-”

“You-”

Both of you stammer out at once, chuckling at how shy you were acting with one another even after all that had transpired in this room.

“We should probably go, before Satoru and Shoko pop a blood vessel.” Suguru jokes. You laugh out in agreement as he carries you tenderly to the washroom, his interrupted words weighing heavily on both your minds. It’s okay, you have time. 

Rapidly cleaned up and dressed, Suguru stops, a hand on the dressing room doorknob. “”Hey..” he starts almost-hesitantly, “After the concert, would you maybe want to-”

“Yes.” you interrupt, excitement lacing your voice. 

Chuckling in pure euphoria as you both exit, your smiles turn more sheepish as you’re faced with a bored-looking Shoko and an impatient Satoru tapping his foot. “You horny lil’ fuckers almost missed the show, think of my poor fans~” he exclaims, though the glee in his eyes at your intertwined hands was very evident.

“Hope the sex was good at least.” Shoko drones out, eyes flitting over your guilty flushed faces. 

‘Oh yeah, and Suguru - next time you dump your fangirls on me, I chop your balls off.“ she chirps out, pointing her drumsticks threateningly at his neck as you all head back.

Blinding lights. 

Deafening screams.

Hair pulled into a messy ponytail, he was fatally beautiful onstage.

Everybody wanted to fuck Suguru Geto, lead bassist of Tokyo Special Grades. 

But he only wanted to fuck you.

A/N. MMMMM long-haired men.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[soggyriceee]

cowboy ellie is so hot fuck write a flashback of when she was young and had no worries fucking in a field or stable

careless girl 18+ | E.W

<ellie is 18, flashback that doesn’t include reader, public sex, sub!ellie, oral(E!receiving), fingering, ✂️, lmk if i missed any>

growing up on a farm in bumfuck meant Ellie learnt almost everything from her parents. she was homeschooled, her mother too scared to send her an hour away everyday. she’d remember how hard her mother tried to make home feel like school, purchasing colorful books and toys to help her learn. but like most homeschooled kids, Ellie wanted to experience real school.

her parents would finally budge when she’d gone into highschool. it was almost a whole new world for the girl. so many people, classes, clubs. girls.

Ellie’s parents were your typical Christians, church every Sunday, super religious Christmas and Easter. that was normal for Ellie, though sometimes she would wish they could tone down all the Jesus stuff.

her parents only referred to her future partners as men, mentioning kids and pregnancy. she’d always agree, and force herself - well try- to see that future as well. and as much as she would “speak it into existence”, she knew deep down it didn’t feel right. and she’s feel guilty about it, never mentioning it out loud not even to herself.

but highschool only made those feelings stronger. seeing the girls in their right jeans, cute cowboy boots and ponytails. the guys were pretty much disgusting to her and ignorantly she’d think they all looked the same. same mullet haircuts, burnt red skin.

sophomore and junior year is when Ellie started to accept who she was. senior year is when she grew careless and needy.

Ellie wasn’t an alien, of course there were other girls like her in high school. she’d make one friend, a senior as well. she was in her english class, sat in the front row. this girl gave Ellie the type of attention nobody’s given her before. the way this girl was obsessed with her was foreign to the girl, but it only was a confidence boost.

Ellie would begin to realize the sort of effect she had on some girls. Ellie liked to dress a bit more masculine, at least in comparison to the other chicks. Ellie never wore a skirt or shorts. she wore a tight black tank, with a flannel and tight black jeans to match. she’d switch up the tee and flannel every day of course, but she kept herself covered.

her parents would question her, asking why she dressed so differently. Ellie would reply she wants to remain modest. her mother would mention that she can dress modest in dresses and long skirts, but Ellie would remain silent and sort of wait for her father to break the silence like usual.

it took Ellie 3 months into her senior year to get a tattoo, a master at hiding it from her parents. she got it knowing the girl in english would only fawn over her more, and she loved the attention.

as confident as Ellie was portraying herself to be, she was a bit insecure. she’d only begin exploring her own body late at night, learning what porn was from the disgusting boys at lunch. but she was just as disgusting secretly.

she’d rub her clit so fast, and then so slow, trying to learn what worked and what didn’t. the video was hot, typical milf stuff, but she just didn’t feel like she was doing anything. so she’s huff and give up, continuing the fake act.

but when her classmate pulled her into a stall during lunch, lifting her shirt and showing Ellie her tits, she felt what she was supposed to have felt the night before. her clit pounded, jaw slack as she straight embarassed herself. if she wasn’t giving virgin energy before, she was now.

she didn’t know how but all the power went to her classmate now, who somehow got ellie to agree to bring her over. Ellie would agree, eyes still glued to her hardened nipples. “never seen boobs before?” the girl would joke, making Ellie go bright red.

that same night Ellie would be pinned below the girl, back pressed against the haystack. she didn’t mind the pointy dry feeling, not with what she was already feeling between her legs.

her classmate would have her in the most vulnerable position, legs pressed to her chest. ellie would do a poor job at shaving, having to learn based off a youtube video rather than her own mom. but her classmate didn’t seem to mind, she was gentle with her. she didn’t care that ellie was a virgin, not at all.

she’s actually teach ellie about her body in the process, kissing from ellie’s wet hole, up to her throbbing clit, naming each part she was kissing. “fuck..” ellie would huff, not understanding why she felt almost pain as her pussy throbbed. she was so needy that it hurt.

the girl would suck ellie’s clit so gently, kissing it again beforehand. her fingers would slowly slide into her, one by one, stretching her out as slow as Ellie’s body needed. “so wet … don’t even think you’ve touched this pussy yourself huh?”

ellie was so embarrassed, the whines that left her plump wet lips. her parents window was wide open, and could probably hear what was going on. she tried her best to stay quiet she really did, but when her first ever orgasm came over her she didn’t even really realize it.

“o-oh fuck!” she’d cry out, pushing her body up and off the other girls mouth, her hole pulsing and toes curling. her classmate would giggle and watch as she came down from her orgasm, pushing her panties off.

“w.. what are you doing?” ellie would pant, peeling her eyes open. “let’s go to the field.. wanna try something.” and of course ellie would follow like a lost puppy, following her classmate arouns as if it wasn’t her house.

when the girls legs hooked arouns her hips, one resting over her leg, one resting under the other, she’d look into her eyes. “youre gonna like this.. promise.” the girl would smile.

hee hips would move forward, her hand gently pushing ellie back onto her elbows. her hips would rise to meet ellie’s, and for a moment ellie thinks she’s gonna faint. the feeling of the girl pussy on her own, the warmth and wetness, it made her whine immediately.

the girls hips would being to move slow, wanting to really feel how wet Ellie was for her. “fuck ellie.. can feel you throbbing on my baby..” she’d whisper, eyes drawn to where they met.

ellie’s eyes would roll back, shamelessly moaning like a bitch in heat. to the point her classmate had to kiss her to shut her up. “you’re so.. pathetic.. such a needy girl huh?” she’d tease, holding ellie’s face as she slowly picked up the pace.

ellie didn’t know what to say she was so overwhelmed in pleasure. she could only let out the most beautiful sounds, eyes glistening and big. “call me mommy.. tell mommy you want her to keep going.” she’s whisper into ellie’s ear.

holy fuck what was she doing to her? ellie could faint then and there. but she did as she was asked, she wanted to please her. the roles had reversed and she wasn’t mad at all. “p-please mommy i.. i feel it again.”

the girl would shove ellie’s back into the tall grass, towering above her. her hips wouldn’t stop as she locked eyes onto ellie. “cum for me ell’s.. you deserve it baby jus-“ the girl couldn’t even finish before ellie became undone under her, back arching up as she cried out in pleasure again.

the girl would cover her mouth, giggling once more at how well Ellie reacted to her. she’d follow not long after, praising and thanking ellie for letting her use her pussy to get off.

her classmate made it a routine to stop by twice a week or so, giving Ellie the same amazing sex over and over. Ellie thought she’d found her soulmate, she thought she was lucky. she’d found a beautiful girl, smart and funny. who seemed to like her back. they even went to prom together, to which Ellie had to do vide her parents it was as friends.

but when graduation came around, and everyone was going their serperate ways, the girl would block ellie. she’d block Ellie despite telling her “i’m never gonna leave.. no matter how far away I go.” she told her that while she was knuckled deep in her pussy, slowly thrusting into her as she stared into Ellie’s eyes.

it broke ellie so much, to the point she didn’t open up to a single soul in college. she got revenge on her classmate throufh other people, doing the same to girls who truly did want something with Ellie. but she was too scared. she was so submissive and open and vulnerable with someone, who now is just a memory.

her wife and her met after college, when Ellie was still at a low. her wife was a breath of fresh air for Ellie, but she was still scared and standoffish. their relationship had a rough start and Ellie was to blame. she could commit fully, no matter how hard she tried. but her now wife stayed, she was patient and was too understanding.

Ellie would marry her eventually at 27, moving to a new part of the country and starting a new life. she was happy, happier than she was before at least. her relationship was in a better place and she just wanted to feel.. secure. so she’d remember the bad times, and be grateful for her new life, because she had found someone who truly wanted her.

highkeyyy loved this request sm sm. ellie does call girls mommy idc byeeee

[letterlitter]

Let go (nsfw)

Lando Norris x reader

•Lando needs to relief stress after a bad weekend

•tags: smut, semi public, handjob (male recieving), Lando is a sad baby, moaning

•word cound: 1.6

It had been a rough few weeks. You had been away on business and Lando was racing but things weren't going as well as you both hoped.

All had gone downhill after the first race of the season which Lando had won. MCL39 was fast and everybody knew that, yet Lando had been struggling to get it right and use the car's potential to its fullest. He had been updating you through video or phone calls and he repeatedly told you how much he could use a kiss; to which you would reply with a giggle and a "very soon baby" and when you finally made it to the Saudi gp, it was a nice surprise for Lando and the press.

The qualifying had gone terribly for Lando and he wasn't happy about the results at all. You could see him pouting and rolling his eyes from behind his helmet as he got off the car.

You tried to find him in every crowd and be in his sight even when he was busy to let him know you were there, watching and supporting him in real time but eventhough he always smiled back and tanked you several times for it, it wasn't enough to keep him out of his own head.

Sunday, race day

Lando was starting in the middle, closer to the back of the lineup than the front. You and the team sat in the garage hoping for the best and while you had your eyes on Oscar dominating the race, you were worried about Lando. He was doing pretty well with the overtakes and the overall pace but everyone was now more focused on the screen showing how Oscar was going to take the win.

You liked Oscar, he was very talented, hardworking and well deserving of the achievements he had; but your heart broke for Lando, since no matter how had he pushed and how hard he was on himself, he didn't seem to always get it right. You loved him despite every obstacle the media or both of your lives' circumstances were putting in front of you but it hurt your heart to see him try and not see results. You knew how it felt like, to run as fast as you can and be the smartest version of yourself but see someone else doing it better with less effort.it was a tiny part of how brutal life could be. Lando had talked about it to you as well. You knew his struggles and the roller coaster his mental state would go on every single race after his first win last year in Miami.

Before, he would just settle for a podium or some points; but after expanding his capabilities and achievement's limits, he couldn't stop himself from being hungry for the best all the time even when it wasn't realistic. He was hard on himself and the pressure had gotten to him these past few weeks.

Lando ended up 4th on the Saudi gp and while he had done an amazing job, everyone's focus had been on Oscar getting the win for the team.

Lando came in after one or two interviews, helmet in hand, sweat dripping from his forehead. He gave the team in the garage a nod and went straight to the dressing room. He didn't talk to anyone or say much. "Just straight to privacy and silence where he could overthink his brains out" you thought as you stood up, held your hand to stop his engineer, Will, who had taken a step to go after him.

"Let me" you mouthed to him and slowed your steps towards the room to let Lando have his few moments of silence.

"Hello, anyone here?" You tapped your fingers on the door as you pushed it open to find Lando sitting in the farthest corner of the couch in the dressing room. Race suit still on and hanging from his hips. He lifted his head from his hands when he heard your voice and managed a "it is what it is right?" Smile at you.

You sat next to him, "very nice job today. Honestly. And not because you're sad"

Lando scoffed. That was a good sign.

"What's the point when I have done shit for the third week in a row."

"Says who?"

"Me. It's like I waited for Oscar to catch up. I just can't believe I'm this bad...actually I kind of do"

"Don't say that about yourself baby" you rubbed your hand on his back. His fireproof cold from the dried sweat, "I know you beat yourself up because you have high expectations of yourself" you slided to the floor to make Lando's held down head face you, "but with almost every standard you're still doing really really good. And you still have plenty of time to make up for it all. You will only have less chances to mess up and that's it."

Lando exhaled.

"I just think you need to let loose a little bit." you cupped his cheek with a hand and lifted his face, "Stop blaming yourself"Lando looked into your eyes for the first time with a faint smile on his lips.

"Hello there" you whispered

"Hey" his smile widened

"You want a kiss?"

"Please" he sounded desperate

You kissed him long and deep.

You kept wanting to pull away but Lando was following you, even as you tried to stand up.

The kiss seemed to get more passionate and more than just a kiss as moments passed on. Lando's hand started messaging your back, trying to find a way under your vest.

"Slow down mister, this isn't your race track" and you kissed your way down his face to his neck, tracing the helmet marks on his soft skin; Feeling his body heat with your lips, tasting his sweat. Your hands pushed his race suit's zipper lower before he pulled back a second, "the door"

You stood back to let him go and turn the lock. You usually didn't care but the last thing both of you needed right now was getting caught while everybody in the world were behind those doors.

But as soon as he came back two second later, you didn't hesitate to push him to a wall and put your hands on him, pushing his suit lower, getting to his hardening bulge after you had grinded your hips on him before.

"I see you miss me huh?"

"Is that even a question?"

"No not really"

You slightly rubbed and squeezed his balls over his underwear. Making him moan subconsciously. Lando's eyes popped from the unexpected volume of his own moaning.

"Turn it down pretty boy, people might hear us" and you rubbed your hands more firmly, making him visibly suffer. There was something about Lando after a race that made you want him so badly. Maybe it was his wet hair or the red marks on his face. Or maybe it was his wet eyes from the tears he tried to hold back earlier. It all made you...want him.

You slided down Lando's underwear, releasing his long, hard dick. First you were thinking of getting down on your knees, but you couldn't possibly miss the scenery up there. Lando's forehead was filled with wrinkles as your hand touched the skin of his penis. You could feel the slight vibrations of his neck under your lips while he moaned in his throat and tried not to be loud.

"Oh fuck y/n" he let out when you started teasing his tip with your thumb, "are you trying to...fuck..trying to kill me?"

"Shhhhh" you kissed his lips to shut him up. This was going to be slow and relieving. All of his attention and focus had to be on you and trying not to moan instead of the race results; even if it was for a few minutes.

Lando's moans were getting more frequent by the second. At one point his patience was so lost that he hit the back of his head to the wall behind him, with his fingers digging into the skin of your back. "You wanna come?"

Lando answerd with an impatient moan.

"I need those words baby" you looked up at him and smiled at his squeezed shut eyes and tilted back head.

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Oh fuck off y/n"

In a regular day, your would've listened and stopped whatever you were doing to tease him even more. But you felt he had been through enough for today so you took up the pace and moved your hand faster on the pre-cum covered surface you were working on.

"Come for me baby. Come"

You reached for a towel on the sofa in time to clean everything up before Lando got cum on both of you.

He let out a final exhale of comfort and finally opened his eyes.

"Come here" he pulled you in a tight hug as he came down from the high.

"Feel better?"

"I thought I was seeing stars are you crazy?"

You chuckled, "yes I may be"

Lando kissed your forehead a few times before he let you go.

"I have to get back out there. Also take this with you" he took the gray towel by the clean part, "and destroy it."

"Okay"

"I mean it y/n." He shouted as he was walking out the door. Making you laugh with relief seeing the difference between the way he came into this room and the way he was getting out of it.

[cityselcouth]

back to you – teaser

pairing: caleb x reader

summary: to caleb, you were the beginning and end of every thought, bleeding through the fickleness of youth and into the treacherous path of adulthood. you were the only dream he's ever had, but you weren't his, even if he'd always been yours.

themes: childhood friends to lovers, small town au, love triangle (ft. zayne), fluff, eventual smut, heavy angst, slowburn as fuck, astronomical levels of yearning, so much denial, the 'its always been you' trope, unrequited love, profanity, hurt/comfort, more tba because it just doesn't end lol

word count: 0.8k for the teaser (estimated 60k for the full fic because i have no self control)

lyns notes: this is me announcing that i am actually an angst writer. i have been planning this fic for a while now so i'm so excited to share the teaser<3 the formatting of this fic is inspired by the kdrama twenty-five twenty-one, and follows the characters as they grow up, which is another reason why its going to be a LONG one. i was initially just going to post it when it was finished, but i got too impatient and too excited about it so enjoy lol.

➛ taglist is open!

i] six - four

Caleb stood next to you in the church pew, fidgeting with the ends of his shirt sleeves. You were just as restless as he was, picking at the netting on the skirt of your dress – one of those obnoxiously poofy ones that parents loved to put their little girls in. For once, your usually messy hair was combed and clipped back neatly, and he had to stop himself from tugging at it so that it would look normal again. 

“This is so boring.” You grumbled, your little voice barely reaching his ears over the organ music and choir singing. He nodded solemnly, turning around and glancing longingly at the doorway that led to the area behind the church. On Sundays, he was usually allowed to play outside with you while the mass went on, but this time, his parents had sat him down and explained that since he was now six years old, he had to learn how to stay quiet and sit through it instead. 

“You can go play.” He pointed out, making sure not to be too loud. You sulked.

“Not without you!” 

So you had forced yourself to stay by his side, even when it was clear you’d rather be anywhere else. Your grandmother was extremely impressed by your insistence and how quiet you had managed to stay up until this point. 

You might have been almost two years younger than he was, but you were his best friend. He had met you a year ago when he had first moved to this town, when his parents threw a small housewarming party and called all the neighbours. You lived in the house next to his with your grandmother, and from the moment you walked through that door and flashed him a toothy grin, he knew he was going to be your friend. 

“Then you’re going to have to deal with being bored.” He said matter-of-factly, settling for gently patting the top of your hair like you were a kitten. You huffed and stared at your feet before going on the tips of your toes in an attempt to watch what was going on in the front. Not that it worked, considering there was a row of adults right in front of you.

But Caleb was sitting at the edge, so very carefully, he leaned out, wanting a glimpse at the altar. His mother had told him that it was a special mass, and he could see why. In front of the altar sat two people—a lady in white and a man in a suit. 

A wedding! The bride looked beautiful with her hair done up in an intricate bun, and even he could appreciate the extravagance of her dress. He gently pulled you in front of him, helping you lean out so you could see, knowing you’d like the dress. 

Your gasp of wonder made him smile. “Caleb! That’s the prettiest dress I’ve ever seen!”

He wanted to laugh at how excited you were, but he knew that would earn him some disapproving looks. Instead, he nodded. You were practically buzzing, wanting to run out and up to the bride to take a closer look. 

“I wanna wear a dress like that.” You announced as the congregation sat down, perching yourself back in your spot next to Caleb. He hushed you gently, not wanting to get in trouble, but his eyes sparkled as he looked at you. 

“You get one when you get married.”

“When can I get married?”

“Thats a long time away, dummy,” he poked your shoulder, earning a giggle from you. Then you leaned into him as the priest began speaking again. 

“How long away?” It was a funny sight, a child asking another child such questions and expecting them to have all the answers. Still, Caleb pondered it as seriously as he could for a first grader, stroking his chin like he had seen his father do when he was thinking. 

“I don’t know. You have to be much older.”

You sighed dramatically, slumping in your seat. “I wanna get married.” 

Any adult witness to this conversation would have found it extremely amusing; your innocent earnestness was so endearing. You didn’t even fully understand the concept of marriage, but here you were, deciding it was for you simply because you wanted to wear a white dress. 

Well, if that was what you wanted, it was what he wanted, too. 

Caleb held his hand out, curling all his fingers into a small fist, except for his little finger, which he kept stretched out towards you. “When we’re both older, we’ll get married. Then, you can wear any white dress you want.”

Your eyes lit up. “Really? We can do that?”

He nodded with a grin. You wrapped your little finger around his and shook, buzzing with excitement over the thought. The childish reasoning and sincerity of this promise made it so much sweeter, your finger hooked in his as the two of you sealed the deal in the only way you could: a pinkie promise. 

“Deal!”

coming soon!

