oogaboogasphincter

[oogaboogasphincter]

I assure you: somebody, somewhere, is on the exact same wavelength as you are.

[oogaboogasphincter]

Imagine Joel teaching you how to go down on him

Pairing: Jackson!Joel x f!Reader

Joel’s Masterlist

WC: 3.3k

Tags/Warnings: smut, minors DNI, porn with no plot, unspecified but big age gap, oral (m!receiving), virginity, unprotected piv (just the tip), daddy kink, baby-talking, young and innocent reader, condescending joel, terms like baby girl, sweet little girl etc.

You two had started slow, like always. You were curled into his chest on the old couch of his house, legs draped over his lap, while the fire crackled. Joel’s arm was heavy around your shoulders, his hand warm against your thigh, thumb rubbing little circles into the cotton of your sleep shorts.

“Y’cold, baby?” he murmured, voice all gravel and syrup.

You shook your head against him. “No… m’alright.”

“You’re shiverin’.”

“M’not,” You whispered, even though you definitely were, but it wasn’t because the cold.

He chuckled low, the kind that rumbled from his chest into yours, and then he kissed you slow, like he had all the time in the world to taste you, making you moan softly against his mouth, fingers curling in the flannel of his shirt.

It always escalated the same way, his hand sliding under your shirt, rough fingers toying with your nipple until you gasped into his mouth, letting your hand press against the hard bulge in his jeans, and God, the way he groaned when you rubbed him, the way he’d mutter, “Atta girl… jus’ like that,” until he got so worked up you’d feel him twitch and pulse in his jeans, cumming from nothing but your hand over denim... you loved knowing it was you doing that to him.

But tonight… You were hungry for me more, eager to please him, to show him you were a big girl.

Joel pulled back from the kiss, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, looking at you like you were some fragile little thing he couldn’t quite believe he got to hold.

“You alright, baby?”

You nodded but your throat was tight with the words you were trying to say.

“Tell me,” he said softly, eyes never leaving yours.

You swallowed. “I wanna… I wanna try somethin’. But I need you to teach me.”

He arched an eyebrow. “What kind of somethin’?”

You blushed, you were so shy you couldn’t meet his eyes right away. “I… wanna go down on you.”

Joel didn’t move for a second, he just stared at you, and then his lips curled into that lazy, crooked smirk you knew so well. You, his little baby, asking him to teach you how to blow him, it was a wet dream come true.

“Oh, baby girl…” He said it like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard, but then he leaned back slightly on the couch, spread his legs just a little, and his hand cradled your jaw, thumb brushing over your lips. “You wanna suck my cock, huh?”

The way he said it, teasing, condescending, like you were some precious little thing begging to be taught, made your thighs rub against the other.

You nodded, biting your lip. “Will you show me how, Joel?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed, voice already thick with arousal, “you ask real nice, don’tcha?”

He reached for his belt, undoing it slow like he wanted you to watch every single step of this, like he needed you to see what you’d been touching all this time.

“You sure ‘bout this, honey? You don’t gotta do nothin’ you’re not ready for.”

“I want to,” you whispered. “I want you to teach me.”

Joel exhaled like he was trying to calm himself, jaw clenching for a second before he cupped the back of your head to guide you down, gently, until you were kneeling between his spread thighs.

“Look at you down there… christ, you look like you were made for this.”

Your cheeks burned but you couldn’t look away from him, from the way he sat there, jeans undone, cock hard and straining in his briefs.

“Take him out, baby,” Joel murmured, his voice lower now, husky. “Nice and slow.”

You did, fingers shaking a little as you tugged his underwear down. And there he was, just like you'd expected, thick, flushed, twitching, leaking at the tip already, making your mouth go dry.

“C’mere, wrap your hand around me.” Joel said, his hand curling gently around yours, guiding your fingers to wrap around his shaft, it was huge compared to your tiny hands, which could barely wrap all the way around him. “There we go. That’s it. Hold him just like that.”