[puckme-hughes]

Having a little sinful thought on this Sunday

MDNI-18+

I just know that Luke absolutely loves when you ride him. It’s the perfect view for him, he loves watching your tits bounce with every movement you make - but, his favorite part? His favorite part of you riding him is him getting a front row view of your pussy squeezing every inch of his cock. He loves the way your walls flutter around him.

“Look at that baby. Your pussy’s gripping my cock so hard. I think she missed me.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t what? C’mon use your words.”

“Luke I can’t.” You finally let out in a high pitched moan, your head thrown back so you’re staring at the ceiling. Almost as if you’re too embarrassed to let him in on the secret that this position is taking all of your energy, that bouncing on the balls of your feet on this mattress is taking every ounce of focus you have. There’s no way you can cum right now.

Luke moves his hand from the back of his head to gently touch your clit, since he knows your body like the back of his hand, he grabs your hip to keep you in place as you jerk forward. In this moment - Luke thinks that he’s never seen you look so beautiful. Your eyes are glazed over, you have a little bit of sweat dripping down your brow, he wants nothing more than to lick it, and your hair. Your hair looks like a wild mess that would be a dead giveaway of what the two of you were doing if you had to leave the room in a urgent manner, not having the time to put yourself back together after he’s finished wrecking you.

“Be my good girl y/n, I need you to come first before I can fill you up. That’s what you want right? I promise baby, I’m going to fill you up so much that my cum will be leaking out of you..and then I’m going to keep you filled…going to have to make sure that it takes”

[miss-fanfictions]

Sundays at the Library

Part Two

Pairing] Spencer Reader x glasses wearing! shy! librarian! fem!Reader

Synopsis] Spencer talks to the sweet librarian at his new library and slowly Sundays become his favorite day of the week.

Warnings] Cursing, creepy guy, misunderstandings (but its cute I promise), written from Spencer's POV

Word Count] 8.9k

Author's Note] This is my first fic here! I'm planning on doing a few more parts to this, so this is only the beginning 🙃

The first time Spencer saw you, the encounter wasn’t anything special. 

If he wasn’t working, he was reading, and because he can read 20,000 thousand words per minute, he needed new books often. Not even his FBI salary could afford the amount of books he consumed in a month and his cozy apartment certainly couldn’t contain them all. Already his bookcases were spilling out onto nearby surfaces. So to quench his constant need for new books, Spencer borrowed books from the library. However, since the one near his apartment closed just a week ago, he had to find a new one. That led him to drive to the library ten minutes away. 

It was larger than the one down the street from his apartment—it had a full three floors. Beyond the double doors, he followed two velvet rope barriers onto the main floor of the library, wandering past a grand front desk to his left to where the room divided into two sections and the barriers ended. In the left section, beside the desk, there were a couple computers set up, as well as two printers and a side wall dedicated to DVDs. In the other section there were tables and chairs set up for quiet studying, as well as more comfortable lounges for reading. Behind those two sections started the book shelves, nearly ceiling high and organized via genre and then further alphabetized. When he ascended the staircase at the back of the main floor, he found the upper levels were fully dedicated to rows of shelving containing books, interspersed with a few tables and lounges for reading. 

 He spent approximately 45 minutes getting the layout of the library, as large as it was, and finding the books he wanted to read. Of course, he got a range of books. Two books on psychology, a mathematical textbook, and another two books based in the sciences. A bit of light reading, really, just to occupy his time at home during a busy caseload week. 

He balanced the heavy books awkwardly in his arms as he made his way to the front desk, practically dropping them onto the counter. His lips twisted up in embarrassment, glancing around to see if anyone was disturbed by the loud clatter. When his eyes turned back to the desk, they met the bespeckled ones of you, the librarian, seated behind the counter. They were wide behind the frames, doe-like and startled by the noise. He winced and stuttered out an apology.

Too often he embarrassed himself due to his clumsiness. Over the years, Spencer got a lot better at the shooting range, but he still couldn’t run a mile without tripping a few times, or be able to participate in sports, and he didn’t even want to think about his driving. JJ often compared the experience of being in his passenger seat to riding shotgun with her senile grandmother. No matter what he did, the awkwardness crept in and all he could do was apologize. He didn’t mean to startle the nice librarian who he would seeing every week for the foreseeable future. 

“It’s fine,” your voice was a gentle whisper, perfect for the quiet of the library. You closed the book on your lap and placed it out of sight under the counter, standing up to help him. That’s when he could take you in completely, with your long flowy skirt and oversized sweater. Perhaps a shy attempt to battle the chill running through the library, or maybe a purposeful effort to hide yourself away from prying eyes. He could tell—despite your attire—that you were his age or maybe a little younger. You lacked the wrinkles, grays, and even the weathered dullness associated with age. Your hair was done up messily, effortlessly, and his eyes tracked your chewed up fingernails as you tucked a few strands behind your ears, out of the way of your eyesight. 

He thought you were plain and shy. The soft pastels and neutrals that colored your clothes and the fact the garments covered you so entirely, made you blend into the background. Had he not needed to speak to you directly, he might not have noticed you tucked behind the desk, folded up in your chair with your nose deep in a book. 

“Can I check these out for you?” You asked him, and he almost missed it due to both his staring and your airy cadence. 

“Oh, uh, yes,” he said, then quickly added. “And a library card, please. I’m new to this library.”

“I’ll just need an ID then,” you held out your hand while he rummaged through his wallet for his state ID, and when he placed it into your palm he was careful not to touch your hand. It was less about you as a person as it was his disdain for germs. 

You went about clicking and typing at the computer to the side of the desk, face plain as if whatever you were doing you had done a thousand times. Your nimble fingers only stuttered when you glanced back at him, catching his eyes as he watched you before he darted them away from your face, caught. Quickly, you grabbed the mouse, clicking only three more times before handing back his ID. He was careful not to touch your hand or meet your eyes as he took it back. 

He didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with his staring, he had a habit of it, always trying to profile. But you were just a meek librarian, and there was no reason to take note of your behavior. You went about printing out a physical copy of his new library card, and he opened one of his books to occupy himself as you did so. 

When you turned back to him, you scanned a plastic card before offering it to him with a small smile. “Thank you,” he mumbled as you went about scanning the books on the counter with the same barcode reader. You were on the fourth book when your brows creased and you looked back up at him. 

“Are you studying?” You asked, the words sudden as if you couldn’t hold the thought off your lips. 

“No, this is just some light reading,” he answered politely, because it was. Though he forgot that was maybe not normal, because you giggled at his reply. 

The sound brought his eyes to your lips, the way they parted to let the breathy noise out. It was a unique giggle, though he supposed everyone’s is, but something about it suited you so completely. It was soft, and when he glanced around the library to see that no one else had heard it, he thought it was also just for him. There was no taunting, just joy that you emitted in the most delicate of sounds. If only he could understand what he did to extract it from you. 

“Right,” You said jokingly, and then he thought maybe you didn’t believe him, but he didn’t get a chance to assure you he was being truthful before you finished checking out the books. “Here you go, have a nice day, Spencer.”

He hesitated, thrown off by your use of his name, but cleared his throat and collected his books nonetheless. He thanked you and mumbled a brief goodbye as he did so, not looking back as he rushed out of the library. When he got to his car, he used a pack of disinfectant wipes on the books and set them up in his passenger seat, thoughts of the little librarian withering away to the casework waiting for him at work tomorrow.

—

He finished the books quickly, in only two days actually, but thankfully most of his time was taken up by his work. In his remaining free hours, he resorted to rereading a few books on his shelves. On Sunday, he collected his library books and drove the ten minutes back to his new library, exactly one week since his last visit. 

The inside was chilly and smelled like old paper and leather. There weren't many people he could see on the main floor, a few of what looked like college students spread out studying and some preteens huddled on the computers, whispering snarks and giggles. He walked up to the front desk, following the rug and the velvet rope barriers that led right to it from the entrance. This time he didn’t pass by the desk, but stopped at it to place down his books—quietly.

Your familiar framed eyes looked up at him, just as doe-like as surprise crossed them right before a smile took hold. Again, you closed the book in your lap, though this time Spencer caught a glimpse of its orange and yellow cover before you hid it from sight. He couldn’t make out the title. “Back so soon?”

It had been exactly a week since he’d seen you, and though he had not thought of you much since then, Spencer was incapable of forgetting a face. You looked just as you did last week—messy updo, baggy clothes, bare face. It seemed that was your natural state, or at least what you wore to work, but what Spencer wore to work was pretty much his normal wardrobe and he worked in the FBI, not a library.

“Yes, I need to return these books,” he told you, returning your smile with a quirk of his lips and placing his library card on top of the stack of books. 

When your eyes roamed back down from his to the five books, your brows furrowed. “Give up on studying then?” You asked, scanning the books back into the system. 

For a moment, Spencer was confused, then he recalled every word of your last interaction, and realized you still thought he checked the books out to study them, likely for some graduate classes, given his age. “No, I wasn’t studying them. I just needed a few books for casual reading after work.”

You paused once you turned to the computer, looking at him down your glasses. “Casual reading?” Your eyes went back between the thick books and his face, a smirk of disbelief growing. “You read all these books in a week?”

“Yes.” He shrugged. 

“For fun?” You had a skeptical eyebrow quirked.

“That’s what casual reading normally implies.” Spencer furrowed his brows at your line of questioning. Maybe most people wouldn’t read such topics simply for fun, but why would he lie about that? 

At that, you giggled again, a bird’s song, and resumed clicking at your computer. Your gentle laugh tickled something deep in his chest. Again, there was no malice or ill intent to it, not any that he could see behind your genuine eyes and smile. You simply thought he was a funny guy, and no one ever thought that of Spencer. He was too awkward, or too serious, or even too annoying to be fun. 

You took the stack of books in your arms, the pile reaching right up to your chin, and walked them to a cart behind you. When you turned back, you were still smiling sweetly at him. “Your light reading has been checked back in.” You slid his library card across the counter.

He plucked the card back off it with a thanks, tucking it into the pocket of his sweater vest. For a moment, he debated telling you about his PhDs, his eidetic memory, and maybe even his genius IQ because Spencer always felt the need to prove himself—to state facts—because he wasn’t the funny guy. He was very serious and all the things he was telling you weren’t just silly jokes. Then he worried he might wipe the smile right off your face, and he couldn’t let himself do that. So instead he gave you a stiff nod and continued into the library.

. . . Only to spin right back around, fist awkwardly pressed against his lips. “Oh, also, what is the maximum amount of books I could have checked out at once?”

You had just cracked the spine of your book again when you looked back up at him, a swirling look of confusion on your face. “Ten books, but you don’t have any out so I wouldn’t worry about it.” 

Spencer gave another nod, spinning back around on his heels and taking himself right up to the second floor of the library. He spent approximately 37 minutes collecting books from around the library, setting them aside at tables as he weaved through the rows of bookcases for the different genres. A wealth of knowledge in all areas was useful for his job, and also just for him personally. He found great pride in knowing many things, as annoying as others might find his incessant info-dumping. 

When he finished, he took a stack of books from the table and carried them down from the second floor, slowly stepping down the stairs and craning his neck around the stack to watch his steps. He could be uncoordinated at his best, so there was no need to tempt fate into sending him tumbling down the staircase by not paying attention. 

After successfully making it down, he took long strides to the main desk and set the stack down on the counter. Of course, you looked up at him again, however skipped surprise and jumped into an inviting smile. You closed your book and stood up, taking in the books he set in front of you. “Another five to check out then?”

“No, actually, I’ll be right back.” He turned away so fast he almost missed the way your smile faded and you leaned over the counter to watch him ascending the stairs again, spindly legs taking them two at a time.

He grabbed hold of the second tower of books, nearly dropping the top one in his haste to get back to you. After that he continued to take the stairs carefully even as he felt your eyes on him. Maybe especially because he felt your eyes on him, because if you watched him fall down the stairs he’d have to drive an additional ten minutes away to find another new library, because he certainly wouldn’t be able to look you in the eyes anymore. 

Beside the first stack on the counter, he set the second, then placed his library card between them. “This is it, I promise.”

Again, you glanced between him and the books, eyes bugging behind their glass shelter. After a moment or so, as if you were making sure he was serious (he was), you began scanning his card and the books. Despite the larger quantity of books, you were slower as you ran the barcodes on the back, taking the time to read the titles and authors. 

“Are you a graduate student?” You asked, looking at a book on human genealogy. 

Spencer twiddled his thumbs. “No, I’m finished with school for now, but I might go back for another PhD in the future when I have more time,” he answered honestly, the words flowing out quickly, even though he wasn’t sure why he was telling you that. Only about two percent of the U.S. population has a PhD, and an even slimmer percent had more than one. So it was an unusual thing to say.

He thought you might laugh again, or even question him, but you simply hummed and moved onto the next book, chewing your lip. “I’m in a graduate program for poetry,” your voice was quiet, as required by the library environment, but more so than usual, like you seemed embarrassed to share that information. 

It made sense you were a graduate student working in a library while earning your MA in writing. He wondered if you had plans for your degree beyond getting a slight pay increase as a librarian. There was a career as an author, or maybe you wanted to be a teacher or a professor, he could see you doing that, standing in front of a class in your skirts and sweaters pointing at a chalkboard with a ruler, though that image was outdated. More likely you’d be in front of a white board or presenting from a projector. 

“That’s interesting. I find myself reading a lot of nonfiction recently—it helps more with my job, though I also just enjoy facts and statistics—but I’ll always have a special appreciation for fiction. I’m fond of poetry in particular because it’s created for multifaceted analysis,” even in his own whisper, the words were breathy and fast. He had to catch his tongue between his teeth when he caught your eyes trailing back up to him. “What do you plan on doing with your degree?”

“Write poetry hopefully,” the words came out in a gust of wind and your eyebrows quirked up, as if you didn’t believe even your own dream. “Maybe you can analyze it one day.” You finished scanning out the books, putting them back into two neat piles as you did. You went about clicking at your computer, making sure the books were grayed out in the system, avoiding his eyes.

So you did want to be a writer then. He could easily see that as well. Though he got the sense you didn’t believe your aspiration was attainable, and it likely wasn’t due to lack of skill. He told himself he wouldn’t profile you, but he did it practically subconsciously. Your lowered gaze, modest clothes, shy smile, and even chewed nails all pointed to a lack of confidence in yourself. He wasn’t sure why. You were pretty in your own right, and were clearly intelligent and hard working if your pursuit of a masters degree said anything. If you needed a little encouragement, the least he could do was give it to you.  “I look forward to it,” he said, and he was just as sincere as he always had been. 

It only seemed to increase your embarrassment, causing your face to shy further away from his gaze. “Thank you, Spencer.” Even if you couldn’t look at him, your tone was of genuine appreciation, and if he tilted his head just right, he could see the wisp of a smile on your face.

He nodded with a tight lipped smile, staring at you while he waited for the conversation to continue, only to realize you’d finished with his books and it was over. His hands stuttered to gather up the first heap of books, muttering about how he’d be back. However he only got a few paces when he heard you say his name again, feet stopping dead.

“Would you like me to help you carry these out?” You were already trying to get a hold on the books.

Quickly, he shook his head. “No,” the words came out abrupt and firm, louder than he’d ever spoken before in the library, and you flinched. 

“You shouldn’t be following anyone out of here to their cars. This library has a disturbing lack of cameras and an abduction, even in a public area, can happen in less than ten seconds. It’s safest for you to remain in the library and follow the good practice of having someone walk you to your car after your shifts.” Spencer felt obligated to warn you strictly, because your distinct quietness and sweetness made you the perfect prey for the killers he hunted daily. 

Though he almost regretted it as he watched the way your hands retreated from the books, crossing around yourself, and the gentle smile became forced. “Oh. I–I guess I’ll keep that in mind.”

Spencer nodded and hesitated, but didn’t linger much longer before exiting the library and heading back to his car. He was quick to toss the books into his car, your tangled smile stuck in his mind. Was it an odd thing to say? He was only trying to warn you, to keep you safe. But the look on your face, you didn’t seem at all grateful for the advice. Spencer took brisk strides back to the library entrance. You were standing there behind the front desk, arms still crossed, a distant look on your face. When you heard him approaching the counter taking in breath just a little faster from boardline jogging back, you barely spared him a glance. He scared you a bit, he realized, and he didn’t want to leave you like that. 

He paused beside his leftover books, wetting his lips.  “I didn’t mean to scare you with what I said before.” He finally caught your eyes and you seemed to hear him out. “I work in law enforcement, for the FBI actually, and all too often I see cases of nice girls like you who go missing just because you want to help people. Unfortunately it’s a pretty common ruse. So, I—I didn’t tell you all that to make you worry, but because I want you to be safe,” he admitted, and your face softened again, your hands falling back to the counter. It brought a smile to his own face to see you relax your guard again. “It’d also be awful if my librarian went missing. Who will check out the heap of books I keep bringing you?” 

You giggled, your lips pulling into a toothy smile. “It’d definitely suck, but I’d hope you’d put those FBI skills of yours into finding me.”

Spencer chuckled, ducking his head into his chest to quiet the sound as he pulled his books into his arms. “Of course I would, and I wouldn’t stop until I did.” He was good at his job, he never stopped until he found their victim, their unsub. 

You bowed your own head, hand holding your glasses to keep them from slipping down your nose. “Goodbye, Spencer.” You gave him a small wave with the other hand, ending the conversation with averted eyes, but he still noticed the growing color in your cheeks. 

He fumbled with his own wave under the stack of books, really just an outward flash of the fingers he could manage to peel away for a second, and he was glad you weren’t looking at him with how awkward it was. He turned on his heel, pink growing in his own cheeks, and exited the library again for the final time today. The gears in his head grinded the whole way to the car and continued as he grappled to get into it and wiped the books with disinfectant. 

You lingered in his mind longer than a librarian should have. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to warn you, to explain himself to you, or even comfort you. There was something about you, as meek and bashful as you were, that he found charming. Perhaps he saw himself in you, the insecurity. Or maybe it was how different you were from his job, where he was met with the most wicked minds and evil acts. You in comparison were the very image of innocence and life, in your pastel purples and yellows, lively eyes magnified behind glass, and your—your laugh. He liked your giggle. Even though he suspected at times it meant you didn’t fully believe him, he let you find him unserious, just so he could continue to hear that sweet sound tickle his ears in a way that scratched an itch inside him.

He was sitting in the parking lot staring out the windshield lost in his thoughts of you. When someone walked by, he found himself clearing his throat and finally putting his car in drive. You dissipated from his mind as he pulled out of the parking space because his Sunday at the library was over. 

—

It took five days for him to finish the ten books from the library. The team was in California from Tuesday through Thursday, but he took four books with him to read during his down time and while on the jet. He still ended up with spare time that he spent shopping with Penelope and babysitting Henry for JJ and Will’s date night. It was for this reason he was glad to be back in the library on Sunday.

Inside he was hit with the familiar crisp air and the vague smell of paper and coffee. The tables to the left had quite a few more students than usual, though there were not very many to start with previously. He wondered if a bout of exams were coming up. As Spencer neared the front desk, he could smell something else, a faint vanilla scent maybe.

You were there as always, standing this time, and almost leaning over the counter to see the door. You smiled when you saw him and he realized that you must be wearing perfume, because around you the vanilla air became thicker.

“Sunday at 11am. You're more reliable than my alarm clock,” you hummed cheekily.

Spencer set the books he held in his hands on the counter, his messenger bag following them up. “Having a routine is actually really good for you. It’s been proven to reduce anxiety and stress and also helps people to cope with certain mental illnesses,” he told you, pulling the rest of his books out of his bag.

If you were thrown off by his fact telling, you didn’t show it. “That makes sense. I like having a routine, but I’m pretty sure my friends think it makes me boring.”

Spencer dug around in his vest pocket for his library card, brows furrowing. “Why would you think that?”

You plucked it from his fingers, bringing it to the barcode reader without breaking your eye contact. “Because they say it to me all the time.”

“Oh,” Spencer snorted a little and clutched the strap of his bag closer. There’s something different about you today. You’re much more talkative and playful, but it’s also in your appearance too. Your glasses are still perched on your nose and your face is bare as it always is, but your updo is more put together, less stands fall away into your face. You wear another long skirt, but it's tighter, less flowy, and he can nearly make out the shape of your legs through it. You’re wrapped in a cardigan too, but where one side falls open he can see your tank top underneath and the sight of your skin has him clearing his throat and bringing his eyes back to your face. 

“And how was your recreational reading?” You’ve started to scan the books back into the system. “You must have been pretty entertained with ten books in seven days.” You state it like a fact, but your tone has a whimsical disbelief to it.

“Actually I finished them in five days,” he corrected with an incline of his head. 