He tilted his hips, the weight of him heavy in your hand.

“Start slow,” Joel murmurs. “Yeah, like that. Just stroke it. All the way up, then back down.”

You move your hand like he told you, up and down, watching his face, his eyes flutter closed briefly, his hips twitch.

“Good. Now—“ His voice drops to a groan. “Use both hands. One at the base, one near the tip. Gentle twist when you go up, yeah thassit.”

You do as he says, and his head falls back against the couch.

“Jesus, baby…”

Your confidence builds with every sound he makes. You twist your wrist slightly, slide your palm over the slick head, he bucks just a little, jaw clenched.

“That part’s sensitive,” he pants. “Just a little pressure there, not too much. You’ll know when it’s too much ‘cause I’ll start beggin’.”

You grin. “I like that idea.”

“Lick the tip, baby,” he said, almost gently. “Just a lil’ taste. Like a popsicle.”

You obliged instantly, letting your tongue flick out shyly against the fat mushroom head, in responde Joel groaned so deep it made you clench your thighs together tighter.

“Fuck, that’s it… Good girl.”

You did it again, this time slower, flattening your tongue against the head, tasting the salty precum as you swirled it around. It all felt so filthy, you there on your knees, giving him soft, teasing kitten-licks on his huge cock. Joel was drinking it all in, savoring the sight, trying to burn the image into his memory. No doubt that the man would be jerking off to this whenever you weren’t around.

“Goddamn, you’re good at this already. Natural little cocksucker, huh?”

His words made you whimper, you felt dizzy, your cheeks were hot, maybe because of your shyness, maybe because of how aroused you were. He found it endearing, how innocent you looked and yet how eager and willing you were to please him. It was almost ridiculous, really: that soft, delicate face beneath him, while his thick, veiny cock stood proud right in front of you.

Joel guided you again, thumb brushing your cheek as he spoke.

“Open your mouth now. Wider. That’s it. Just the tip, baby, just take the head in. You’re not ready for the whole thing yet, just enough so I can feel that warm little mouth.”

You almost wanted to whine, to tell him, “I’m a big girl, Joel. I can take all of it.” But if Joel said you weren’t ready, then you trusted him, he always knew better. You wrapped your lips around him, sucking gently, and he hissed, head falling back against the couch. His cock stretched your lips just a little, the taste of him is salty and clean on your tongue.

“Fuck, yeah, thassit baby… nice and easy. Don’t rush. Savor it." He breathes.

He was so gentle but filthy at the same time, his hand petting your hair like you were the sweetest thing while he fed you his cock in tiny increments.

He’d never had anyone suck his cock so gently before, he fucking hated when women just dropped to their knees and deep-throated from the first damn second. The best part of this was getting to mold you to his pleasing, to teach you how he liked it, so you’d only ever do it his way.

“Use that hand, sweetheart,” he coaxed. “Stroke what you can’t fit. That’s it. Just like that.”

Once again, you obeyed him, your hand working in rhythm with your mouth, hollowing your cheeks just like he told you.

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

“Look at you, makin’ Daddy feel so good.”

“Such a sweet mouth on you… you were made for this, weren’t you?”

His hips started moving just a little, it was insane how much just seeing you, his cock stuffed deep in your mouth, was driving him wild. But the way it felt, the warmth and softness wrapped around him? That was a million times better.

“Tell me if it’s too much, baby. Don’t wanna hurt that pretty mouth.”

You shook your head, taking more of him in, loving the way he gasped, the way his thighs tensed under your hands, he was slowly but surely unraveling, you could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his hand gripped yours tighter where you stroked him.

“Try takin’ a little more,” he murmurs. “Only if it feels okay.”

You inch down, slow and careful, taking more of him, your lips stretch, your tongue pressed under the weight of him, and you hummed around him when he filled your mouth a little deeper.

“Nghhh yeah, move just like that,” he pants. “Use your hand with your mouth and keep it slick. Little twist when you stroke. Fuck, you’re a fast learner, baby..”