You reply quickly, like the words were primed in your mind. “Then you should have come back sooner.” Under the teasing, you sound serious, looking up from the books at him, lashes fluttering against their glass encasement. 

“I would, but I’ve been pretty busy at work.” He was too. He would spend hours in the library reading if working at the BAU didn’t take up so much of his time. He loved his job of course, and he wouldn’t have it any other way, but what is someone with his talents to do but hole himself up gorging every book he can get his hands on. Spencer had a thirst for knowledge, that’s why he wanted to be in the library so much. 

“Well, that’s too bad then. What do you do for work?” Your head tilts with interest and he almost mirrors the movement, brows furrowed. 

 “I told you—I work for the FBI. Specifically, I’m an agent in the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” He has an eidetic memory which means he can remember every word you’ve said to him and every word he’s ever said to you, so he knows he’s told you this before. Of course he knows people forget things, but they also normally remember when he tells them he’s in the FBI.

Your face falls a bit and you chew your bottom lip, brows creasing. “Oh. . . right.” You finish scanning the last book quickly, gathering a couple into a pile to carry to a cart behind you. 

Spencer’s not exactly sure what he’s done to upset you, but his fingers twitch with the itch to fix it. Unfortunately, he’s got the idea his job is what makes you so uncomfortable. It wouldn’t be the first time someone was unsettled by the fact he carried a badge and gun, or that he had the authority to arrest people. But you had joked about it last week, possibly were soothed by the fact he was a cop after his blunt and maybe eerie warning. So why were you suddenly so upset with him? 

The thought occurred to him then that  maybe it was because you didn’t completely believe the things he was saying. Not only that, but you were no longer finding whatever game you think he’s playing by telling you those things to be funny. As you carry the rest of the books back to the cart, he fidgets with his fingers, wondering if it was time to show you proof of what he’s been saying. Or did you really even care? Maybe he was wrong and you would be even more frightened by him presenting you with his badge. Was it odd to flash his FBI credentials at his librarian? That was all you were after all. He didn’t even know your name.

You were back to clicking at the computer when you glanced at him. “They’re all checked in.”

Spencer froze as you pulled him out of his thoughts, his hands locking in the joints before dropping to his sides into fists. That was your cue for him to leave. “Right, thank you.” He went to walk away, but his feet were stuck. “. . .thank you, um, I just realized I don’t know your name.”

You didn’t have to tell him, you could have brushed it off. You were just the librarian and one didn’t need to know the librarian's name, but you looked back at him again, eyes studying his face. Then, you murmured your name so softly he almost leaned in to hear it louder. Soundlessly, he let your name ghost over his lips.

He used it as he thanked you one last time, certainly overkill but it seemed like the only correct way to exit. Although he only got a few feet before he heard you call his name.

“Spencer, wait!” You didn’t yell, he’s never heard you yell, but your voice was the loudest he’s ever heard it. You always spoke in a whisper or a hushed tone, but your voice was nearly normal when you called him back. The urgency of it had him back in front of you in just two strides.

You dipped beneath the counter and when you came back up you placed a basket on it. “When I used to go on picnics to read in the park, I used this basket. Well, I haven’t gone in a long time actually, but I thought maybe you could use it for all the books you check out,” you were bashful, tilting your head down and only sparingly meeting his eyes. Spencer was in shock, all he could think about was how this was one of the nicest things someone’s ever done for him. You gave him whiplash with how quickly you seemed to forgive whatever trespass he committed against you. He wondered even if he exaggerated the interaction in his head. 

The basket was woven, made from wicker, and had two handles at the top. It was rectangular in shape, pretty deep, and large for a picnic basket, he thought, big enough for fruits, pastries, sandwiches, and maybe more. It was a very nice basket, and the thought that you were giving it to him made his heart ache the most. You’d considered him, truly sat down and thought about him and then decided you were going to gift him a solution to his awkward problem. Not often did people solve his problems, it was always the other way around.

“Wow,” his finger grazed the side, considering the cost such a nice piece must be. “Are you sure? I really couldn’t take your basket it’s—”

“I don’t use it anymore,” you interrupted him for the first time. He realized that you never cut him off, you had always listened to him. “You can have it. . .” Your face was kind, then suddenly dropped into a panic. “Only if you want it of course! You don’t have to take it. I guess it’s kind of silly, carrying a picnic basket in a library. . .” You started to pick your nails, not meeting his eyes.

“I don’t think it’s silly,” he assured you quickly, leaning just a bit closer so he could catch your eyes again. “Thank you so much. Now I don’t have to worry about falling down the stairs or taking two trips to my car.” 

Your smile returned with a breathy chuckle. “Yeah, you kind of made me nervous going down the stairs like that with all those books. You don’t strike me as very. . . coordinated.”

“Ouch,” Spencer said, though he smiled back at you. You’d read him there, he was not very coordinated at all. Knowing physics was one thing, existing smoothly and with grace on the physical plane was another. 

“Sorry,” you shrugged half heartedly.

“No, you’re right. Thank you for the basket and uh, I’ll be back,” he waved you goodbye as he walked toward the stairs and you fluttered your fingers back at him. 

Spencer took exactly 52 minutes and 34 seconds adding books to his new basket. He got a few stares and side glances as he toted it around, mainly from a group of teenagers huddled at a miniature table and chair set in the children’s section. They snickered as they peeked up from their circle at him, but it wasn’t anything Spencer wasn’t used to. All his life people had laughed at him for a variety of reasons—he was too scrawny, too small, too bumbling, too nerdy—the list was miles long. All he could do was grow thicker skin, and he had. So he didn’t let it bother him as he wandered the library, adding books to his basket. 

No, the reason Spencer took so long to pick books was because each time he slipped one into a wicker embrace, he thought of you. He blinked and saw your face like a phantom burned into his retinas. The way the corners of your mouth twisted in your smile when you were so excited to give him the basket flashed and faded in his vision. Sometimes he cursed his eidetic memory because he’d memorized your face in its entirety with all its most miniscule details and peculiarities—and he didn’t even mean to. He would find himself staring into the empty space in the basket and have to drag his brain clawing back into reality.

His watch had ticked past 12 when he made his way back down the stairs to the main floor, lugging his basket in his right hand. It was heavy, weighed by two textbooks and eight other decently thick books, but the woven willow held strong. 

At the landing he could see across the library that you were already checking someone out. He meant to add himself to the queue, but pivoted to a lounge chair between two bookcases just as he got close enough to hear your voice. Immediately he felt wrong, a churning disgust with himself in the pit of his stomach. It was weird, wasn’t it? To watch you from afar just to gauge your behavior? But he had to know, it burdened his brain to wonder if you were just so saccharine it spilled out to everyone around you or if particularly you poured your sugar onto him.

You didn’t see him duck between the shelves to the lounge chair, not in any way that he could tell. With a tranquil neutral face you scanned the book that the college girl at the counter placed in front of you. The interaction was done in comfortable silence, even when you finished the transaction and she said her thank yous, you merely mumbled a “you’re welcome.”

It was different from how you interacted with him, he realized. You were much more playful and chatty with him, but he wasn’t sure what exactly inspired it in you. You were clearly shy, maybe anxious, but in some moments it faded when you talked to him. He didn’t think he said anything particularly special, but thinking you saw something in him that made you so comfortable, so cheerful, made his stomach flip in a way he couldn’t understand.

The next man in the queue placed his book on the counter. He was the only other person waiting. You asked him absent-mindedly for his library card. He was older than you and Spencer, mid to late 40s if Spencer had to guess, but it gave him an idea about how you interacted with men as well. Which was just as bland as your interaction with the college girl before you. Spencer had a fleeting thought that maybe—just maybe—you liked him. Why else would you be so inclined to laugh with him? To be so shy sometimes you couldn’t meet his eyes? He’d read books, watched movies, and he knew the signs. He was just not used to spotting them in women interacting with him.

He cleared his throat as if to shake off the idea. It was vain, and in all likelihood an arrogant over analysis of the little interaction he’s had with you. He was about to get up and put himself in line behind the man when he heard his lurid voice croak out.

“How about you give me a smile, pretty?”

Spencer froze in place, white knuckle grip engraving the grooves of the entwined handle into his palm. Something like anger flared in his chest. It grew hotter as he saw the way you bowed your head even further from the man's sight, pulling your cardigan closer around your body.

“Um, yeah, could I just get your library card?” You squirmed under his leering gaze, lips faintly curling into the most awkward half-smile you could muster. 

Despite the way you clearly showed you were in duress, the man leaned closer over the counter. “My name’s Todd.” He slid his book across the counter to you like that tidbit of information helped any. “I’ll take this book and your number, baby.” Spencer’s jaw clenched.

His body tingled with the readiness to step in, to tell this Todd fucker to leave you be because obviously you weren’t interested. But his mind, the logical side of him, stopped him because Spencer also respected you and your autonomy. He was not an expert on women, but he knew quite a few strong women in the BAU who would be offended if he stepped in to defend them when they were capable of doing it themselves. He definitely didn’t want to offend you if you were able to brush off Todd on your own.

The uncomfortable smile dropped to a grimace. “If I could get your library card. . .” Your hand hesitantly reached for the book only for Todd to grasp your wrist in a tight hand.

“Stop asking for the damn card,” his voice dropped into a growl. “Baby, I’m just trying to talk to you.”

Your arm fought to pull your hand back behind the counter, but Todd’s grip tightened and pulled back to keep you close. “Sir!” Your voice pitched higher, eyes widening almost too big for their frames. “Sir, please let go—”

Todd huffed, face screwing up in frustration. “Why’re you being so difficult?”

“Sir, you’re hurting her and you need to let go now.” Spencer practically flew over to the front desk. It was his instincts as an FBI agent kicking in. The need to de-escalate and protect was driving him. This man was now hurting you and he was not going to allow it to go any further.

Todd’s scowl looked Spencer up and down, assessing whether or not he could take him. He must have come to the conclusion Spencer was not a threat because he puffed up his chest and continued gripping your wrist. However, he was so distracted by Spencer, you were able to yank your arm away, rubbing at your wrist with your free hand. Todd shot you a similar glare before leveling his even angrier gaze back on Spencer.

“We’re just having a conversation here, asshole. So why don’t you get back to your books,” Todd barked at him so loud they had now attracted all the eyes in the library. But Spencer was only looking over at yours—your creased brow and the watery worry the glass highlighted. 

“Spencer, it’s—” You didn’t get to finish as Todd whirled his head between you and Spencer. 

“Spencer? No fucking way this wimp is your boyfriend.” Behind the rage, Todd looked almost smug.

But Spencer wasn’t. He hit his own boiling point and was passed asking politely. He pulled his credentials from his pocket and flipped them open in Todd’s face. “No, I’m the FBI agent who is going to arrest you for harassment, assault, and public disturbance if you don’t get out of this library right now.”

Todd’s head reeled back at the badge in his face, eyes squinting between the lettering and Spencer’s face. Realization of how much shit he was in passed briefly over Todd’s face before reverting to his glower. He must not have wanted trouble with the FBI though, because he started taking steps backwards toward the exit. But he couldn’t leave with a completely bruised ego.

“Whatever man. If you want the uppity bitch so bad you can have her!” Todd slammed open and closed the door as he made his grand exit. The entire library watched it, listening to him as he got his last dig in and fleeing before Spencer could make him eat his words. He didn’t have his cuffs or gun on him, but he’d dealt with enough unsubs to know he didn’t need them to handle Todd. 

When all the eyes slowly went back to their business, sure that Todd wasn’t coming back into the library, Spencer’s gaze returned to you. Your eyes were dinner plates, mouth agape, still clutching your wrist.

Spencer frowned, whispering your name. “Are you okay?”

“You’re an FBI agent. . .” The words slipped out of you in one shocked exhale. His brows furrowed. He just rescued you from an arrogant asshole and that was what you were stuck on, something he’d told you several times.

“Yes? But I told you—” 

“You were serious?” Your head bobbed forward in disbelief. So you really hadn’t been believing what he was saying. 

“Of course, why would I lie about that?” Spencer was confused and deep down a little hurt. It was such an odd thing to lie about to a stranger, he didn’t understand why you thought he wasn’t truthful. 

“I–I don’t know,” your eyes bounced around in a panic. “I thought you were just trying to impress me. I mean—you don’t really look like an FBI agent you’re. . . young? I don’t know, I thought you were flirting with me so I—” Your hand clasped over your mouth. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, sir—agent—”

“Spencer.”

“What?”

“Call me Spencer,” he gave you a tight lipped smile, a near look of pity on his face. Your complete panic reassured him you were just as embarrassed over the miscommunication as he was. “Technically it would be Doctor, since I have three PhDs—but you can just call me Spencer.”

“But—But I didn’t. . . you were being serious the whole time and I. . .” You stuttered, shaking your head in confusion. “I was so unprofessional. . .”

Spencer chuckled, unable to hold it back. “Unprofessional? Just because I’m an FBI doesn’t mean I can’t like to talk to people. And I like talking to you, you don’t have to be embarrassed about it.” His disappointment dissipated quickly. Your shyness and embarrassment was so genuine and charming he couldn’t find the space to be upset with you beside all his amusement. 

You crossed your arms, somehow becoming even more bashful. “You’re sure it's okay?”

“Of course it's okay.” Spencer grinned.

A small sigh of relief breezed past your lips. “Okay. . . I should—I should definitely apologize for not believing you.” You meet his eyes then with such profound remorse. “Because I am really sorry. It’s just. . . your accomplishments seemed so amazing they were kind of hard to believe, especially for someone so young.”

It was Spencer’s turn to become bashful. His head ducked and he laughed quietly. “I guess they can be hard to believe. Especially when you aren’t meeting me at work. I just thought maybe all the books helped prove it.”

You let out a shaky laugh, eyes wandering back down to the countertop. “I kinda thought that was also to impress me. I didn’t really think you were reading all of them.”

“Well. . . I do.” He shrugged, figuring you had to believe him now. As you smiled at him, he realized he left his basket and books back at the chair. “Speaking of reading, I’ll be right back.”

You eyed him as he retrieved the basket and set it on the counter in front of you along with his library card. “Oh, were you sitting over there?” You looked curious. Certainly you hadn’t seen him sitting there today or anytime before.

Spencer coughed into his fist. “Um, just for a second.” He moved on quickly, removing the books from the basket. “Thank you for this again, by the way, it’s so much easier to carry all the books.”

You hummed, eyebrows jumping up. “Yeah. . . I’m having trouble believing I really gave an FBI agent a picnic basket to carry books in.” You started swiping the books over the barcode scanner, adding them back into the basket once they appeared on the computer screen next to you.

He cracked a half smile. “I think you watch too many movies. We’re not as serious as you think we are.” Hotch’s face flashed in his eyes and he thought maybe they were pretty serious, but not off duty. Hotch could also be serious enough for the whole team sometimes, so maybe he wasn’t a very good example. “And I like the basket. It was nice of you to think about me.”

Your eyes caught on his for a moment, glazed over in thought, so deep you bumped the basket as you went to set the book you held into it. It snapped you back into reality and you watched your hand as you tucked away the book, clearing your throat. “You’re sure it’s not weird?”

Spencer’s head tilted to the left, considering you. He didn’t know what he could do to pull you back from this rut of self-consciousness. He was starting to regret ever pulling out his badge because now you seem standoffish in a way you never were with him before. He wanted to go back to when you laughed and smiled at him and didn’t find him intimidating. “Of course it’s not,” he paused a moment, wetting his lips. “And this isn’t weird either, y’know? Me being in the FBI? I’m still Spencer.”

You looked back at him again, eyes searching his face. “I know that. I’m. . .” You stared at him a second longer, taking in a deep breath and releasing it with a smile. “I’m letting it sink in.” You continued scanning the books quietly, not meeting Spencer’s eyes as he absentmindedly picked at a loose string in his pocket.

His thumb brushed against his FBI credentials and the encounter just before this revelation came flooding back. He glanced over at the double doors as if to make sure Todd had not come back, though Spencer already knew he didn’t. 

“Are you okay?” You met his eyes, brows pulled together. “About before—with that guy?”

“Oh.” You shrugged, rolling your wrist unconsciously. “Yeah, I’m fine. We get one of them every now and again. Normally they’re pretty harmless.” A glimmer of realization passed over your face. “Um, thank you! I should have said that before. Not everyone would have done that.”

Spencer shook his head, waving off your thanks. “Of course. I’m sorry you have to deal with that.” He was again reminded of the fact he was not a woman, and even though his job was to put away serial killers—monsters, creeps, pervs—he couldn���t imagine what it would be like to be in your shoes. You shook it off well, but he didn’t doubt you were scared in the moment. Probably wondering how far he would take it, whether your reaction was appropriate, if your employer would be angry at you. He was just glad he was there to step in.

Slowly, you finished scanning all the books, tucking them neatly into the basket in an organized order he thoroughly appreciated. Heaviest books sat at the bottom and lighter books were stacked on top of them. You paused, flipping through the last book in your hand, a biography of Max Born, a German-British physicist. 

“So. . . you really do read 20,000 words per minute?” You had a cheeky grin as you peeked up at him from beneath those frames, and suddenly you were back. Spencer smiled.

“Yup. I also have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory.” He shrugged as if it was no big deal.

You giggled, nodding along. “Right. Well then I guess this isn’t even enough books for you.” A finger waved over at the basket.

“It depends on work, actually. I’m usually busy, but I often have to travel too and then I become really busy so I don’t have time to read,” he explained. When he did sit down to read, he could get through one to three books, depending on their volume. “But yeah, ten books in a week is kind of light.”

You tapped the book in your hand with your thumbs, thinking. “Okay.” Suddenly you dropped the book into the basket, dipping below the desk to set another book in front of him. Examining it, he realized by its orange and yellow coloring it was the same book you had been reading the last time he was in the library. It was The Poetry of Pablo Neruda and from the look of its creased spine and faded orange cover, it was well loved. “You should read this too then.”

Spencer turned the book over in his hands, looking at you with a twisted face of confusion. “But the check out limit is ten books?”

You shook your head, gesturing for him to add it to the basket. “It’s not a library book,” when he still looked puzzled, you continued. “It’s my book. You can borrow it from me.”

Your kindness and generosity was both shocking and overwhelming. Spencer wasn’t sure how he was to thank you for being so gracious to him. He could only think of one thing. So he quickly fumbled his wallet up onto the countertop. “You have to let me give you something for this—”

“Spencer,” as you said his name, your hand covered his as he dug for bills to give you. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He shook his head, bewildered. Not only was your kindness startling, but so was the feeling of your hand on his. He had to stop his body from flinching at the contact. He was mostly uncomfortable at the thought of people touching him, but your palm was warm, soft, and offered the most comfort he’d felt in a while. “The basket and the book? It’s too much. I mean. . . you’re too nice.”

Your lips spread into a bright smile, flashing him your teeth. “Just bring me back your analysis. I’d love to hear what an IQ of 187 can cook up. Deal?”

Spencer laughed, ducking his head as he nodded in agreement. “Deal.”

When the laughter faded and his head came back up, he looked at you for a while longer, just feeling the paperback cover underneath his fingertips. You met his eyes just for a few moments, twiddling your own fingers. “So um, see you next Sunday?” You asked. He dared to see hope in your eyes.

“See you next Sunday,” Spencer agreed again. He hesitated putting the book in his new basket then finally left the front desk, waving you goodbye as he did. He watched over his shoulder you return his wave as he exited through the double doors. 

Spencer walked back to his car practically swinging the basket, so in his head he didn’t even realize he still had a smile on his face. He set The Poetry of Pablo Neruda aside as he disinfected his books and wondered what he would do the rest of his day off. What he was sure of, deep in his chest, was that he was excited for next Sunday. 

-

Part Two

[cranberrydietcoke]

bride to be - father charlie mayhew

content: 18+ !! mdni !! father charlie mayhew x female reader, coercion/dubcon, religious guilt, degradation and praise, slapping, crying, fingering, abuse of power, innocent!virgin!reader, toxic!pervy! charlie, oral (m receiving), p in v, unprotected (don’t be dumb yall), kinda breeding, size kink if u get a microscope

wc: 4.8k (sry i went a lil crazy)

a/n: hi yall this is literally my first fanfic ever ! drew some inspo from @hoffmansgirl @tokyoghls & @lucyisdoingfine

sundays were your favorite days. you were a good little church mouse. eager to serve. eager to please, always wearing white to early morning service. it was evidence of your innocence. father charlie always says your innocence is precious. valuable. your bible study together always left you so impressed, how a man can look at one paragraph and be able to take away so much. you had reached out to a deacon at the church, inquiring about some guidance in the word, expecting to be put in contact with a nun-in-training with less important things to do. that’s how you wound up in the priest’s office every sunday night. he said he needed to ‘connect more with his congregants.’  he knew you would believe it, and so would your parents.

the calming bustle of churchgoers finding their seats was abruptly cut off by the deep, layered boom of the organ, signaling the beginning of the service. you shift in the wooden pew, brushing your dark curls over your shoulder and adjusting the lace strap of your dress, preparing your heart to hear the word of god. the vibrations rattled deep within your chest, making you clutch the diamond cross adorning the center of it. the spotlight snapped on, an oval of light encompassing the priest as he eyed the pews almost nonchalantly, his vacant eyes wandering as he approached the pulpit, clearing his throat.

“brothers and sisters, we serve a just god,” his veiny hands gripped the worn oak of the stand, turning pale red as he supported himself, leaning forward toward the parishioners. you sat in the front row, eyes wide and glazed over as if you were looking at the god he spoke of.

“confront the reality of your desire, of your sin. because as we see in his word this morning, the wage of our sin is death.” he paused, letting out a heavy breath and loudly thumping his bible before shooting his empty gaze at you.

“what would your heart look like,” his chest fell ever so slightly, almost defeatedly, “when stripped naked before a holy god?”

charlie knew he was preaching to himself, coddling his guilt with verses as he always did. this wasn’t a message for the church, but rather for him. desire was a reality he needed to confront. the service slipped by as you hurriedly took notes in pink glitter gel script with doodles lining the sides.               ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚romans 6*:ꔫ:*+ﾟ.

“the lord be with you”

“and with your spirit”

applying a fresh layer of lip gloss, gathering your bible and smoothing the back of your dress, you and your mother shuffle out of the pew. your shoes tapping on the marble as you all headed towards the stained-glass doors where father charlie stood talking to the other congregants as they left.

“mrs y/l/n, always good to see you.” he remarked, giving a venerating nod toward your mother as the two of you stopped in front of him.

“father, beautiful service as always.” she said through a smile, leaning in to give quick air kisses on each side of his face. she looooved her some father charlie. you really are your mothers daughter. “so hows bible study goin’ with you two?” she mused, motioning to the both of you limply with her hand before placing it on her hip. his eyes snapped to yours, hands clasped behind his back as he anticipated your words, searching for reassurance in your expression.

“very well. we’ve been going through the old testament, some hard stuff. she’s a good listener.” he replied. your face stayed neutral, but inside, your nerves were tangling into knots.

“did you see both of christie’s girls got engaged? and joe’s daughter. got me thinking about y/n, her future.” your mother went on. charlie gave you a stern look as you rolled your eyes and hid your face in your hands.

“she has a lot to learn still. being a wife, i-i can’t say she’s ready. she’s so blessed to have the guidance of a godly man like you. just, uh, help her out.” she continued with a cheeky smile, patting the priest on his bicep.

now twirling a piece of hair between your fingers, you steal a passing glance at the father as your mom ushers you through the front door. “i’ll see you at seven, okay?” his finger hovered down at you.

“y-yes father! see you tonight!” you called out, voice growing fainter as you were dragged away and out into the sunlight.

the last few months had been excruciating for him. every saturday night, he dreamt about what white dress you would choose to wear, what fragrance you would spritz on your neck. he had gotten you more comfortable over time. you were showing your personality, asking more questions, confessing more sins. he loved it when you confessed. he got high on the essence of your pure shame and desperation, pleading for help on what to do, crying to him about how guilty you were. he wrote about you in his sermons, dreamt about you, imagined you bent over his desk begging for it harder. this could be his opportunity to make a real woman out of you. your mother’s words echoed in his mind as he wandered through the convent. he was determined to make you the perfect godly wife.

the orange hue of the sunset beamed through the windows on each side of the chapel, casting shadows that danced with the movement of the trees and birds flying by. the bright white of your lace-lined dress in the sunlight nearly blinded charlie as he emerged from a side door, hidden away by velvet curtains.

“y/n, just on time, as always.” his welcome was steady and warm as he approached nearer, a hint of a smile touching his lips.

the parallel clicks of his red leather boots and your kitten heels filled the still air of the room, each step slicing through the reverent silence.

“of course father, i wouldn’t miss it” you answered, looking up at him as you walked side by side to his office. his hand found its way to the nape of your neck as he led you, the softness of your tan skin and the scent of vanilla nearly making his eyes flutter. he was so wrong for this, but he didn’t care. you had to learn one way or another.

 you took your usual seat in the black leather chair opposite him, only separated by a large wooden desk. bookshelves lined the walls. a small crucifix hang in the empty space above his seat. he sat, flicking around a ballpoint pen and thumbing through his bible which sat open on the desk.

“so,” he sighed as he leaned back in the chair, legs spread as his hands glided over the thigh of his black dress pants, “tonight’s one is really important. i took some time to think about what your mother said, and i agree." he nodded, "i think a girl of your age is ready to learn.” his pointer finger tapped slowly on his right knee.

“yes, father. i think so too. i just don’t even know where to start.”

“well that’s where i come in,” he smiled, not like when he welcomed you in, it was different. almost predatory. “that’s why i’m here, my child.”  your eyes were glued to the floor, while his were busy surveying the curve of your hips as you sat. so soft. so perfect.

“what book are we gonna be in, father?” you asked absentmindedly, your long lashes brushing against your cheeks with each unhurried blink. you got comfortable in your seat as you opened your bible, pink faux leather full of sticky notes and neon-highlighted prophecies, promises, and judgments.

“we’ll actually be flipping back and forth a bit tonight,” he explained, clearing his throat and adjusting his papers. “the goal here is that you leave feeling prepared to be a wife, one that serves the lord, and her husband. do you understand?”

you nodded, your glossy eyes locked with his. “good. can you go to colossians 3 verse 18 and read that for me, please, sweetheart?”

“wives, submit yourselves unto your husbands, as is fitting in the lord.” you read.

“yes, submission. the definition is skewed nowadays.” he muttered, waving his pen around musingly. “christ did submit to father god, although the son has no less authority. you see?” he leaned forward, gripping the edge of his desk to stand up, circling to your side, bible in hand.

“go to first corinthians chapter 7, it says ‘the husband should fulfill his marital duty to his wife, and likewise the wife to her husband.” he chuckled lightly as you highlighted the verse in lavender. this poor girl has no fucking clue, he thought as he slid his papal ring off. that’s what drew him to you in the first place. he reclined against the side of the desk, legs crossed at the ankle.

“what does that mean father? how will the duties of a godly woman change once she’s married?” your pitch heightening with each question. “like cooking and cleaning? are they the same for bo-“ with a raised hand, he stopped you in your words.

“yes, y/n, yes. you’re eager aren’t you?” he breathed out, a wide grin plastered on his face. “it does include domestic things but also emotional things. honest communication, faithfulness…and physical things too.” he traced his words as he looked at you, “that’s what really changes when you get married.”

his eyes lit up as your jaw went slack at the realization of what he meant.

“oh…i see.” your shoulders slumping and eyes drifting to the marble floor. he could feel the disappointment in your sigh.

“where’d that smile go, sweet girl? what’s wrong?” he chided, a faux frown on his face.

“i just, that’s- i don’t know.” you huffed, “how am i supposed to know what to do on my wedding night? it’s just so unfair. an-and scary!”

“well,” he let out a shallow breath, reaching out to tuck a silky strand of stray hair behind your ear, “i can help you with that too, sweetheart. if you let me.” his fingers curled around the nape of your neck, steady and with purpose. his eyes bore into you as he tilted his head, attempting to coax your gaze up towards him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet them. the foreign heartbeat between your legs became a knotted bundle in your stomach, making you squeeze your thighs together. he traced his index finger down your collarbone, gripping the chain of your necklace between his fingers. he stopped, thumbing at the karats of your crucifix, lost in thought.

he drops the charm with cold indifference, then turns, pacing in circles. “first corinthians seven- thirty four. a married woman is concerned about the affairs of this world, how to please her husband.” the bass in his voice snapped you out of your daze, finally looking up to return frantic little nods and blinks.

“right, o-okay. but father,” you said, lowering your voice ,“i’m not married.” your eyes scanned around dramatically as if to search for witnesses, “we-we’re not married.”

he neared you, placing both hands on each arm of the leather chair, trapping you in. “we can pretend, okay? this’ll be how we conduct our lessons.” he could feel the heat of your breath mixing with the strawberry on your lips. “your mother said you have a lot to learn.” he said almost accusingly, but full of pity. “no more questions, sweet thing. i’m here to guide you, remember?” his words were coated in a nauseating sweetness, seeping into your impressionable mind and persuading you to trust him.

the scent of his cologne was overpowering, making the glossy stain in your baby pink cotton panties worsen. he was only inches away, his shadow encapsulating you as his eyes roamed your face, gauging every reaction as he carefully crept his fingers to play with the lace hem of your dress. sunday’s best.

“have you ever touched yourself, y/n?”

your breath caught in your throat. maybe this would have felt different from the safe shadows of a booth, but this confession was much different. embarrassment sent warmth rushing to  your cheeks as you looked through father charlie rather than at him. you nodded your head, “only once.” you spoke, a broken kind of whisper. he was tracing spirals into your thigh, immediately pausing after hearing that you, the purest little flower he’d ever known, had snuck under her nightgown to play with her pussy. immediately and without moving his head, his eyes flicked up, a sick smile curling on his lips.

“you poor thing…you didn’t cum?” he said with faux sympathy. your eyes widened, almost popping out of your head, as the cross resting just above your cleavage swayed with each breath. up and down. up and down. you shook your head, tears of vulnerability stung in your eyes. “hey…hey. it’s okay! we all start somewhere, right?”  he cooed, almost manic as his hand raised to pass a thumb over your blushed cheek. “i promise by the end of our sessions you’ll feel prepared, yeah? the duties of marriage include knowing your own body. and your husbands. that’s not a problem, is it?” his fingers laced with yours, thumbs tracing the valleys of your knuckles. your hand was so small in his.

“if that’s what the lord calls me to do, i have to listen.” you choke out, a single tear falling down onto the freckles of your thighs. he had never given you a reason to be afraid, but you were, the heaviness on your chest becoming unbearable.

after a long pause and a heavy sigh he whispered, “i knew you would be a good girl, so obedient,” wiping the stain from your face. “get on your knees for me, like you’re gonna pray.” he mumbled, drunk off his own words. hesitantly, you rose and knelt to the floor, palms flat on your thighs as your frightened gaze fixed on the man before you. a man of god. a man you could trust.

“let’s get some practice in, okay?”

his voice was soft but left you understanding you had no say in it. he bent down, his fingers gently hooking the straps of your dress, sliding them slowly down your shoulders until the fabric gathered at your waist. you watched him as he did so, his frenzied eyes not matching the tenderness of his touch. he groans at the sight of your barely covered chest, lace and gems adorning your push-up bra. he undid his buttons with a swiftness you’ve never seen before, now shirtless in front of you.

standing upright, he delivers two tiny taps to your jaw. light, but deliberate. urging you to open up. this was okay. you were husband and wife. the clinking of his belt being slipped off just sounded like wedding bells to you. by the time he shimmied and stepped out of his pants, you were spellbound - mind soft and yielding, ready to mold to whoever he needed you to be.

 your mouth lay half open, satin tongue hanging over your bottom lip and leaving it with a glossy sheen. standing over you, he grasped your jaw, tilting it up to guide you as he released a string of spit that connected his lips to your tongue as he hummed in approval. he clasped his thumbs on the band of his briefs until they fell around his ankles, freeing himself. your tears multiplied as you saw the inches slap onto his v line, twitching and bobbing in the air.

“see, this is your fault. open up real wide f’me.” he huffed as his thumb went to align himself with your mouth, tapping the tip on your tongue. a confused whimper escaped your gaping mouth as he pushed his length further in. musk and salt sat on your tastebuds as he instructed you to tuck your lips, collecting your hair in his fist as you tried to gloss his entire dick with spit. he started off slow, seeing you furrow your brows and gag, looking up at him for approval. he thrust into you as he guided your head, the grip on your hair making your scalp burn. your moans of protest were muffled as he fucked your face, tears now streaming down your chest. you tried pushing at his thighs, digging your almond french tips into the muscle, but it only made him go harder.

“nuh-uh, you’re gonna have to learn.”

as his head massaged the back ridges of your throat, his large hands cupped each side of your head with a commanding grasp, forcing the tip of your nose to meet his happy trail and holding you in place. his chest glistened with sweat, heaving as he looked down at you with absent eyes. the room was humid as your nose drew in wet, shaky breaths, gagging around this thick length.

“do you see now, why i have to do this to you?” he cooed, looking down as you struggled to breathe, blowing bubbles of slobber that collected at the base of his shaft. your face screwed as you sobbed and squirmed on the cold floor, dick down your throat. “you’re wildly unprepared.” he hissed, shaking his head, unimpressed. “look at you,” he spat, pulling you off, leaving you gasping for air as if each inhale would be the last. “why fight it?” grabbing your cheeks, causing your lips to pucker, all swollen and slick. you flinched at his touch. “a good wife isn’t supposed to be defiant. we just read that.” he scoffed, “i don’t even think you were paying attention.”

you clenched your eyes shut to avoid looking up at him, just shaking your head. “i was, i promise i was!” you attempted to cry out, but all that escaped was whiny mumbles.

 “no, no, look me in the face. give me some fucking respect,” he muttered, tightening his grip on your jaw, yanking it close. you forced your eyes open to meet his. breath hot on your lips, he was growing visibly more impatient. his irises were pure black, like that of a shark. one that could sniff out innocent little girls like human blood.

“i see righttttt through you, tryna hide behind your rosary, your psalms, your fucking dresses.” he mocked, hand leaving your face to tug the remainder of the lace mess down your legs, leaving you in your bra and panties. “but i see you. i see what kind of slut you are. looking up at me in the pew, coming to my office until well after sundown. fuckin’ asking for it.” he stepped back, his narrow eyes examining you in disgust.

“father- no i just, please,” you choked out, shame turning into stickiness between your legs.

“please?! please what? i’m exposing your sin!” his voice rose to a yell, dragging his hands down his face before gesturing toward you dismissively as you sat motionless on the floor. “no manners whatsoever,” he sighed out. your face dropped as he tapped the wood of his desk. “come, sit. spread those legs.” he commanded.

without thought, you rise from the floor and take a seat where he had told you to, ankles dangling in the air as you shyly open your thighs. anything to make him happy again. he bends over, gently running two fingers over your clothed pussy, noticing a wet mark right in the middle. “oh wow, i knew you wanted this,” he chuckled, holding one leg open while the other rubbed circles into your panties. “so wet, so ready.”  

hiding your face in your hands, you watched through your fingers as he focused on the growing puddle in the fabric of your underwear, attention solely between your legs. “this is the y/n i know…mhm.. always so good for me. i don’t know what got into you, huh?” he hummed. you could feel his words on the inside of your thigh as he continued to study you, making you whimper. before you could question anything, he was sliding the boyshorts past your knees, whispering praises as you kicked them off.

“fuck,” he moaned out, breathlessly admiring you while running his hands up your stomach to your chest. he traced the wire of your bra to the back, unclasping it with a pop and discarding it on the floor. your tiny, uneven breaths filled the air, giving way to quiet moans under his touch. he glided his hands on the underside of your thighs, spreading you gently with his index and middle fingers.

“awh, my pretty pink girl. so pure.” he spoke almost to himself as he bent over, playing in your folds. deep down, you knew you shouldn’t let him do this. but it felt so good. and he knew best, right?

his fingers ran the wetness up and down your pussy before working in his middle finger, forcing you to hear yourself, how bad you really did want this. you gasped, sitting up on your hands and looking down at the priest who was now pumping his whole finger into you. words tangled on your tongue, babbling and moaning with furrowed brows.

“ohh my god,” you managed to squeak out. he softly shook his head, never slowing down his pace.

 “no, baby. just me n’ you.”

he pulled his finger out, making you clench at the emptiness. encircling your slit, he lined up a second finger, slowly stuffing it into your leaky pink hole. you cried out, digging your nails into the wood of the desk and writhing against him. twisting his fingers in you, he started to speak. “this is the next step in becoming a real adult, y/n. as your priest, i have a responsibility….” his free hand dug into your hip, holding you in place to stop your squirming, “a responsibility to make sure you’re educated on certain things. ready for the real world.”

his fingers continued their assault on your pussy, fucking you open as your feet stirred aimlessly in the air, helpless and overwhelmed. “father f-fuckk i - ” you stuttered, attention being brought back to reality by a rough slap, one so hard it caused your ear to ring. your fingers trembled against your burning cheek, lips parted and eyes wide with panic.

 “watch your fucking language, how do you expect to find a husband with a mouth like that?” he huffed, removing his hands from you completely. how ironic. you sniffled and nodded, pushing yourself up, wanting to bridge the distance left by his absent touch. his thumb gripped your chin, guiding your eyes to his. “i think you’re ready though, don’t you?” his fat tip was now rubbing up and down your petals, as you babbled i can’ts and i dunno’s.

he lay his length against your stomach, touching your belly button, perversely rubbing it against the smooth of your skin. you rolled your hips against the desk, staring up at him. “will it fit?” you mewled, cupping your heavy tits in your hands and pressing them together. you were learning so well. he led himself to circle your clit, collecting your glaze and spreading it around. you threatened to cry out, the only thing stopping you being the sharp bite on your bottom lip.

“yes angel, i’ll make it fit…just a part of it” he breathed out, softly pressing his lips to your forehead. “this is what husbands and wives do..” trailing off, trying to distract you as he stuffed the tip in.

your gasps and whimpers of discomfort subsided to pornographic moans as he slowly worked himself in, bucking himself against you until there was nothing left to fit. cradling the back of your head in both hands, he forced you to watch yourself get filled up as he stretched you with slow, grinding movements. you brought your knees to your chest, spreading yourself more for him, little ah ah ah’s drifting from your tongue.

“thaat’s my girlll,” he hissed, knowing he was holding back. “now..” he paused, making you squirm your hips in search of friction, hands still entrapping your skull, eyes piercing yours, “i’m gonna fuck you stupid, okay? and you’re gonna be grateful.” his soothing tone not matching the brutality of his words.

your head nodded mechanically with a vacant stare, mouth agape. maybe it was a good thing your priest was taking your virginity. he was a man of god, after all. his grip on your scalp tightened as he repeatedly slammed into you, hitting that deep, spongy spot that had never been touched before. he angled you to watch every stroke, pressing on the bulge in your lower tummy. “you see that, dumb girl? does that feel good?” he grunted out, filling the room with sloppy noises each time he thrust into you.

“y-yess, soo good,” you squealed, leaving a creamy ring around his shaft.

another slap. but he refused to let up on your cunt, quickening his pace and violently snapping his hips against the back of your thighs. tears welled in the corner of your eyes as you got filled up.

“yes who?” he demanded, almost growling as he pressed his chest to your legs, folding you in half.

“yes fatherr, feels so so good, pleasepleaseplease,” you had no clue what you were even begging for at this point. his length was relentlessly sliding in and out, beating up your cervix.

“mhm, our little secret. our little fucking secret,” he whispered on repeat. like a mantra. a perverted one-on-one devotional. his hands, large and assuming, glided over your body before finding your throat, squeezing both sides. waves of pleasure washed over you, eyes rolling into the back of your head. “hnnmpphh- i can’t, please- it’s too much,” your hands rake at the muscle of his chest, searching for any mercy.

“ohh, sweet thing, you’ve been taking it so well.”  he soothed, finally slowing down for only a moment, “no fussing, just cum for me.”  

he immediately resumed brutalizing you, thumb circling your swollen clit. both legs spasmed as you came undone, juices leaking down onto the polished wood. any rational thought had left your brain, as a matter of fact, so had any thought at all. your absent, glassy eyes crossed and rolled with each motion, eyebrows knitting together in a blissful frown. he moaned shakily, making sure you felt every inch.

“tell me what god said to noah after the flood.” he grunted out, lips ghosting over yours, hand still tight on your neck. you were barely coherent, essentially speaking in tongues. a harsh slap landed to your cheek, jolting you into reality from the haze of your orgasm.

“c’mon kid, genesis 9, stay with me,” he snapped.

“be fruitful…” you yelped, straining through clenched teeth and a constricted airway, cupping your cheek, “increase in number, fill the earth.”

“mhm, we’re gonna make him proud, okay?” he coaxed you to agree. he knows you’re too braindead to comprehend, just obediently nodding your little head to whatever he asks.