You’re dripping now, feeling the ache between your legs just from how wrecked he sounds, yet you go slow, listening to every sound he makes, the low curses, the clipped gasps, the murmured praise.

“Look at me,” he rasps.

You glance up with your mouth full of his cock, lips swollen, eyes wide, the look you give him makes Joel groans like it’s physically painful.

“Sweetheart, you look so fuckin’ pretty like that.”

You moan softly around him, and his hips twitch, he gasps and pulls back slightly.

“Shit—baby—hang on—”

You blink, lips shiny, confused, if it felt so good, why was he asking you to stop? Were you doing something wrong?

“I’m—close,” he says. “Real close. You probably don’t wanna—”

Silly Joel thought you wouldn't want his cum filling your mouth? You were gonna prove him wrong now, you were gonna get your mouth full of it. You lean forward again, and you take him back in, without stopping.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice rough and ragged. “You really gonna let me cum on that sweet lil’ face, darlin’?”

You moaned around him, and that was all it took.

“Fuck—oh fuck, baby girl,” he groaned, hips jerking. “Take it, take it, take all that cum for me—”

He spilled hot and thick into your mouth and onto your tongue, groaning like he hadn’t cum that hard in years. You swallowed instinctively, messy and clumsy, and some of it still dripped onto your chin. It felt thick and sticky down your throat, a little salty, unlike anything you’d ever tasted before, but it was Joel’s seed, and that made it feel… special.

He watches you swallow it, stunned, his whole body shudders through the last few spurts and you stroke him gently through it, hand slick, mouth soft.

Joel pulled you back gently, cupping your cheeks as he caught his breath. “Jesus Christ, baby…” he murmured, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, tasting himself on your lips. “You’re somethin’ else.”

You looked up at him, breathless, dazed, and buzzing. “Did I do okay, daddy?”

Joel laughed softly, wiping his thumb across your lip where some of his cum had landed.

“You did fuckin’ perfect, baby. I’m so proud of you. That mouth, Jesus, you just about ended me.”

You curl into his chest, flushed, heart pounding, and he cradles you like you’re breakable.

“You okay, baby girl?”

I nodded, eyes wide. “Yeah… m’good.”

He smiled. “Yeah? That sweet mouth tired now?”

A giggle slipped out of your lips. “Not really…”

He chuckled low, but something about the way he looked at you changed then, his eyes were still hungry. “You want me to treat that pussy real nice too, baby? I bet she's achin’.”

“I…” you hesitated, chewing on your lip.

Joel tilted his head. “What is it?”

You looked down, then back up at him through your lashes. “I wanna try somethin’. But you gotta promise to be careful.”

Joel immediately froze. “Talk to me.”

You felt your heart pounding. “I just… I wanna try the tip,” you whispered. “Just that, but not all the way.”

His jaw clenched. “Baby…”

“Pleeeease?” You said, hand on his chest. “I trust you. I wanna know what it feels like, just the tip.”

Joel stared at you like he was trying to memorize you, like he was weighing the pleasure against his fear of hurting you. He was still hard again, painfully so, and he was dying to know what being inside you felt like, but he was still a gentleman afraid to hurt his sweet little girl.

“You’re still a virgin,” he said softly. “That’s not nothin’. I ain’t gonna take that from you unless you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” you said. “As long as you go slow, I want to feel you, please Joooeel.”

He muttered a curse under his breath, low and southern and filthy. Fuck, what the hell were you even doing to him? He was a grown-ass man, and here he was getting all worked up over just getting his tip wet, like he was some desperate teenager all over again in the back of a car at the drive-in, ready to lose it from a single stroke.

“Fuck, baby girl… you say it like that, I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

Joel kissed you hard, then he stood and scooped you up in his arms like you were made out of feathers, carrying you to his bedroom, the one you've been before a couple of times, with the old quilt and the creaky floorboards. He laid you gently on the bed like you were made of glass.

“You tell me if you want to stop,” he said, voice tight. “I mean it. I’ll pull out in a second. Ain’t nothin’ we gotta rush.”

“I know,” You whispered, reaching up to touch his face. “I want this.”

Joel undressed you slow, kissing every inch of skin as he bared it, your nipples were already hard when he pulled your shirt up, making him groan as soon as he saw them.

“Look at these pretty tits,” he murmured, sucking one into his mouth. “Still can’t believe these are all mine.”

You arched under him, gasping, thighs clenching as he trailed kisses down to the hem of your shorts, and when he peeled them off, he found you soaked, so soaked through your panties, making the cotton stick to your folds.

“God damn,” Joel muttered, pressing his thumb against the wet spot. “This all for me, sweetheart?”

You whimpered. “Yes…”

He quickly tugged the panties off slow, baring your aching, needy pussy, then knelt between your legs, staring at you like he wanted to devour you.

“You’re drippin’, baby,” he said, thumbing through the slickness between your pussy lips. “She’s beggin’ for me.”

He made you whimper when he pressed two fingers to your entrance, not pushing in, just teasing you.

“You’re so tight,” he murmured, sucking in a breath. “You sure you want me to put this cock in you, baby girl? Even just the tip?”

You nodded desperately. “Please, Joel. I need it.”

He groaned. “Fuck. Okay. Get up on the pillows for me, yeah? Gotta be real careful with you.”

You did as he said, like every single time, obeying like a good girl, lying back and spreading your legs open for him. He stroke his thick cock, now fully hard again, the head swollen and leaking precum. Joel lined himself up to your entrance, brushing the tip through your folds, making you jolt in anticipation.

“Gotta open up for me, baby,” he murmured, voice condescending and sweet. “Let daddy in just a lil’. That’s what you wanted, huh? Just the tip?”

“Y-yeah,” you breathed. “Just the tip.”

Joel pressed the head of his cock against your entrance and pushed in slowly, stretching your cunt wide with just that first inch, your breath caught at the invation, it burned, but it also made you clench, hips twitching as your body tried to pull him in deeper, as it tried to accomodate him inside you.

Joel cursed everything and everyone, just the fucking tip inside you and it was already better than every goddamn woman he’d ever fucked. Tighter. Hotter. Wetter. Like his cock had finally found where it belonged, like it had spent his whole damn life searching and now it found his home, nothing had ever felt like this, no one had ever felt like you.

“Fuuuck,” Joel groaned. “You feel that? That’s just the tip, baby girl. Just this fat head stretchin’ that virgin pussy. You takin’ it like a good girl.”

You moaned, thighs shaking. “Joel…”

“You like that?” he asked, leaning over you, still holding himself back. “You like bein’ stretched open like this?”

You nodded frantically, tears pricking your eyes, it hurted, yes, but it felt delicious like nothing you've experienced before in your life.

“Yeah, you do,” he cooed. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight, baby. You’re so fuckin’ small… and I ain’t even in yet.”

He pulled out just a little, then pressed back in with just the tip again. “Look at that,” he murmured. “Pussy so greedy, she don’t want me to leave.”

You gasped, arching your back. “It feels… so full…”

“This ain’t full, baby,” Joel growled. “This is just a taste. You let me in any deeper and I’ll ruin you.”

You whimpered. “I want it.”

“You want what?”

“I want you to ruin me.”

Joel growled low in his throat, dropping his head to rest against yours, hips moving just enough to slide that swollen tip in and out of you, teasing your entrance, fucking you with just the head, over and over.

“God, you don’t even know what you’re sayin’, baby. You ain’t ready for the whole thing yet. I’ll split you open.”

“I don’t care,” You whispered, gripping his shoulders. “I want it all.”

Joel groaned like he was in pain, pulling out again to rub his cock through your slick folds, smearing his precum and your wetness together, nudging against your clit until you writhed. You had no right to look so fucking pure while moaning for him to split you open, begging for more cock.