“gonna give you my cum till it takes,” he pants out, loosening to grip on your throat to lock his hands to your hips, guiding your body up and down his inches with relentless force. your head bobbing loosely as he slammed into you over and over and over again. “god, fuck- gonna put a fuckin’ baby in you,” his hips stuttered, spilling his seed into you and pounding it deep into your cervix.

pulling himself out with a sigh, he watched with hooded lids as his cum dripped out of you in pearlescent globs. his hands smoothed the mess of hair on your head, sealing it with a tiny kiss before cleaning you up and retrieving your panties from the floor without words. his hands enveloped your waist, lifting you effortlessly to your feet beside the desk as your knees faltered. he bent down, holding open the legs of the undergarment for you to step in, gripping onto his shoulder for balance as you do so. next the dress. then the heels, sitting you in the black leather chair as he slides them onto each foot, clasping your ankle strap before placing a wet kiss to each knee. a small act of worship.

“my little bride-to-be...” he whispers, now standing over you, caressing your smooth skin with his thumb, trying to drink in the hollow stillness in your head.

“same time next sunday, alright?”

[komelliko]

manipulative!boss!sunday x timid!secretary!reader

summary: Sunday can no longer control himself around you. He will make his affections known. wc: 1.6k - this is nsfw! cw for dubcon! fingering/dry humping/softdom!sunday

part 2 / part 3 (nsfw) / part 4

---

By his insistence, it had been too late post-dinner for you to head home alone. In fact, it had been too late to bother leaving Blue Hour at all—not when Sunday could find you a place to stay the night as easily as walking through the entrance of the nearest hotel. "One room," he had told the Halovian clerk at the front desk, a kindly young lady with red cardinal feathers encircling her cheeks. "Anything will do." You tapped the empty box of mints clutched in your hand with one of your fingers, as if the slow rap-tap-tap would truly relieve any of your nervousness. His words had stuck with you after all—The Head of the Oak Family wandering around Blue Hour with a glorified nobody wearing a dress like this? Of course they'd assume something!

But you weren't a glorified nobody, you wanted to tell yourself. You had worked your ass off to be here, even if nobody else around you knew that. You were a somebody, no matter where you were or what Sunday had you wear or anything of the sort. You were one of the most powerful people in Penacony, damnit. ...Of course, at the time, you had been too distracted by this train of thought to realize he had only asked for one room. And, furthermore, at the time you hadn't asked if he would be making any trips that night himself.

Sunday had counted on this.

Sunday walks you to your room with his hand on your lower back once again, in what feels almost like a mockery of the conversation you had with him a few hours ago. You suck on the inside of your cheek, wishing the mints hadn't all been swallowed by now. Even as you try to walk faster than him ever so slightly, he seems to set the pace. Slow, methodical, calculated. The first thing you notice when you get to the room is the large window overlooking the rest of the Moment, sprawling buildings disappearing into the edge of the dreamscape. Large billboards painted in shimmering hues of gold display women in ornate jewelry, displaying dazzling watches and rows upon rows of pearls. You've never seen a Penaconian skyline that didn't have its fair share of advertisements, in all truthfulness—Every instance of gold and ochre like another glinting set of eyes watching you as you go about your day. Sunday approaches behind you, his hand resting on one of your shoulders.

"Don't you want to sit down?" he asks. You initially think to protest, but before you can even process it you're already in his lap, a lone wooden chair pulled out from the room's lounging area to sit in front of the window. Your eyes switch between glancing out at the billboards, then your knees, then somewhere in the middle distance. His voice takes on a honey-like quality that it usually only shows a hint of, whispering things in your ear that you accept so easily... because they almost sound like music. A low, deep harmony.

"I hope you know, [Y/N]," he speaks against the back of your neck, fingers dancing through your hair. "That when everything is said and done, I don't just consider you an employee. I consider you a friend."

His other hand goes to rest on your hip. You're still not sure what to make of it—Maybe you just don't want to accept the answer. This hot, churning feeling begins to twist just below your stomach, slowly growing bigger and bigger.

"O-of course, Mr. Sunday. Thank you, Mr. Sunday."

What would please him more: For you to drop the formality, or to keep it even as you're eventually moaning it? Sunday isn't entirely sure, but he lets the thought percolate while he continues to play with your hair. You sink your head back into his touch, and your whole body moves in response: Pressing up against him in a way he would kill for.

He cannot control himself any longer. For the briefest moment, he drops all pretense.

"Hike up your dress, [Y/N]."

Once you realize what he means by it, your hands have already shifted the hem halfway up your thighs. This is your boss. You can't be doing this. You'd only be proving people right this way.

...But what would he do if you said no?

The skeptic in you gives in, clinging onto the reasoning that you have no choice anyways. Hell, in the most pessimistic light, you might get a promotion out of this.

The tent in his pants pokes between your thighs like a cattle brand, hot and stiff. You clasp your knees together, but the choice works against you: the way your thighs press against the intrusion, the way the pooling cyprine leaks onto his pants. If you had any hope of convincing him (or yourself) to stop, it was long gone. You hear Sunday let out a groan, a gloved hand petting one of your thighs.

"You can keep a secret... can't you?"

There's nothing else for you to say. You stare at the floor, your face burning bright red.

"Of course, Mr. Sunday."

"...I've dreamed of doing this."

His hand moves with a particular confidence as it slips between your thighs, a single finger tracing that hidden bundle of nerves.

"It's awful," he pouts, his touch slowing to a crawl, "How often I convinced myself I could be satisfied with so little. Yet as I indulged myself with your presence further and further, I could not find satiation." The way his fingers gently pass over you cause you to jump in his lap, and he only sighs again, wrapping his other arm around your waist to keep you still. "Oh, how I betray myself."

The pace of his fingers quickens again, and you stop to think—Promotion? What in Aeon's name would you even be promoted to? What rung on the corporate ladder was there above Secretary to a Family Head (other than being a Head yourself, which was obviously out of the question), and what difference would it make if he changed your title to Personal Assistant or something of that ilk?

Well, there was no point in asking that question. You knew the answer. A promotion was clearly on the horizon—it just wasn't a corporate one.

His fingers breach through, and Sunday gasps as if he himself is being penetrated, not the other way around. What first seems to simply be Sunday readjusting himself in his seat eventually becomes a slow, desperate grinding of his hips, thrusting them up into your own as his fingers continue their work of spreading you open. Two, then three, then four. His head spins at the sensation of syrupy fluid coating his knuckles, as if even touching it is enough to get him drunk. Hissing out a minced oath under his breath, Sunday rips off his stained glove and plunges his fingers in again, practically dry humping you in his lap once he can truly feel the way you clench around his hand.

"Oh, you're perfect," he exhales. "Aeon forgive me for what I want to do to you, [Y/N]. The things you do to me... How badly I needed this." He starts to direct his huffing into your shoulder. "Come for me, [Y/N]—Right on my palm. Ruin me, I beg you."

"Mr. Sunday," you heave, the words forcing themself past your wobbling lip even as you bite it shut. "I—"

"[Y/N]," he whimpers. "Please." You clasp both your hands over your mouth when you finally reach release, throwing your head back with a muffled cry. Your heart continues to race so hard that it makes you dizzy, the sound thumping in your ears. Sunday, too, starts to heave in tandem, and you feel the sheen of sweat on his cheeks as he sloppily plants kisses on the back of your neck. As he catches his breath, Sunday's eyes glance around the room warily. He notices the pitcher of water on the countertop (a complimentary convenience typical for this specific hotel, and the main reason he chose this one to begin with), and resolved to dump it on his lap. Not to wash off any of his and your release currently sticking your laps together and staining his trousers, of course—But simply as a convenient excuse. He'd only been attending to his wonderful secretary, his treasured secretary, when the water was spilled as he filled a glass for you. ...Or maybe spilling it over his head and saying he had to dive into a fountain to valiantly save you from some ne'er-do-well would be more reasonable? Catching stray bullets with his hand to keep his darling safe and the like?

Your orgasm had all but knocked you unconscious, your half-lidded gaze unable to focus on the flashing lights and colors out the open window. The two of you must have been twenty, thirty stories off the ground, far from anyone spotting your little tryst. You slump back into Sunday's chest, rolling your head backwards as you mumble a weak "Mr. Sunday..." "Thank you for indulging me, my dear," is all he responds with, scooping you up off his lap and bringing you to the room's bed. Once you are draped in the bed's covers, you quickly fall asleep, with the night's events sure to become a hazy memory.

Sunday sighs contentedly to himself. In a final moment of trangression, he takes his soiled glove into his mouth for a brief moment to savor that which stains it. He can only hope—no, be certain of the fact that—the endless dream he searches to blanket this world in will be to your every liking. ...With you by his side, no doubt.

It wouldn't need mention just yet, but for your marriage to him to be the first union blessed by Ena THEMSELVES..?

Why, what could be better? --- a/n: when looking back through some of his lines, i thiiiink sunday uses aeon as the singular? correct me if I'm wrong on this lolol. feedback is always appreciated, especially regarding pacing! criticize me to hell and back y'all I want to write better smut :,) tag list: @j1yu425 @crepezinhos @i-am-tiredd

[onlyangel4]

fast lane to wrestlemania. max verstappen. smau.

max verstappen x wwe supserstar!reader

synopsis: you’re no stranger to the spotlight, under the roaring lights of wwe, you’ve carved your legacy with grit, heart, and unapologetic power. but this wrestlemania is different. it’s the biggest night of your career, and in the front row, cheering louder than anyone, is max verstappen, your world champion boyfriend. as the two worlds of motorsport and sports entertainment collide, so do the stakes: for glory, love, and the electric chaos of fame. with cameras flashing and fans going wild, your relationship takes centre stage in and out of the ring.

faceclaim: maxxine dupri

wwe

liked by y/ninsta, maxverstappen1, iyo_sky and 697,293

tagged: y/ninsta. iyo_sky.

wwe: confirmed wrestlemania match: after her sucess at the elimination chamber y/n y/ln will challenge iyo sky for the women's world championship on the grandest stage of them all. this will be the first time y/n and iyo will meet in a singles competition.

view all 18,776 comments

y/ninsta: so ready for this match. i respect iyo but this april she will be meeting the most prepared version of me

maxverstappen1: i think we all know who i'm backing

lando: mm.. let me guess

danielriccardo: come on y/n

alexandrasaintmleux: so proud of y/n omg

carlossainz55: i only got into wwe this year because of y/n and even i know y/n will win this

rhearipley_wwe: so proud of my tag partner

user1: not y/n having the entire paddock backing her

user2: fr, i bet half of them don't even watch wrestling, they just love y/n

user3: this is legit my dream match

user4: y/n's first wrestlemania

user5: so ready for this

maxverstappen1 posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: so proud of my girl

y/ninsta posted a story

written: i may be going to wrestlemania but the grind never stops

maxverstappen1 replied to your story: i just watched your match, that was so hot

y/ninsta: is the world champion simping again

max verstappen1: i'll always simp for you

y/ninsta

liked by maxverstappen1, lando, rhearipley_wwe and 562,293 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

y/ninsta: the best training partner a girl could wish for

view all 12,229 comments

lando: that hand placement feels illegal

y/ninsta: grow up

maxverstappen1: can't wait to watch you kick (more) ass

rhearipley_wwe: i am offended, did our early morning gym sessions mean nothing

y/ninsta: love you boo but you don't kiss me after every rep like he does

user6: oh i love this couple so much

user7: can't wait to watch you become a world champ

user8: max doesn't have a race this wrestlemania weekend so fingers crossed he will be there

user9: i love my parents

f1updates

liked by user10, user11, user12 and 92,372 others

f1updates: ahead of max verstappen's girlfriend competing in wrestlemania half the grid have arrived in las vegas. max and y/n arrived a few days ago and since then lando, charles, alexandra, yuki, pierre, carlos, rebecca and oscar have arrived in sin city. it is lovely to see the amount of support that y/n is getting from the grid

view all 11,991 comments

user10: this is so funny because half of them have no idea what wrestling is

user11: imaging being sat next to that group. i would cry.

user12: y/n deserves all this love and more

user13: as a wwe and f1 fan i am loving this crossover

wwe posted two stories tagging y/ninsta and maxverstappen1

story one written: the challenger for the women's world championship has arrived to the hall of fame ceremony ahead of her match on sunday

story two written: and she is accompanied by her world champion boyfriend

maxverstappen1 posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: best of luck for tomorrow (not that you need it)

lando replied to this story: i'm gonna start calling you a wag

alexandrasaintmleux posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: good luck to my girl

lando posted a story tagging maxverstappen1

written: in case you are wondering max has been staring at the monitors for the past twenty minutes waiting for y/n

wwe

liked by user14, user15, user16 and 298,384 others

tagged: y/ninsta. iyo_sky.

wwe: both women have made their entrances for the women's title match. who are you backing?

view all 11,282 comments

user14: if y/n doesn't win we rebel

user15: i think max would lose his mind if y/n didn't win

user16: iyo all the way

user17: i love both of these women i do not care who wins

user18: can we just talk about how good both of them look

wwe posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: the moment we realised y/n was going to win this thing

lando posted a story tagging maxverstappen1 and y/ninsta

written: mum just won her first world championship and dad is smiling like an idiot

y/ninsta posted a story

written: it hasn't sunk in yet

wwe posted a story tagging maxverstappen1 and y/ninsta

written: just a couple of world champs reunited

maxverstappen1

liked by y/ninsta, lando, oscarpiastri and 1,229,209 others

tagged: y/ninsta

maxverstappen1: i've never been prouder

view all 45,686 comments

y/ninsta: i couldn't have done it without your support my love

maxverstappen1: that was all you

lando: usually i would make fun of you for crying but that shit was cute

oscarpiastri: that match made me like wrestling

alexandrasaintmleux: so proud

user19: max is in his wag era and i love it

user20: the most successful couple ever

y/ninsta posted a story

written: my contribution to the trophy cabinet

[queenie-the-court-jester]

that isn't very holy of you :/

Yandere church boy x gn!reader

It came out shittier than I hoped for. Not proofread 🌺 I'll fix this when I have the time

Tw: religious themes, noncon mention, minor cult mention

✝️ you had just arrived in the small town of morning star. Having been needing a break from the city life, you rented a one bedroom cabin close by. Planning on staying here for a month, you quickly headed towards your new home, very eager to start exploring the area

✝️ wandering around the town square, it seemed everyone knew eachother. A family like community perhaps? Maybe that's why they all kept staring at you as passed through, must not be use to new faces

✝️that was until a group of children approached, asking you to come play ball with them. You couldn't say no to their puppy dog eyes, and the adult's judgemental stares so you agreed. And it was fun surprisingly! You noticed none of the children had any phones.. or the grown up's for that matter

✝️your first week there you were unsettled, but you just pushed it off as the townsfolks strange behavior, Focusing on unpacking and enjoying your stsy. Until one of the school teachers, a kindergarten one, knocked on your door on a sunday

"hi there honey! On behalf of the people I'd like to sincerely apologize for the cold welcome. It's just been a hard year for all of us! So to make it up you, won't you come to church with us on this fine morning?"

✝️ whether or not you're religious yourself, she managed to convince you to come along. Chatting the whole walk there. Talking about her husband, her children. She mentioned something about having a son your age but you weren't really paying attention

✝️ walking through the grand double doors of the church house, she sat you on the front row with the pastors family, next to a young man. You were startled as she sat on the other side of you, leaning in to whisper In Your ear as she pointed at the pastor preaching

"that's my hubby right there. He's a handsome fella ain't he?"

✝️david looked at his mother in disbelief, he told her a few a times he found you attractive and now look at her! He could practically see the gears turning in her head. thankfully you seemed preoccupied thinking, so he did his best to seem normal while his poor heart beated 300 mph

✝️after the sermon, david turned to you and have you a sheepish smile

"hi.. my name's David, but you can call me dave.. its.. nice to meet you"

✝️you and David hit it off, unlike all the other people. He didn't constantly talk about praising god and forcing his religion down your throat. He was kind, understanding. Laughing at your jokes and nodding along to your words. He never met someone so.. ethereal

✝️growing up, he had a hard time believing in his small towns "god". Watching them cut up and sacrifice newcomers to their false idols, he felt sick to the pit of his stomach heading their screams. But he could definitely devote his cause to you...

✝️he trapped you in this shitty town when he asked you out on a little date a few days later. Unaware he drugged your food and dragging you into his home, waking up chained to a bed. You couldn't tell how long you've been there, but every time you'd try to escape he'd punish you in bed. Not letting you cum or overstimulating you to the point of tears. Why would you want to leave something that can make you feel so good?

✝️he grew up desensitized to blood and gore, so he's confused when you're screaming and crying. Why are you doing that? Don't you know that this is what happens to bad spouses? What do you mean you're not married either? ofcourse you are. Stop being so difficult...

✝️nobody blinks an eye when he strides into town with you on a collar and leash. And that's when you realized, you should have left earlier. Because the whole town was sick in the head. It wasn't like you could call for help because he fucking destroyed your electronics and the people don't even have phones. Something about wifi signals can brainwash you

✝️ he's whipped for you, that much you can obviously tell. but he's smarter than he looks. Eating dinner with his family is just painful,since all they talk about is God god god. It hurts your ears with how often they just Randomly start singing praises. It's bad enough they force you to watch their cult church activities...

✝️if you give in to his demands, he'll let you off the leash but you have to stay close by at all times. If you don't, he'll have to make his punishments a little more extreme. There's also a possibility he'll force you to help around the town. whether that be looking after the children or just running around doing errands. The shock bracelet on your ankle stops you from running into the woods..

✝️if you don't, well.. you wouldn't mind if you became permanently handicapped right?

"don't be so difficult sweetie.. just stay still and it'll cut right through okay?'

[shiny-jr]

THE CREATOR: chapter one

– Summary: In the Land of Rune, an emperor is unmatched in magic. In a world where one's survival and standing were dependent on magic, you had gotten accustomed to being at the very bottom of the food chain. For being a magicless servant, you could not expect change.

That is, until you discover you are a creator. The rarest type of witch that was previously hunted to near-extinction. The power comes with the ability to create life itself, but it comes at a great cost.

– Warning: Yes, this is a yandere thing. Female reader. 

– Note: Yes, this is an original series. Uncompleted, but there, and I do plan to hopefully finish it one day. Will I continue to post this series here? I'm not sure.

– Pages: 7

chapter i | chapter ii

ONE FINAL SUNDAY

The worst day of the month was the final Sunday. Every other Sunday was a day of respite to prepare for the long tiring week that stretched again, but not the final Sunday. 

Final Sundays made the plaza overflow, creating a sea of living people. All temples were abandoned in preference for the arena. Hymns and holy scripture were traded for jeers and front-row tickets. Rows were jam-packed with people swimming in crowds to reach their seats. Like sardines packed in a can, people squished together side by side to make room. The stench of sweat from the summer heat couldn’t be masked by the fried goods sold along stairs climbing up and down the aisles. 

Normally even the cheapest ticket would be far out of her price range, about a year’s salary for a spot where the view wasn’t even decent. Where the contestants in the rink would look like tiny ants in a field. People from across the land traveled just to watch the show, and for most it was a dream to see it live at least once in their lifetime. 

This was her fifth time sitting in the front row. Normally she was accompanied, but today (Y/n) would be sitting alone squished between a well-dressed aristocrat who’s umbrella provided partial shade and the General on her opposite side. 

“(Y/n).” The woman greeted curtly, with a nod of her head instead of a welcoming smile. She had never once seen the frigid woman with hair as white as snow and thin eyes as cold as ice ever smile before. Seldom did she even grace the public with an appearance. Even sitting beside her, she could feel the dozens of eyes from surrounding aristocrats close enough to spot her, watching the woman beside her closely. 

Although the General had intimidated her since their very first meeting, the younger woman still managed a smile. Normally, a girl of her status should never be rubbing elbows with such an esteemed figure, but it was the final Sunday. Anything could happen. “Hey, General Pranos. I didn’t expect to see you! You never come to these sort of events.” 

General Pranos sat as rigid as a stone statue, and as immovable as one. With her hands folded in her lap, she gazed out at the long extensive surface of the center below. “Normally I wouldn’t, but I’d like to see the results of this particular match firsthand.” 

That made sense. To be a chosen contestant on the final Sunday, was an honor, so long as someone could defeat another who wished for the same glory. Winning meant serving as an honorary member of the Emperor’s own personal guard, which was a highly valued role in society because only the best were worthy of such a highly esteemed position. 