“Not tonight, baby,” he said, kissing you hard. “But soon I’m gonna take this pussy for real. Gonna fuck you so full you’ll be ruined for anyone else. You hear me?”

“I need more,” You moaned. “Pleeease, Jooeeel.”

“You ain’t ready for more,” he growled, but there was no edge in his voice, just hunger. “You think you can take all this cock? I’m a grown fuckin’ man, baby, not some boy.”

Joel rubbed the tip against your entrance again and slid it in once more, slowly, deeply, groaning like it was killing him to hold back, like he was fighting his whole body not to shove deeper. And you were so wet, so full already, you couldn’t stop squirming under him, clenching around the small stretch he gave you, chasing more with every desperate roll of your hips.

“Easy, baby,” he grunted, voice rough. “You’re squeezin’ me like a goddamn vice. You keep doin’ that and I’m gonna blow already.”

His hands gripped your hips like he was holding you still for dear life, his forehead dropped to yours, breath warm and ragged against your skin, and he just stayed there, buried with just the tip inside, grounding his hips against you, just enough to make you cry out, over and over.

“You’re doin’ so good, baby girl,” he whispered in my ear. “Makin’ daddy proud.”

He rolled his hips and ground the tip in deeper, just a shallow push that was barely an inch, but it was enough to make your back arch and your thighs tremble.

“F—fuck,” you gasped, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

“That feel good, sweet girl?” Joel cooed, baby-talking you again. “That lil’ virgin pussy likin’ how daddy’s tip feels stretchin’ her out?”

I nodded frantically. “Feels so good, daddy. Don’t stop, please—please don’t stop—”

“Oh, baby, I ain’t stoppin’,” he said, grinding his hips in slow, tiny circles, keeping that swollen head inside you while the rest of his length throbbed against your soaked folds. “Gonna fuck you like this, gonna make you cum on it. Gonna teach your pussy who she belongs to.”

“Y-yeah,” you breathed. “So big… and you’re not even all the way in…”

“Damn right I’m not,” he said. “You’re too fuckin’ tight, baby. You’ll take me when I say so, not before.”

Part of him was fucking feral over the fact that it was the first cock you’d ever taken, and the only one, he’d make damn sure of that. Seeing you cry from just one fucking inch? One single inch stretching that tight little pussy open for the first time? Christ, Joel would get this moment tattooed onto his chest if he could, nothing had ever made him feel more like a man.

His hands left your hips and slid down, thick fingers slipping between your bodies, parting your folds and rubbing soft and tight circles against your clit as he stayed buried in you just that inch.

“Joel—oh my God—!”

“You gonna cum for me?” he murmured. “Gonna let daddy make this sweet little cunt cum for the first time with a cock in her?”

You nodded wildly, you were so close, your whole body tense and trembling, thighs shaking around his waist.

“Look at you,” Joel groaned. “You don’t even need me all the way inside, do you? You just need this big tip grindin’ right into that little hole…”

He gave a shallow thrust, just a nudge forward, barely anything, but it hit something that has never been touched before, and you cried out in pleasure.

“Oh my God—Joel!”

“That’s it,” he rasped, fingers working faster against your clit. “Let it happen, baby girl. Let that tight little pussy cum for me. So fuckin’ good—my good girl—”

You came with a sob, back arching off the bed, thighs clamping down around his hips as you clenched and fluttered around the tip of his cock. Your whole body went tight and then loose all at once, like you'd been holding your breath since the moment he touched you, or like you've been holding your breath your entire life before this moment.

Joel growled like an animal, hips twitching once, twice, and then he cursed, his voice breaking. “Fuck—baby girl—fuck, I’m gonna—”

He spilled inside you, hot and sudden, still buried with just the tip. He didn’t move, didn’t thrust, just stayed there, pressed against you as thick pulses of his release coated your walls, leaking out around the base of his cock, making you both gasp through it, panting, foreheads pressed together, bodies still intertwined.

You both stayed like that for a long moment, his tip twitching inside you, your cunt still fluttering around him, warm and full and messy between your legs.