“Is the Emperor watching…?” (Y/n) discreetly scanned the highest stands and seats closest to the arena, searching for his unmistakable figure. To win a final Sunday match was one thing, but to win one with the Emperor actually in attendance, would be a tremendous honor even to someone equal to the status of General Pranos. 

No matter how long she searched, there was no sign of him. Close enough to speak without raising her voice above the crowd, Pranos answered calmly without taking her eyes off the arena walls where the contestants would emerge. “No doubt.” Never once did her eyes leave the entrances in the walls of the arena. She waited like a feline stalking a mouse, waiting for it to poke its tiny nose out of a crevice. “Cenra is Emperor Desire’s own pupil. Of course he will be watching her magical advancements very closely.” 

Magical. It felt like she stressed the word purposefully. “Right, right…” 

The reason as to why (Y/n)’s least favorite day was Sunday, was because the final Sunday was to honor all magic users, they had the privilege of partaking should they ever choose. While not everyone was worthy enough to even step onto the arena, everyone had a chance. Except her. Not that she ever wished to even step foot into what was essentially a gladiator’s ring, but it was the mere reminder that she couldn’t. Ever. 

For some odd reason no one ever understood, (Y/n) never developed magic. All around her, it was there. The parents at home could, her mother was a professional potion brewer who concocted affordable medicines for their unfortunate patients, and her father was a beast tamer that worked in procuring goods directly from beasts. Professional healers insisted that nothing was wrong, but something was wrong with her. How could even the youngest children learn how to form simple night light spells in their palms or shakily manage to levitate their binkies a few inches closer, but she was over twenty years old and had never once managed a single spell in her entire life? She was the outlier.

Everyday of her life was a reminder. Asking what magic someone specialized in was like asking their age, it was an essential common question. Each time, the reactions were the same when she said none. Looks of confusion and pity, awkward apologies and intrusive questions. The looks were piercing, as if she had a defect, because a person without even an ounce of magic was simply unheard of. 

No place would hire a magicless person. As if to rub it in her face, fate dangled opportunity in front of her nose. The only one who would offer her work was the palace, where she ultimately ended up as servant to Cenra, a magical prodigy. And yet, (Y/n) could never hate her dear friend, but it was difficult to not be jealous. Cenra was so gifted that she was Emperor Desire’s prodigy; she was rumored to be a rare type of witch, a creator just like the emperor, the likes of which hasn’t been seen in decades. 

And now here she was, waiting for the fight to begin, a duel where she would witness her friend take on the challenge to become a knight. For years, since she was sixteen, (Y/n) stood beside Cenra. For every morning Cenra overslept due to pouring over scrolls and ancient texts for hours at night, her servant shook her awake before she could be late. For every training exercise where Cenra received injuries, her servant was there to bandage her wounds. For every time Cenra felt as if she would scream and lash out from the stress, her servant was there to hear her vent. If anyone deserved glory, it would be Cenra. Even the common folk knew it, as many believed she would become the very heart of the royal guards. 

(Y/n) shook her head, ridding her brain of the thoughts clouding the forefront of her mind. 

For the last four months, she had accompanied the witch she served to final Sunday matches. As Cenra took copious notes on techniques, type advantages, fighting styles, and countless other variables vital to a match that she didn’t particularly care to understand, (Y/n) was audience to contestants ripping into each other like ravenous wolves. Sundays are meant to be peaceful, but final Sundays could quickly become a bloodbath if the participants are equally savage. Another reason she hated Sunday. 

That first month an arrogant redhead had tricked her opponent into thinking she was weak, and upon being stabbed, she solidified her own spilt blood to impale her victim. In the second month, a small uncommon shadow being used force fields to bubble their opponent until they suffocated. At the third match, a blonde beast tamer with a rare wyvern very nearly allowed her pet to devour her enemy, but only stopped when there was begging for mercy. And just last month, an oracle had won simply by predicting and dodging every move until she made a fatal strike in turn. All the victors were granted the right to directly serve Emperor Desire in his elite forces.

Interrupting her thoughts once again were deafening cheers that erupted throughout the arena, as people all looked and pointed at the very top of the arena behind her. In the highest stands where many nobles preferred it as it was further from the rabble, stood Emperor Desire. The Emperor was recognizable anywhere. Dressed in all black, with heavy armor shoulder pads and a black cloak that flowed behind him swirling like a void. Over his face he wore the coal-colored signature mask of the great creator, a bird with a curved beak. 

Even in her years working at the palace, the Emperor remained an enigma. Like an apparition, he could be at one event and gone the next moment, never making appearances without good reason. Always, always, he kept up appearances, dressed like death and ready for battle, even if there hadn’t been a war in nearly a century. With a single raised hand, he silenced the crowd as he sat down. That was the emperor, the man who taught her dear friend, and who citizens would lay their life down for. 

When a hush fell over the crowd, he lowered his hand and gave a nod to the speaker in the very middle of the arena. General Pranos glanced at her as they both shifted to face forward, gesturing to the sight of Emperor Desire sitting on high as if saying see? He came.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to the Final Sunday of the Pearl!––” 

(Y/n) began to zone out, not paying much attention to the words being spoken and spread throughout the entire space. It was all praise, introductions, speeches, that turned to gibberish which went in one ear and right out the other. Her gaze remained honed in on the dirt of the arena, until movement caught her eye and the crowd roared even louder. 

The first to walk out is Cenra Uza, the witch from the capital. Each strand was in place, braided into neat locs that went from brown to strawberry blonde where it puffed out at the ends. Despite the small black bow at the back of her skull, she looked deadly. Even if she walked without a tome and without a weapon, anyone in the middle of that arena was far more than just deadly. 

Her eyes appeared to scan the rows as she walked, row by row. When her eyes landed on her servant, a familiar face in a sea of strangers and during such a monumental moment in her life, she instantly beamed and her nose crinkled when she smiled. Raising her hand in a delicate wave, even with all the resounding cheers of excitement (Y/n) could make out the movement of her lips as the witch mouthed: hi. 

(Y/n) clapped her hands together, sending an encouraging smile her way as she waved in return. Well wishes and prayers for good luck were useless when she already knew what the outcome would be. Everyone knew how this would end. At this point it was more of a formality that she partake in Final Sunday. There were more feelings of pity for her opponent, whomever they may be, instead of concern for the witch. 

The delight on Cenra’s face as she met her gaze, twisted into genuine surprise as her eyes wandered to the imposing black figure in the high stands behind her servant. The smile on her face quickly vanished, pulling over a stoic mask. No doubt it was because she had spotted her master, Emperor Desire, looking down over the bowl-shaped arena. 

On the opposite end of the wall, in entered the other magic user that would be vying for the win. It was a rather plain looking young man, with shaggy brown hair, an impressive build, and the greenest eyes she had ever seen. For some reason she couldn’t place, he looked ever so slightly familiar. Perhaps she had passed him once or twice in town. Over his sleeve was a crest tied by a ribbon, a sign of his family lineage. “Is that a noble…?” She inquired quietly, hoping that her question was picked up by the General. General Pranos would have knowledge on all the nobility, knowledge which (Y/n) never bothered memorizing even when she was practically flittering among them whenever she trailed behind Cenra at frivolous and pointless balls. 

“Yes, he’s an invocationer.” Pranos folded her arms and crossed one leg over the other as she sat straight in her seat. No doubt she was taking mental note of everything, from the clothes they wore to the tools they brought to the brawl. 

An invocationer, an uncommon type of magic user who specialized in controlling a single element or multiple, so likely the son of a nobleman with a long lineage that could be traced back to a creation made at the hand of witches and wizards like Cenra Uza and Emperor Desire. The enemy in the ring was a descendant of mystical beings made purely of the elements, the sort of which only a creator could ever summon. It was said they and their masters used to be quite prevalent centuries ago, but now the only four creators left in the world were Cenra, the Emperor, and his two closest allies General Pranos and Advisor Livisus. As for a creation, one of those mythical beings, one hasn’t been summoned in over a hundred years. Cenra was expected to one day bring about a new one.

There was a chance she had passed this particular invocationer whenever the noble families congregated, but she was never once acknowledged by him. If she had, she couldn’t recall the exact moment it might’ve happened. 

“This is the best challenge they can present?” The General sneered, as if she was looking at a miserable rodent scuttering underfoot. To her, he probably was. But to be fair, most people were insignificant in her eyes when judged by magic alone. 

(Y/n) managed a bit of a quiet and awkward laugh, brief but it was hard not to feel for him. “Give him a break. It’s not like many would be willing considering who they’d have to face. I think it’s brave of him.” 

“You’re supporting the wrong side.” A pointed response. 

There was no time to respond, because once the announcer was out of the way and the pop of a magic spell broke the silence. In an instant, the once empty and flat surface of the arena became encased in greenery and dirt like a terrarium. Sprouting greens grew in weaving lines like a snake itching to strangle with vines and levitating boulders flew with near-precision, just barely missing his opponent each and every time. If the invocationer could use both plant and earth magic with ease, then he must’ve been an esteemed dual-wielder. The only reason the match wasn’t already over was because his opponent was Cenra Uza. 

When a vine managed to snag around her waist, locking her arms against her torso, she stumbled on her feet but quickly caught herself. In the blink of an eye, she was gone. Teleportation magic, her speciality. It was a difficult one which usually required the assistance of a staff, but she perfected the spell and claimed it as her own. When she had teleported a few yards away from the plant that had snagged her, she managed to rip off the vines that remained on her torso. It allowed her to dodge the massive boulders hurled at her. One moment she was there, blink and she’s gone and on the other side, blink again and she’s elsewhere. The only traces of her were a black elongated shadow which created a blur whenever she vanished. 

Somehow (Y/n) resisted the urge to yell out, knowing that even if she warned her of incoming attacks, it would only distract her. So all she could do was grip her seat, wincing and biting down on her tongue to stop any gasps for whenever a vine or a boulder got too close for comfort. 

Beside her, General Pranos remained unflinching, watching with her nose lifted up and her cold gaze peering below. Turning around, she could see the Emperor sitting in the stand, as still as a statue. He didn’t move, he didn’t speak, and it was impossible to tell what he could’ve possibly been thinking with that mask. 

Sucking in a breath as her sights are returned to the match in front of her, “Poor guy…” 

At this rate, it was obvious to everyone in the arena that Cenra was prolonging the battle, toying with her enemy. With her teleportation magic, she closed the distance until they were only feet away trading blows. The witch evaded each hit, disappearing before she could be stricken. Her own strikes with a dagger were blocked by rocks but because she moved so fast, the invocationer was swiftly being overwhelmed. 

The magicless girl squeezed her eyes shut, turning away just in time to avoid witnessing the spray of blood that drove the mass into an uncontrolled frenzy. There was no need for flashy magic, just simple spells and technique along with a trusty old weapon. There’s the sickening squelch of a dagger through flesh and blood, but (Y/n) doesn’t dare to look or risk losing her lunch. 

Magic was the basis for everything in this world. It was everywhere, in the air and in the earth. It was prevalent in everyday life. The strong wield it like a breath of life, as all attempt to hone their skill in hopes they may achieve mastery over it. Until the end of her life, she would remain subservient to magic users. For (Y/n) there was nothing to improve, nothing to master, and no hope for change.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

NFL Rafe x popstar

Please make them be taylor and travis

While I did pull inspiration from Taylor and Travis, this is not a retelling of their story. Let me know if you want other parts for this AU. I have so many ideas

—

For weeks, you and Rafe had been planning your presence at one of the games — and to announce your relationship to the media at the same time. Unfortunately, your schedules never aligned. You were busy with the tour, singing your heart out each weekend in a different state. Touring was your favorite part of your career — seeing all the fans, meeting some of them, singing and dancing on stage. But it sometimes got in the way of your personal life. 

This weekend was going to be your first Sunday off since the beginning of the tour, and Rafe happened to have a home game. 

Your respective teams warned you of the backlash this would bring to both of your careers. The playboy quarterback and the popstar who writes breakup songs about her many exes. The media will have a creative blast with the headlines.

‘’Are you sure? Because I could set you up and sneak you in and nobody would know you’re there. My team—’’

You shook your head, interrupting him. ‘’No. I want to walk through the front doors. No special treatment.’’

It was kind and considerate of him to offer the option, but keeping your presence at the stadium a secret had downsides too. Were the rumors of you being at the game come out, the media would paint you as a diva.

‘’I know what I’m throwing myself into. It will inevitably draw attention to me — to us —, but any way we decide to reveal our relationship to the public will, Rafe,’’ you explained, reminding him that there was no escape to headlines. ‘’My publicist is ready to deal with the media, and so am I.’’

Rafe was still hesitant. A part of him wanted to look up from the field and see you in one of the suites, dressed in his team color — wearing his number — and cheering for him. It would give him extra motivation to score. But the other was thinking of all the nasty headlines and the hate you would get. You were strong, but football fans could be ruthless. 

‘’Just because we wanted a private relationship doesn’t mean it has to be a secret. I love you, Rafe.’’ You reached for him, holding his hand in yours. ‘’I want to be supporting my boyfriend at his big game…like all of the WAGs do,’’ you added, already thinking of the cute outfits you could wear.

Every move you ever made was calculated. From the car pulling into the Stadium’s parking lot to the security team escorting you to Rafe’s suite. You even practiced your walk pace — fast, but slow enough to allow the horde of sports reporters and paparazzi to take pictures. You wanted them to see you, to show the world that you were there. 

Bright lights flashed as you walked through the lobby, the click of cameras echoing off the stadium walls like distant fireworks. You kept your chin high, lips glossed in your signature shade, and your outfit — a blue blouse that matched the team colors and a mini skirt — was already trending online before you reached the elevators.

Security guided you past the crowd, up to the suite level, where heavy doors separated the chaos below from the calm above. Inside, the room was practically empty. You recognized a few of his friends from pictures and videos on his private social media, and his sister Sarah, whom you had met at his house before. It was nice to see a familiar face. 

‘’Sarah, hi!’’ you greeted, smiling at her. 

You stayed by her side through the game, watching from the front row of the suite. As expected, your face had made it to the big screens. The crowd’s reaction was a mix of gasps, cheers, and some scattered boos — nothing you hadn’t anticipated.

From your spot in the suite, you had the perfect view of him on the field — focused, fast, and commanding. He hadn’t looked your way yet, but you could tell by the way he carried himself that he knew you were there. Knew you were watching.

When halftime came, Rafe blew a kiss toward the suite you were in. You felt like you were sixteen all over again, dating the boy from the football team. 

—

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[aheathen-conceivably]

And five six seven eight…

Violette lifted both of her arms above her head into a graceful oval. Timed with her next inhale, she arched her feet into carefully balanced points on the threadbare rug.

And five, six, seven, eight… 

One of her arms floated down from above her head, and then her left foot rose from the floor to meet the bend of her knee so that her entire body weight rested on only the tip of her big toe. She usually spent her Sundays this way, performing for an audience comprised of the ever-present ballerina in the box and a collection of dolls and Teddy Bears now beginning to collect dust in the corners of her room. They were her very own silent sentinels, keeping watch of her feet as they danced on the floor and helping her keep time with the count in her mind.

And five, six, seven… 

But wafting through the crack her mother made her keep in the door was the sound of humming. She hadn’t noticed it at first, drowned out as it was by the music in her mind; but as the lulling sound transformed into a melody with words, the rigid posture of her shoulders softened. Although quiet, the voice danced over the unintelligible lyrics with the perfect pitch and tenor, sung with a sort of wistful melancholy that made you long for something despite how sorrowful it was. 

She knew the voice, of course - from a thousand lullabies and absentminded chore-songs. Still, it never seemed to grow old, especially when it came to her mother unburdened and unselfconscious like it was now. One after the other, Violette let her feet go flat on the floor, listening to the quiet intricacies of the voice as she followed it the short distance down the hall.

She stopped in the doorway, twirling her fingers self-consciously as her mother looked into the mirror. She loved when she could catch her like this - getting ready for work with a sense of purpose that made her seem like a hummingbird in flight. She tilted her head sideways, looking at the neatly tied bow on her mother’s lapel and wondering if it was Monday after all.

Zelda seemed to notice her, and seamlessly transformed the hum already in her throat into spoken words. “Oh! Lottie! Perfect. I was just coming to find you. I have to run by the library to sign for a package. I should only be an hour. Maybe two. If you need anything just go by the cabin and tell Gio. Just - be nice to him, please?”

Violette watched her adjust her earring back again, admiring how the pearls always seemed to highlight her face. “It opens this week, right?”

Zelda stopped, leaving her hand curled beneath her ear as her eyes crept toward the figure in her doorway. “It does. Wednesday...”

“Do you - do you think I can go with you then? After school?”

A small smile played on Zelda’s face, twitching at the corner near where her hand was still suspended as if frozen in surprise. "Do you - would you like to come with me today? You can see it first. Before anyone else gets to..."

The front door of the library opened without a sound. The brass hinges had been shined and oiled only days before, simply waiting for the moment when someone would make use of them. From the newly organized entryway, the smell of old wood emanated out onto the porch. Only now it was accompanied by the scent of fresh paint and sawdust rather than the moldering dust and stagnant air that had lived alongside it before.

Violette took two steps inside, her wide eyes basking in every inch of the place. Zelda watched her, too happy to realize that she was doing exactly what she herself had done when Alexander had first taken her here months before. Careful not to ruin the spell, she silently angled the door closed, following Violette as her fascination took her into the adjacent solarium.

Surrounded by late afternoon sunshine, Violette spun in a circle, her gaze trailing all the way to the top of the two story bookshelves and then back down again. Every row was filled from one end to the other with books - dozens and dozens and dozens of them. She could feel tears forming in her eyes just imagining how many stories were up there. It seemed like nothing short of magic that they had been collected in one place just waiting for someone to walk through the freshly painted doors and discover them.

Awestruck beyond words she turned around again, facing the wall opposite the soaring windows where a half a dozen portraits and photographs were displayed. “Who are they?”

Zelda followed her eyes, looking sideways toward the patinated gazes lining the wall. “They used to live here. Well some of them - others are members of their family from before the house was built.” She stopped speaking, expecting Violette’s attention to have turned elsewhere, but instead her daughter turned toward her expectedly. An insuppressible smile pulled at both corners of Zelda's lips. 

“I’ve been researching them. For the plaques. It’s been difficult at points, especially without traveling to other archives. But - but the man all the way to the top, do you see him? He’s the oldest member of the family I could find. He came here from England over a hundred years ago, in 1820. I imagine there must be more records there but -”

“From England? The way you did?”

Zelda turned toward her, her mouth still open in speech but now suspended in suppressed surprise. “I - yes. I - suppose so.” 

Violette smiled at her before she turned back to the wall of portraits, her eyes moving down them like she was reading the lines of a story. As she reached the bottom, where the most recent pictures had been placed, she tilted her head sideways like she had understood something. Then she turned back to the windows over her shoulder, the light filtering through them with a peculiar magic of its own. She watched it dance, speaking toward the panes as she did so. “Did you really make all this happen?”

Her voice had been hushed - so full of awe and childish disbelief that it pulled at Zelda’s heart. “I - I like to think I helped.”

Although Zelda couldn’t see her face, a proud, emotional countenance overtook Violette. Zelda brought her hands together, trying to peek over her daughter’s shoulder as she addressed her. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.”

Violette turned around, directing her attention back to her mother as she finished the heavily impressed final words. 

“Would you like to see my office? It's just upstairs...”

A fervent nod and excited smile was all the answer that Zelda would have needed, but Violette skipped over to her, lacing her arm around hers as she pulled them forward as though she knew the way. “Can you tell me more about them? The family on the wall?”

Zelda nodded, her words hushed and excited as she began to tell Violette the stories that she had found in her research. As they left the room their voices echoed through the hallways. Their footsteps sounded alongside them, keeping time with one another with every step.

Previous / Next

[seokminfilm]

heaven knows — joshua hong

PAIRING 𐂴 joshua hong x reader

TAGS & WARNINGS 𐂴 non-idol au, seminary student joshua, hurt/comfort (??), secret relationship, mentions of church, joshua is the pastor's son, mutual pining, physical touching (ex: hugging, holding hands), pet names (joshua calls reader baby), they are not slick your honor everyone knows they're in love

SUMMARY 𐂴 heaven knows how badly you wanted the world to know that you were joshua hong's.

LYR'S SIDENOTES 𐂴 my sweet sweet kae (@kyeomviiee) had made a post on wanting a secret relationship-trope joshua fic and ofc i had to give her what she wanted 🤷 this fic is gonna be close to me for a lot of reasons (one of the main reasons being the fic is set in a church setting), so i hope you guys love it as much as i loved writing it!

NOW PLAYING 𐂴 pioneers (for king & country, courtney, moriah) & headliner (seventeen)

WORD COUNT 994 𐂴 FOR @kstrucknet

dating joshua hong came with its own adventure.

you and him had started out as childhood friends, joshua three years older than you. the two of you grew up in church together, going to his house every sunday afternoon to eat dinner with his family. the two of you had done everything from sharing clothes to sleeping in the same room; you had even seen him naked once.

your respective families trusted the two of you together so much that they let you sleep in the same bedroom and watch each other change, and it was normal to you—the relationship you had with joshua was normal, in your eyes.

that was, until it wasn't. you and joshua had grown up to be teens, and had fallen in love in the process.

the whole congregation saw how you looked at joshua, noticing how you giggled with your friends in the front row as joshua strummed his acoustic guitar while leading the church in a few songs. they noticed how you always went to sit with him at community picnics, and how often you complimented his polo shirts and khaki pants every sunday.

and they saw how joshua always made sure to give you his jackets when you were shivering during his father's sermons. they saw how his ears would turn red when he'd see you prancing around with your friend group during youth nights on wednesdays.

all of this to say, you and joshua were destined to be together from the start.

the only problem was that you couldn't truly be together.

since you and he had been friends for so long, everyone had cemented it in their minds that you would never become anything more than friends.

both of your parents had strong rules when it came to dating, and joshua was in seminary, training to be the youth pastor. he was a busy man, and so were you—you had your own projects and goals you were supposed to be achieving.

that didn't stop you from saying yes to him when he asked you to be his girlfriend one wednesday night after he drove you home. from then on, you were joshua's, and he was yours.

"you did amazing as always," your voice is soft, shy as you up to meet joshua on stage. church had just ended, and he was packing up his guitar, smiling at you as his eyes crinkled in the prettiest way.

you quickly glance behind you, checking the rows of chairs behind you; they're all empty, meaning almost everyone has left by now.

now, it was just you and joshua.

"aww, thank you—," joshua wanted to say 'baby' at the end of that sentence, but bit his tongue: you had noticed how joshua winced slightly when he caught himself using the pet name.

chuckling softly, you find yourself staring at joshua's hands, taking note of how they curl around the neck of his guitar and flex as it's placed in the case.

"you think your parents are gonna let you take me home again?" you ask shyly, face heating up at the memories of last time.

joshua had the job of taking you home after sunday night's service, but the two of you stopped for ice cream and stargazing on the way back, almost two hours late from the time you originally gave to your parents. your parents weren't mad, but they did ask lots of questions.

how you were supposed to explain that the two of you quickly finished your ice cream cones before promptly having a kissing session in joshua's back seat?

that's just it—you would never explain.

"of course they will! look, I apologized profusely the first time, and plus—" joshua shrugs, sealing up his guitar case as he takes your hand discreetly, pressing you against him to come closer to you as he whispers, "i want to drive you home tonight, baby."

giggling, you nod, daring to reach up and cup joshua's plush cheek as you whisper, "i want you to take me home."

after a few minutes of comfortable silence, joshua closes up the rest of the equipment, the two of you are out of the church's locked doors, piling into joshua's car as he lets his head hit the back of the seat.

a weight looks lifted off of his shoulders, and he looks at you, smiling at the soft expression on your face as he speaks. "something is on your mind, isn't it? wanna talk about it?"

silently looking out of the window into the sunny sunday sky, you sigh, buckling yourself in as you stare down at your sandals.

"i don't know, i just...i'm so tired of hiding our relationship, shua." you breathe out, finally getting to use the nickname you had made for intimate moments like this. joshua instantly softened at your words, eyes pinned to you as you study his soft features and glowing face.

"i want everyone to know that i'm yours and you're mine. i know you're trying to please your parents, and you should be doing that because they're your parents, but...." you trail off, letting joshua pick up the pieces of your thoughts as you fall silent.

"heaven knows how badly i want to choose you out loud, just as you want to choose me. i want everyone to know, baby," joshua sighs, and you can hear the stress in his voice as he frowns at you slightly.

"just..give me time, okay? i'm going to make this right, i promise." the tone in joshua's voice is firm, warmly spreading through your body as you nod. your worry seems to dissolve into thin air with his statement, and you leave the church's parking lot with a clean consciousness.

with joshua's large hand on your thigh, the windows rolled down, and music that feels like summertime surrounding your body, the world seems to get a little clearer, and heaven knows you're thankful for it.

[angeliccss]

Cleanse Me

Pairing: Joan Ramsey/Reader

Words: 7.6k

Summary: When Joan Ramsey takes you under her wing, she promises salvation. Bible studies turn into confessions, cleansing rituals blur into something deeper, and soon you can’t tell where devotion ends and Joan begins. In her arms, you are pure. In her hands, you are hers — and she will do anything to keep it that way.

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Manipulative Relationship, Dubcon, Murder, Thigh Ridding, Cunnilingus, Fingering, Semi-Public Sex, and a multitude of other things

Read on AO3

AN: I’m still on the pain meds so there’s probably a few mistakes, please don’t mind them. Enjoy! Xx

The church wasn’t large—just a modest brick building nestled between trees that creaked in the wind, like they, too, were always praying. The pews were old but well-kept, the hymnals worn soft at the edges, the scent of lemon polish and old wood lingering like incense. Outside, the world was loud and fast and crumbling. But in here, everything was still. Reverent. Safe.

Joan Ramsey had attended this church her whole life. She had married in it, mourned in it, buried a husband and son under its soil. She sat in the same pew every Sunday, three rows from the front, and never once arrived late. People knew better than to interrupt her routine. She was respected. Feared, maybe. But she called it righteousness.

She watched now as the other women gathered their purses, laughing softly among themselves, their children tugging at their skirts. None of them noticed you. But Joan did.

She noticed the way you lingered at the edge of the sanctuary, eyes scanning the stained-glass windows like they were speaking to you. She noticed the way you didn’t reach for your phone, didn’t gossip, didn’t even glance at the group of boys roughhousing outside near the parking lot.

She watched you and thought—She still has grace in her. Untouched. Unruined. It made something old and warm and dangerous stir in her chest.

She stood near the altar, spine straight as a ruler, watching the congregation filter out with polite nods and empty smiles. But then you passed by—quiet, head slightly bowed, Bible clutched to your chest like a lifeline—and Joan saw something that made her pause.

You were modestly dressed, not just out of obligation, but as if it were stitched into your bones. No makeup, no fidgeting, you were still. You were good. Joan moved before she could think better of it.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice low and gentle, the kind of tone she reserved for communion and confession. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” You looked up, startled. “Oh—I’m new here,” you said softly. “Just moved. This is my first service.”

Joan smiled—small, tight, deliberate. “Well. The Lord certainly has a way of bringing the right souls into His house.” Her eyes flicked down to your Bible. “Would you be interested in studying the Word a little deeper? I host a private group. Or—just the two of us, if you prefer.”

You hesitated for only a second. Then you nodded. And Joan’s smile widened just slightly, like a secret being kept.

The invitation came formally, the way Joan did everything. A handwritten note slipped into your hand after Wednesday evening service, written in immaculate cursive:

“Join me for study and tea. Friday at four. Bring your Bible and an open heart.”

—J.R.

You showed up exactly on time.

Joan’s house sat at the end of a long, quiet street. It was the kind of house that looked untouched by time—white siding, green shutters, hedges trimmed to military precision. The walkway was spotless. Not a leaf dared to fall where it wasn’t wanted.

When you knocked, the door opened almost instantly. Joan stood in a soft beige sweater, pearls at her throat, her hair pinned up in a perfect twist. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Right on time,” she said. “Punctuality is the first sign of discipline.”

She stepped aside to let you in. The house was just as pristine inside as it was out—lace curtains, polished wood floors, not a speck of dust anywhere. The smell of chamomile tea and lavender filled the air. A small table was already set in the sitting room, her Bible already open, a notepad neatly placed beside, and one set out for you.

You sat down carefully, almost afraid to disturb the stillness. Joan poured the tea in silence, then looked at you with that same calm, unreadable expression. “I thought we’d begin with Proverbs,” she said. “There’s wisdom in learning how to live before we concern ourselves with how to die.”

You nodded, grateful for the structure. For the quiet.

But as the study began—her voice low and steady, her fingers occasionally brushing the side of your hand when pointing out verses—you felt something underneath the surface. Something watchful.

She wasn’t just teaching. She was studying you, too.

You read quietly from Proverbs, your voice steady, careful. Joan listened with her eyes closed, her hands folded neatly in her lap like she was praying. But when you stumbled over a verse—“A gracious woman retaineth honour…”—she gently touched your wrist.

“Slow down, dear,” she murmured. “Let the Word settle on your tongue. It’s not a race to the end.” You swallowed, nodded, and tried again. Joan watched you with a look that felt too close, too focused. Not judgmental, not exactly—but something sharper than approval. When you finished the passage, she gave a small nod.

“Beautiful,” she said. “You read like you believe every word.”

“I do,” you said quickly. “I mean—I try to.” That smile again. Tight. Controlled. “You don’t have to try so hard here,” she said. “I can see you for what you are. You’re special. Not like the others.” The words landed heavy in your chest. Praise, maybe. Or something more complicated. You didn’t know what to say, so you took another sip of tea.

Joan opened her Bible, flipping through the thin, fragile pages with delicate fingers. “People like us… we have to be careful what voices we let in. The world has a way of tugging at you, little by little, until you’re not sure what’s holy and what’s filth.”

She paused. “Do you spend much time with boys?” You blinked. “Not really. I’ve been focused on school, and… on God.”

“Good.” Her tone sharpened just slightly. “They don’t know how to treat purity when they see it. Most girls give it away before they even know what it’s worth. But not you.” You shifted in your chair, suddenly aware of the way her eyes lingered—not on your face, but on the slope of your shoulders, the line of your collarbone beneath your sweater.

Joan turned another page. “The Bible doesn’t speak only of sin, you know. It speaks of loyalty. Of devotion. Of choosing what is right, even when it’s not easy. Sometimes, what’s right… doesn’t look the way people expect.”

She looked up at you then, her eyes calm, resolute. “I think God brought you to me,” she said. “Not just for study. For something more.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The next session was quieter.

Joan had dimmed the lamps. The tea was already steeped when you arrived, and she greeted you not at the door this time, but from the sitting room—her voice drifting softly through the hall, calling you in like a hymn.

You obeyed without hesitation. She smiled as you entered, patting the seat beside her instead of across from her like before. “No need to be so formal, dear. We know each other better now, don’t we?”

You nodded, your Bible tucked close to your chest. She took it gently from your hands and placed it on the side table, not opening it. “We won’t need it right away.” You hesitated, unsure. But Joan reached out, brushing your hair behind your ear with slow, practiced tenderness.

“There’s scripture,” she said, “and then there’s understanding. Some truths are too holy to be written down. They have to be… lived. Felt.” She laced her fingers in her lap, voice calm, deliberate. “Tell me—do you pray for me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I—I mean, yes. I pray for everyone in the study. I ask God to give you wisdom and peace.” She smiled again, just a little too wide. “That’s sweet,” she said. “But I think you’re capable of more than that.”

Joan leaned in slightly, her presence overwhelming but oddly comforting, like being wrapped in a thick blanket you couldn’t quite move beneath.

“I think God sent you to serve something greater,” she said. “Some are called to follow blindly. Others are chosen to devote themselves fully—to walk beside righteousness and keep it protected. You’re not meant to blend in with the world, sweetheart. You’re meant to worship truth.”

Her hand brushed yours, cool and steady. “And sometimes,” she whispered, “truth doesn’t come from the sky. Sometimes… it looks like me.” You stared at her, unsure if she was joking—but her expression didn’t waver.

“You want to be good, don’t you?” she asked softly. “Yes,” you breathed. “Then be good for me.” Joan held your gaze a moment longer—long enough for something silent and unspoken to settle in the room like dust. Then, just as easily, she pulled away.

She reached for your Bible with both hands, lifting it delicately as though it were a sacred relic. “Now,” she said, her tone light again, almost sing-song, “let’s turn to the Psalms. I think you’ll appreciate the language in this one.”

She flipped through the pages with familiar grace, stopping on Psalm 91.

“This is one of my favorites,” she said, her fingertip running gently along the lines. “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. Isn’t that beautiful?”

You nodded, your heartbeat still a little too loud in your ears. Joan glanced at you with a soft smile, as though she hadn’t just asked you to worship her. As though nothing had happened at all. “Go on, dear,” she said. “Read the next few verses out loud for me.”

You did. Your voice wavered at first, but Joan listened intently, her eyes closed again like she was basking in the sound of it. Every so often she would hum her approval, or gently correct your pronunciation—never harsh, always firm. Maternal.

When you finished, she sighed contentedly. “You have a gift,” she said. “Not just in the way you speak the Word, but in the way you carry it. So many people read scripture and miss the spirit of it. But you… you let it live in you.”

You glanced down at your lap, flustered, but warmed by the praise. Joan reached for your hand again, briefly this time. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “You’re becoming exactly who God intended you to be.” She didn’t have to say the rest out loud. You felt it anyway:

And God speaks through me.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The gifts began to arrive slowly.

At first, you thought they were just tokens of kindness—gestures of encouragement from a generous mentor. Joan presented them casually, each one accompanied by a soft smile and a scripture to match.

The first was a cross necklace, delicate and gold, with a pearl nestled in the center. “It’s modest,” she said, fastening it around your neck herself, her fingers brushing the curve of your throat. “But meaningful. Like you.”

The second was a pale blue dress—long-sleeved, high-necked, cinched gently at the waist. It reminded you of something Joan might wear herself. “I saw it and thought of you,” she said. “So many girls dress for attention. But you deserve to be seen for your spirit.”

The third was a devotional book, leather-bound and worn at the edges. “It was my mother’s,” Joan told you, pressing it into your hands. “She taught me how to listen to God. Now I’m passing it on to you.” You didn’t question it. You thanked her. You wore the necklace every day.

And you started spending more time with her.

What began as once-a-week study sessions became near-daily visits. You helped her prepare tea, folded napkins beside her as she spoke about scripture and sacrifice. When you bowed your head for prayer, she reached for your hands now, holding them gently in her own. Her thumbs would sometimes trace idle circles against your knuckles, and you never pulled away.

During one reading, a strand of your hair fell into your face. Joan reached over without hesitation, brushing it back behind your ear. “Such a pretty thing,” she murmured. “You were made to be cherished. But not by the world.” She closed the Bible with a soft thud.

“The world is loud,” she said, her voice low and even. “And selfish. It tells you to take and consume and forget. But I can help you stay close to God. With me, you’re safe. With me, you’re seen.”

You didn’t answer right away. But you believed her.

She spoke with such certainty, such quiet power. Every word she gave you felt like a sermon, every glance like a blessing. And the longer you sat beside her, the more you found yourself thinking:

She doesn’t just speak for God. She is God. You wanted to please her. To serve her. To make her proud. And Joan—Joan looked at you like you were already hers.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

It started with a quiet tap on the pew. The following Sunday, as you slipped into your usual seat near the back, Joan turned from her place near the front and beckoned you with two gentle taps against the varnished wood beside her.

You hesitated—but only for a second. Obedience had become instinct.

You wove past the others, eyes dropping as you passed whispered glances and half-hidden smiles. No one usually sat with Joan. People knew better. But she gave you a small nod when you reached her, scooting just enough to make space.

“Good girl,” she murmured, her voice barely above the rustle of hymnals. “I don’t like you sitting so far away.”

The sermon that day washed over you in a blur. Joan didn’t look at the pastor once. Her gaze remained fixed forward, chin lifted, hands folded. But every so often, her knee brushed against yours. She leaned just close enough for her perfume—something floral and faintly medicinal—to settle in your lungs.

After the final hymn, she didn’t let you drift toward the others like you usually did. As Sister Carol tried to flag you down to ask about youth group, Joan’s hand found your lower back, light but commanding.

“Come,” she said. “I’ve prepared lunch.” You didn’t get the chance to respond. Joan guided you out the front doors with such gentle authority that no one dared stop her. Not even Carol.

By the following week, it was expected.

You sat with her during every service. Walked beside her after. Her place at the church became your place—while your friends, your peers, your other obligations slowly fell away. You even moved in with her on the weekends.

She noticed, of course. Joan noticed everything.

“I know it’s hard,” she said one afternoon, setting a plate of lemon bars down beside your Bible. “When people don’t understand what God’s called you to. They’ll say you’ve changed. That you’re too serious. That you’re strange.”

She brushed a crumb from your collar, then smoothed your sleeve with the same touch one might use to quiet a child. “But they didn’t see you the way I did. They didn’t choose you.” Her eyes were calm, but firm.

“You belong with me. And there’s nothing out there that could offer you more than what you’re building here. With me. With Him.” You nodded, too full of something—fear, awe, longing—to speak.

Joan smiled and cupped your cheek in her palm. “Good,” she whispered. “Now finish your reading. I want to hear you say it aloud.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

It truly started when you missed a study.

You’d stayed late on campus—just one hour, just one meeting—and when you arrived home, the tea was cold. The lamp in the sitting room was still on, but she wasn’t waiting with her usual open Bible and warm smile.

She was standing at the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her silhouette stiff and silent.

“I’m sorry,” you said, setting down your bag. “It—it ran long, I should’ve—” She didn’t turn around. “I waited.” The words dropped like ice. You stepped forward, heart crawling into your throat. “It won’t happen again.”

Joan finally looked at you. Her expression was unreadable—too smooth, too calm to be natural. “I open my home to you. I feed you. I guide you. And still the world pulls you away.” Her eyes narrowed, not angry, but wounded. “Don’t you see how dangerous that is?”

You nodded quickly, desperate to make it right. She softened just enough to let you breathe again. “You’re young,” she said, stepping closer, brushing your hair back like she always did. “Easily distracted. But I forgive you. God forgives you.”

That night, you couldn’t sleep. You woke to the sound of movement down the hall—floorboards creaking, the low murmur of a voice. Curious, you crept from the guest room you’ve been staying in and found the door to Joan’s prayer room cracked open.

She was kneeling at the foot of the altar, fingers dug into the edge of the wood, rocking slightly as she prayed. “Protect her,” she whispered, breath ragged. “Keep her clean. Keep her mine. Keep her from temptation. From the serpent’s tongue. From the lies—”

Her voice broke. She pressed her forehead against the altar. “She doesn’t know what she is. What I see in her. What You made her for.” You backed away before she noticed you. But you didn’t sleep at all after that.

The next day, she said you needed cleansing. She said the world left marks, even when you tried to resist it. And she wouldn’t let you carry that filth in your soul. She filled the bathtub herself—lavender oil, rose petals, salt.

She sat behind you, fully clothed, as she poured water over your shoulders and whispered verses into your hair. Her hands moved slowly, deliberately, over your body.

“You’ve let something in,” she said. “But I can wash it away. I can clean you from the inside out.” Her breath was warm against your neck.

She guided you back against her chest, her arms enveloping you with the ease of ritual, like it was something you both had done a thousand times in another life. The water lapped gently around your body, warm and scented with lavender and rose—comforting, disarming.

Joan pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Then another, lower this time, just behind your ear. “Shh,” she murmured, her voice barely more than breath, “let go. Let it all go. Let me carry it for you.”

Her hands moved slowly over your arms, your shoulders, slick with oil and reverence. Each touch lingered. She whispered verses between kisses, her lips trailing a path down your neck like benedictions. The words were familiar—lines from Corinthians, Psalms, fragments of teachings about purity and surrender—but they sounded different coming from her, soaked in heat and devotion.

Her mouth found the base of your throat, open and slow, and your breath caught.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” she said, one hand sliding lower, the other spreading gently across your stomach, anchoring you. “God is here. He’s watching. He sees how much you love Him.”

Her voice dropped, breath heavy now, flush against your ear. “He sees how much you love me.” You didn’t know when your knees parted. You didn’t realize how tightly you’d started to grip her wrist beneath the water, only that you needed to hold onto something.

Her fingers slipped deeper, past skin, past reason. “Let me take the sin,” she whispered. “Let me cleanse you.”

The edge between scripture and sensation blurred. Each word she spoke curled around your spine like smoke—sweet, heavy, cloying. Guilt and pleasure tangled so tightly you couldn’t tell one from the other.

You gasped something—maybe her name, maybe a prayer. She smiled against your skin. “That’s it,” she murmured. “That’s it, my sweet girl. Let Him hear you.” Her hand never stopped. Neither did her voice.

And when you came undone, you weren’t sure who you were surrendering to—Joan, or God. Maybe both. Maybe they were the same. Later, in a daze, you wandered into her prayer room while she was on the phone.

You opened her Bible to find your name scrawled in the margins—again and again, in tight, looping cursive. Beneath a pressed flower, tucked into the Psalms, was a photograph of you from church.

It was worn at the edges. The page around it was smudged and softened from touch. Like someone had been praying over it. Or worshiping it. Or you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The next few days, Joan grew quieter.

Not distant—never that—but thoughtful, watching you more carefully, her touch gentler, her prayers longer. She’d cup your hands between hers during grace, her thumbs circling slowly over your knuckles. She’d fix your collar if it dipped, smooth the hem of your skirt with careful fingers, murmur that modesty was a virtue but so was obedience.

You stayed with her more often now. You weren’t sure when the nights away from campus became routine, only that Joan made it feel like the holiest choice you could make. She would smile when you said you felt safest here, like you were being called.

But you noticed something. A tension building beneath her calm surface, like she was holding back from saying something—doing something. Her prayers became heavier. Her eyes lingered longer. The touch of her fingers against your wrist, your cheek, your spine—it all buzzed with a kind of spiritual urgency.

That night, after study, she watched you with a fire behind her eyes. And when she spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “There’s something still inside you, isn’t there?” she said. “A stain that hasn’t lifted.”

You hesitated. You felt… calmer, but the restlessness hadn’t left completely. Sometimes, it came back stronger, especially when she touched you. When she prayed over you. “I think so,” you murmured. “It comes back when I’m near you.”

Joan’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something deeper. Possessive. Certain.

“That’s because it knows I can cast it out,” she said, rising from her chair. “But some spirits… they root themselves inside. They cling to flesh. They hide where only a sacred hand can reach.”

Your breath caught. She knelt before you, reverently, like you were the altar this time. “I need to cleanse you again,” she said. “But not like before. This time, it must be deeper. Thorough.” She placed her hand over your heart. “Do you trust me?”

You nodded before thinking. “Yes.” She exhaled like a prayer answered. “Then lie back,” she said softly. “Let me guide you. Let me take what’s unclean and return you to Him.”

The lights in the room were low. Only the glow of candlelight flickered across the walls, dancing over the worn covers of scripture, the rosary strung over the mirror, the water basin beside the bed.

Joan had asked you to undress slowly. Not because it was indecent, she said, but because the ritual required stillness. Reflection. “This isn’t about the body,” she whispered, helping you step out of your dress. “It’s about what’s hiding inside it.”

She’d anointed your forehead with oil, fingers slick and reverent, then down the line of your throat, over your chest, your hips. Her touch never strayed far at first—only enough to leave you trembling, unsure of whether you felt exposed or reborn.

Then she led you to the bed, lifting the sheets like an altar cloth. She kept her robe on. Joan always kept her robe on.

She cupped your face and kissed your forehead, whispering a verse from Psalms, and you tried to hold it in your mind as she lowered herself beside you. But her hand was already sliding low again, trailing the line of your stomach, dipping between your thighs.

You gasped.

“Shh,” she murmured, breath warm against your cheek. “Don’t be afraid. This is what devotion looks like. This is how we fight what’s inside you.”

Her fingers moved slowly, deliberately, coaxing sensation out like a confession. “You’re not impure,” she said, kissing the edge of your jaw. “You’re worthy. Chosen. And this—” her touch pressed deeper “—is not shameful. Not when it’s done in His name.”

You arched into her hand before you could stop yourself, hips stuttering, breath catching. “That’s it,” she whispered. “Let me reach it. Let me take the sin and drown it.” She guided your face to her chest, pressed your palm to her heart.

“Do you feel that?” she asked. “That’s God’s will. That’s where He lives—in me. And now, in you.” You nodded, dizzy, your mind soft with heat and worship.

She guided you back against the pillows, murmuring prayers with each motion, her mouth trailing over your throat again, her hand relentless. The pressure built and built until you were crying out softly into her shoulder, until your body trembled with something too powerful to name.

Her lips brushed your temple, a final blessing. “There,” she said. “You’re clean now.” But she didn’t let go. Not right away.

Instead, she cradled you close, murmuring scripture into your hair while her hand rested possessively on your hip. Her fingers idly traced your skin like she was still drawing something holy into it.

“You’ll never need to feel that ache again,” she whispered. “Not with me. Not with Him. You’re mine now, sweet girl.” And part of you—quiet and buried deep—believed her. After the ritual, something shifted.

Joan no longer asked you to come—she told you.

“If you feel it again,” she said, brushing your hair behind your ear, “that ache, that heat… you come straight to me. No waiting. No hiding. No shame.” Her voice was velvet and iron. “I don’t care where we are or what time it is. You come. I’ll cleanse you. I’ll protect you from yourself.”

You nodded like it was scripture. Because it was. She had made it holy. So when it happened again—on Sunday, during service—you knew what to do.

You were seated beside her, of course. You always sat beside her now. You’d stopped talking to the other girls in the congregation, stopped responding to your old friends’ texts. Joan had told you their voices were too loud, too worldly. That they couldn’t possibly understand the purity you were being guided into.

You believed her. You had to.

That morning, the choir’s voices rose like incense, but you couldn’t focus. Joan’s hand rested on your thigh, a perfectly still weight beneath your dress. You could feel the phantom of her touch from nights before—how it had made you shiver and burn and beg. The feeling crept back again, deep in your belly, low and heavy, curling like a serpent under your skin.

You looked at her. She was already watching you. Her eyes were patient but burning, like she’d known. You shifted slightly in the pew, tried to cross your legs discreetly—but her hand caught your wrist.

She leaned close. Her breath brushed the shell of your ear. “Come,” she whispered. “Now.”

You followed her without thinking, slipping out behind the altar, past the rows of worshipers who didn’t look twice. Of course they didn’t. You were Joan Ramsey’s special project. The good girl. The chosen one.

She led you down a side hallway, through the vestry, into the quiet of a private room. The door clicked softly shut behind you. “Let me see,” she said, voice low. “Where does it ache?” You blinked, ashamed, aroused, obedient.

“Here,” you whispered, guiding her hand. Her hand trailed down, over your throat, down the center of your chest, where the cross necklace she’d given you lay like a brand.

“I think it’s time we tried something different today,” she said softly. “You’ve grown so much. You’ve trusted me. Let me show you a new way to surrender.”

You nodded, not even understanding—but needing to obey. She sat down on the little bench beneath the stained-glass window, the light casting soft colors across her face. She patted her thigh.

“Come here,” she said. “I want to feel how much you need me.” You hesitated, eyes wide. “Don’t be shy,” Joan murmured, voice dipping into that dangerous softness. “You want to be cleansed, don’t you?”

You moved slowly, heart hammering as you straddled her thigh, the fabric of your skirt bunching awkwardly until her hands smoothed it up around your waist. Her thigh was firm beneath you, and she adjusted you with practiced care, guiding your hips down until the pressure made you gasp. “There,” she whispered, pleased. “Now move for me.”

You did. Tentatively at first, rocking gently, the friction dragging across your center until your lips parted in a silent moan. Joan’s hands gripped your waist, steadying you, guiding you. “Good girl,” she whispered. “Look at you—so eager to be made clean.”

You whimpered as the heat built, the weight of her gaze as heavy as her thigh beneath you. And then she leaned forward, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw, her voice curling into your skin. “Next time,” she said, “I’ll take you with my mouth. I’ll worship you the way He would, if He could touch you like I do.”

You nearly sobbed at that—your hips stuttering, the sensation cresting. “Joan—”

“I’ve got you,” she breathed. “Let it go. Let it all go. I’ll take it. I’ll always take it.” You came trembling in her lap, buried in the scent of holy oil and candle wax, her arms around you like the arms of something divine.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The next Sunday, the sanctuary felt colder than usual.

You sat where you always did—beside Joan, hands folded, eyes forward—but your skin prickled with something uneasy. Joan’s hand rested lightly on your knee beneath the hem of your dress, her thumb stroking slow circles. Reassuring. Possessive.

She leaned over once during the sermon, whispering, “You’re glowing today. So clean.” Her breath made your skin burn.

But when the final hymn ended and the congregation began to move—stretching, gathering coats, exchanging soft pleasantries—you caught someone watching.

A woman from the prayer circle. Sister Marlene. Stern and tight-lipped, always in the front pew. She wasn’t talking like she usually did, wasn’t gathering her purse or adjusting her spectacles. She was just… staring.

At you. No—at Joan’s hand on your knee. You shifted instinctively, but Joan didn’t move her hand. Marlene approached slowly after service, her eyes flickering between the two of you. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Lovely service, wasn’t it?” she said, too polite. “Yes, it was,” Joan answered, perfectly calm. Marlene turned her attention to you. “Dear, I haven’t seen you with your friends lately. Are you still attending youth nights on Wednesdays?”

You opened your mouth, hesitated. Joan’s thumb pressed harder against your knee. “I—I’ve been spending more time with Joan. For study.”

“Oh.” Marlene’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “So much time, then?” Joan smiled coolly. “The Lord’s work isn’t on a schedule, Marlene.” Marlene’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Of course.”

She looked like she wanted to say more—but she didn’t. Just offered a clipped nod and walked off, back stiff with suspicion. Joan didn’t speak until the church had mostly emptied. Then she turned to you, smile gone.

“You have to be careful now,” she said quietly. “Some people don’t understand what’s sacred. They see something pure and twist it into something ugly.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Hush.” She cupped your face. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But they’ll try to poison your mind. They’ll tell you I’m not good for you. That this isn’t holy. That we aren’t right.” She leaned in, her forehead pressed to yours. “Don’t let them in. You believe me, don’t you?” You nodded. “Yes. I believe you.”

“Good,” she said. “Then let me protect you. Let me keep you close.” And from that moment on, Joan never let you walk into church alone again. It started small.

A glance. A question. A folded bulletin slipped into your hand after prayer circle with a verse circled in red ink—“Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.”

Marlene didn’t say anything when she gave it to you. Just pressed her lips together in that tight, knowing way and walked off.

You showed it to Joan that afternoon in her kitchen, heart hammering. “She gave me this. I think she knows.” Joan stared at the paper for a long time. Then she smiled—but it was the kind that didn’t reach her eyes.

“She thinks she’s saving you.” Joan reached out, brushed your hair behind your ear, voice low and calm. “But only I know what’s in your heart. Only I know what it takes to keep you clean.” She folded the paper slowly, precisely. Tossed it into the sink and lit a match. You watched as the paper curled black and turned to ash in seconds.

“You mustn’t listen to her anymore,” she said, pulling you into her arms. “Her voice will only lead you away from what’s holy.” You nodded into her shoulder, breathing in the lavender oil she always wore. It calmed you—anchored you. And still, you couldn’t shake the way Marlene had looked at you.

But Joan didn’t give you space to linger in doubt.

She began waiting for you outside your classes, walking you home from school, dropping off fresh-pressed dresses for Sunday service. She texted morning and night—little things, scriptures and reminders:

“The body is a temple. Don’t let the world defile it.”

“I’m thinking about your soul today.”

“If it stirs again, come to me. No hesitation.”

And you did. Because even when it felt like too much, Joan knew how to pull you back—always with that voice like velvet, those soft fingers tilting your chin just right.

You began spending more nights in her home. She said it was safer. Said temptation couldn’t reach you here. You stopped replying to your old friends completely. Joan said their lives were noisy, and yours needed to be quiet.

But not everyone faded away so easily. The next Sunday, after service, you heard Marlene’s voice echo from the back hall—raised, urgent. “She’s a girl, not a disciple. And you’re not a priest, Joan.”

You paused in the stairwell, heart thudding. Joan’s reply was lower, measured. “And you’re not God. Be careful who you judge.” You didn’t stay to hear the rest. You didn’t want to know. Not when Joan would be waiting at the altar for you with open arms and a smile that promised everything could still be pure.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

You hadn’t expected to find Marlene waiting for you behind the church after choir.

She stepped out from the side path like she’d been there a while, wrapped in her brown wool coat, arms folded tight. The late afternoon sun cast the stained glass in fractured colors behind her—blood reds, holy golds.

“I need to speak with you,” she said, voice low. “Privately.” You hesitated. “I—I have somewhere to be.”

“With her?” Marlene’s eyes narrowed. “I know what she’s doing. You don’t have to be afraid.” Your breath caught in your throat. “I’m not afraid.”

“Yes, you are.” She took a step closer. “You’ve changed. You barely speak to anyone anymore. You flinch when someone touches your arm. That’s not normal. That’s not faith.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. You took a step back. “She’s helping me. She’s—cleansing me. I’m better with her.” Marlene’s face broke—part grief, part fury. “That’s not God’s work. That’s hers. And it isn’t salvation—it’s control. You know it, somewhere deep down. Don’t you?”

You shook your head, too fast. “You don’t understand. She—she knows me. She’s the only one who sees me.”

“Then let me help you leave,” Marlene said. “Before she makes you forget who you are.”

But the sound of shoes on stone made you turn—Joan’s figure appearing from the far side of the path, hands folded like always, expression unreadable. “Marlene,” she said, calmly. “You’re upsetting her.”

“She’s a child.”

“She’s chosen.” Joan didn’t raise her voice, but something about her tone stopped Marlene cold. “And she belongs with me now.” Joan turned to you. “Come.” You obeyed without thinking.

That night, Joan locked the door behind you. Quietly. Deliberately.

She turned, and her expression shifted—softness undercut by a steel determination. “This isn’t working anymore,” she murmured, brushing your cheek with the back of her fingers. “They keep trying to steal you away. But I won’t let them. I can’t.” You stared at her, still shaken. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not going home,” Joan said. “You’ll stay here. From now on.” You blinked. “What?”

“I need to cleanse you more often. Not just when the urges come—every day. The world’s gotten inside you too deep. You need consistency. You need devotion.” Your knees weakened under her voice, the authority in it—so maternal, so certain.

“I’ll draw a bath,” she whispered. “We’ll start tonight. I’ll make you clean. Every day. No matter what.” She kissed your forehead like a benediction. “It’s the only way to save you now.”

After the bath, Joan took you by the hand and led you toward her bedroom.

The house was quiet, cloaked in shadows, but Joan moved with purpose—bare feet soundless against the floorboards, her hand warm and certain in yours. She didn’t say a word as she opened the door and guided you inside.

Her room smelled like cedar and lavender, like something older than perfume. Sacred. There were no personal photographs, no clutter. Just a tall wooden cross above the bed, a small table with a candle already burning, and the impression of someone who had made this space a shrine to her own sense of righteousness.

Joan turned to you, her eyes dark with something you couldn’t name. “Come here,” she said softly. You obeyed. She brought you close, her hands resting lightly at your waist, her thumbs brushing slow, deliberate circles against your hips.

“You’ve been good,” she murmured, voice almost tender. “Brave. Open. Willing to be made clean.” You nodded, unsure whether it was because you believed her or because you wanted to. Maybe both.

Her fingers found the ends of the towel wrapped around you and began to loosen it—slowly, reverently. Like she was unwrapping something sacred. Joan pressed her forehead to yours, her breath warm against your lips. “Tonight, I’ll make sure nothing remains. No shame. No confusion. No stain.”

She led you to the bed and helped you lie back, smoothing your hair away from your face like a mother would—except the way her gaze lingered, the way her hands trembled just slightly, was something else entirely.

“You don’t need to understand it all,” she whispered. “You only need to trust me.” And then she knelt at the edge of the bed. She kissed your knee. Then your thigh. Then higher still.

All the while, her voice never ceased—quiet prayer-like murmurs threading through the candlelight and the weight of the room. You were dizzy with it, not quite sure where the ritual ended and the sensation began.

It felt like worship. And you weren’t sure who the god was anymore.

The air in the house had changed. Heavier. Tighter. Joan kept the curtains drawn now, every clock unplugged or removed. Time didn’t matter here—only devotion. Only obedience. Only her.

You barely noticed when your phone disappeared. When your Bible was replaced with the one Joan had marked through, page after page annotated in her careful, fervent handwriting. You didn’t question it when she asked you not to answer the door anymore, to stop speaking to anyone but her. The world outside was diseased, she said. But here—here, you were safe.

Here, you were saved. You were kneeling beside Joan’s armchair, her hand idly stroking through your hair as she read scripture aloud, when the door banged open. “Marlene,” Joan said without looking up, her voice calm, almost bored. “How rude.”

You turned to look, confused by the blur of emotion on Marlene’s face—fear, anger, disbelief. She looked at you like you were a ghost. “What has she done to you?” Marlene said, voice cracking. “What are you doing here?”

You stood slowly, instinctively reaching for Joan’s arm. “She’s helping me. She’s… saving me.”

“She’s hurting you,” Marlene snapped. “This—this isn’t faith. This is control. You have to remember who you were before—” Joan rose, her movement smooth, unsettling. “Don’t speak to her like that. She’s mine now.”

“You don’t own her!” Marlene shouted, stepping closer. “She’s not your disciple, she’s a scared girl and you used that—twisted it. You have to let her go.” Joan’s eyes sharpened. For the first time, her voice cracked like a whip: “She came to me because she was unclean. I made her whole.”

Marlene looked at you again, desperately now. “Sweetheart… please. Come with me. This isn’t love. This is a prison.” But you couldn’t move. Joan’s hand slid into yours, firm and grounding. “She doesn’t want to leave. Do you, baby?”

You shook your head. “I need her. She… she keeps me clean.” Marlene’s face crumpled. “You don’t even hear yourself anymore.” And then—it happened too fast to stop. The glint of something in Joan’s hand. The flash of motion. The scream caught in your throat.

A kitchen knife. From behind the chair. A single motion, swift and silent. Marlene’s eyes went wide, then glassy. She crumpled. You stood frozen, heart pounding in your ears. Joan dropped the knife and caught your face in her hands, forcing your gaze away.

“Shh,” she whispered. “Shh. Look at me. Don’t look at her. She wanted to take you from me. She wanted to ruin you.” Your breath came in shallow gasps. “She… she was my friend.”

Joan’s eyes filled with tears—not grief, but something deeper. Possessive. Holy. “No,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to yours. “I’m your only friend. Your only family. Your only god now.”

And as she kissed you—fervent, desperate—you let her. Because you didn’t know anything else anymore. The silence after Marlene’s fall was so loud it rang in your ears. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Just stood there staring at the dark pool on the floor, spreading slow beneath her like a shadow finally come to claim her.

Joan brushed your cheek with bloodstained fingers, soft as always. “It’s alright, baby. It had to be done. She would’ve taken you away from me.” Your lips trembled, but she pressed a kiss to your forehead before you could ask anything.

“We need to move her,” Joan said simply, as though she were asking you to help set the table for dinner. “Come now. Be strong for me.”

She guided you gently but firmly—gloved hands over yours as you gripped Marlene’s ankles. You moved together like a single body, dragging her across the floor and out the back door, Joan murmuring prayers under her breath the whole way.

The night was humid. The garden was quiet. There was already a hole. You didn’t ask when she had dug it. Your knees sank into the soil beside Joan’s as she laid Marlene’s body into the earth. The blood from her shirt smeared across your hands, your arms, your dress. Joan noticed. Of course she did.

She looked at you like you were the holiest thing she’d ever seen. “My sweet girl,” she breathed, reaching out to cradle your face in her red-streaked palm. “Look at you. Covered in sacrifice. You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

You couldn’t speak, but your body leaned into her hand. “You helped me protect what’s ours,” she whispered. “This was love. This was obedience.” She kissed you again, reverent and slow, while Marlene lay at your knees.

And when it was done, when the earth was packed firm and the candlelit house welcomed you back in like a chapel, Joan led you upstairs and laid you in her bed.

She wiped the blood from your skin like it was baptism. And she smiled as she said, “Now we’re clean again.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The town moved on.

People whispered about Marlene’s disappearance, but no one came too close. She’d always been too curious, too loud. And Joan Ramsey? She was a respected woman of God. Who would dare question her?

The house grew quieter in some ways, and more alive in others. The clocks never returned. The outside world faded like a dream you once woke from in tears, but now couldn’t remember the shape of.

You no longer flinched at the touch of blood. You didn’t ask questions. You prayed when Joan told you to. You bathed when she said you were unclean. You wore the dress she picked for you each morning—long, modest, pale like innocence. The cross around your neck never came off. She fastened it herself.

Joan called you her lamb. Her angel. Her offering.

Each day began with her voice in your ear, her hand in yours, her rules like scripture carved into your bones. And each night ended with her body against yours, whispering prayers between kisses, murmuring about salvation as you clung to her like she was your god.

And she was. Because there was no life before her. Because you belonged to Joan.

Forever.