Joel kissed you softly. “You okay, baby?” he whispered. “Talk to me.”

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah… yeah. That was… that was…”

He smiled. “Yeah. That’s what just the tip feels like.”

You laughed breathlessly, still flushed and trembling. “So what’s the rest of it like?”

Joel’s smirk turned dark. “Oh, sweetheart. You ain’t ready for that answer yet.”

A/N: Hope you enjoyed it!! I’m planning a little series of one-shots with Joel teaching the reader different things, so lmk if you’d be interested in that. As always, your support means the world to me🩷🫶🏻

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

[oogaboogasphincter]

Cliché (Dieter Bravo x f!oc) series masterlist

Ongoing, MDNI 18+ ONLY

summary: Notorious dumpster fire/actor Dieter Bravo spotted Wren — a way-too-young-for-him, straight-laced angel (his words) — in a dingy Philly pizza joint four years ago and it's been love ever since. Despite pressure from the press, and at some moments what feels like the entire world, they've managed to maintain a happy yet life-changing relationship. As Wren moves from her late teens to her mid twenties and Dieter skyrockets from background extra to top billing, Dieter lags behind emotionally while he climbs up the rungs of status and Wren's maturity develops but she feels stagnant with her life. Their relationship hits a rocky spot, not for the first time but one Wren fears they may not recover from. She assesses the ties she has with Dieter, from him being just some guy on her television screen to becoming the center of her universe, and Dieter wrestles with inner demons that have come out from their hiding place on the back burners of his mind. Follow along on this complicated, surprisingly genuine, and painfully human journey to see if Dieter and Wren live up to the clichés set forth by couples past or if they're able to reveal some unexpected truths about relationships with a gap in nearly every category except one: devotion.

general series warnings (chapters will have individual warnings): large age gap relationship (f!oc is 19-23 and Dieter is 43-47), public scrutiny, domestic arguments, body image and self esteem issues, drug use, piv, mentions of abusive situations

Chapters

1: Prologue

[oogaboogasphincter]

Jackson!Joel spicy alphabet 🦫☕️🪕

Next up on my spicy alphabet conquest: Joel Miller, specifically Jackson!Joel (HBO's version). And yes, to me there's a difference between HBO!Joel and game!Joel, and also between pre-outbreak!, post-outbreak!, and Jackson!Joel. i hope you enjoy reading! (i wish there was an acoustic guitar emoji😭) MDNI 18+ ONLY under the cut! (alphabet template credit here)

A - Aftercare (what they're like after sex)

Joel's job of caring for you isn't finished as soon as you stop having sex. He's incredibly affectionate, tearing himself away from you (even if you call for him to come back) just so he can get you a glass of water. He would prepare it ahead of time, but once things start getting hot and heavy his thoughts are tunneled to you and only you. He cleans you up with a warm washcloth and his calloused hands run impossibly delicate over your tender areas. He's a massive cuddler and will fall asleep with you in his arms, cradled to his chest, with his nose and mouth pressed gently against your hairline.

B - Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)

Joel likes his torso. He's big, broad, and burly and he knows it. He likes what it can do for him, whether that's intimidating enemies or acting as a shield to protect the ones he loves. Thanks to your reassurances, he's even grown fond of the soft belly he's developed with age and finally living a life as close to comfortable as he can get. On you, he's also drawn to your waist. No matter its shape, he likes settling his hands there whenever he can. He's a sucker for hips, too. He always teases that he hates to see you leave, but he loves to watch you walk away.

C - Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He's got a pretty dastardly load stored up in his heavy, hairy balls. Joel's been celibate for the better part of the past seven years, but he's still a hot-blooded man. Once he met you and fell in love, it was like his body remembered its neglected endocrine system and started to nurture it again. His cum is a nice and thick opaque white that looks glorious wherever it ends up splattered across your skin. Joel doesn't really have a preference of where to come; instead he's too focused on the look in your eyes when he does. 

D - Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Joel has too many dirty secrets as is to keep sexual ones also. He has a few fantasies that he wouldn't mind telling you about if you asked because there's nothing loaded or emotionally charged behind them — they're just for fun. For example, he thinks he'd enjoy a lap dance from you because his eyes would be free to eat you alive as you flaunted your body just for him, and he'd go even crazier if you didn't let him touch you as you make him just sit there and grind yourself all over him. He keeps a few other thoughts on the back burner of his mind that he visits when he needs something to envision while he jerks off, but you'll have to try harder to get the details about those out of him. 

E - Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

Like I mentioned, Joel's body went into hibernation after Tess and before her, sexual encounters were sparse post-outbreak. But when his desire is rekindled with you, all of the tricks Joel collected from charming women up and down the streets of Austin pre-outbreak come flooding back to him. His aging muscles still have their memory, rediscovering just the right pattern of hooks and rubs to bring you to glory. Joel's a little shy about his body count only because he doesn't want you to think of him as an easy conquest, but he suddenly finds pride for it when he pulls a certain mind-blowing maneuver on you (or when Tommy pushes his buttons a little too much). 

F - Favorite position (this goes without saying)

While he enjoys cowgirl because it gives him a chance to marvel at you while resting his achy bones, Joel's theoretical favorite is missionary. Call him old school, but he can't get enough intimacy with you now that he's let you inside the walls he's built around his heart. Realistically though, his favorite go-to is doggystyle because it's a crossroads of all the best: it's easier on his back than missionary, he gets to satisfy his dominant streak, and he can admire your beautiful form all at the same time. He's also a fan of lying on his side behind you, spooning you and cocooning you in his chest with his arms wrapped around yours so that his short thrusts reach deep inside you. (Basically, every position with you is his favorite.) 

G - Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

If there's one thing about Joel, he's got jokes. However, I think the first time you two are intimate with each other he's very serious because he wants to make sure he's giving you a good time. From a genuine standpoint, he'd never want to do something that would ruin the moment for you or burst the peaceful bubble you've fought so hard to create. But after you've been together for a while and have become familiar with each other's language of intimacy, he likes to amuse you because making love is a happy time for him. Plus, he thinks your giggle is wildly sexy. 

H - Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Joel does little if no grooming downstairs. He's not the hairiest guy to start, but he likes what he has so he keeps the bush around his cock full. If it starts to look a little scraggly he'll trim himself up, but only then. His love for the all natural extends to you; whatever you have going on when you leave yourself untamed, he'll love it. If he could choose, he likes thick bushes (he had his sexual awakening in the 70s, after all). And there's something about the heat from your hairy navels rubbing together when he's fucking you, or burying his mouth in your pussy and getting a noseful of your soft hair... it drives him wild. 

I - Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect?)

Joel's fierce protectiveness morphs into delicate tenderness and care when you're intimate. Since he still has his struggles with emotional constipation, he tries to make up for it by prioritizing your physical comfort. He's always making sure the position you're entangled in isn't making you strain. He'll do things like stuff a pillow underneath your hips or wrap his arm around the top of your head when you're underneath him so it doesn't bump into the headboard on his eager thrusts. Actions like these are sometimes easier for him to show you how much he cares rather than speaking the words. 

J - Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

I literally wrote an entire blurb about this (see: coming soon!). 

K - Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Dom/sub - This goes both ways. Joel has controlling tendencies that win him over sometimes, and there's nothing he'd love more than to have you fully submit to him and listen to his every word. He'd never compare you to an animal, but think about what he said about sheep: how they're quiet and do as they're told. When it comes to you, he loves your personality to bits, but... there's a lurking thought in the back of his mind that craves having you on your knees, doing whatever he wants. On the other hand, Joel gets equally tired of ordering others around and being designated as the reluctant voice of reason. Knowing he can place his complete trust and faith in you to keep him safe, he dreams about the relief that would come with just listening for once. 

Choking - I think this goes hand in hand with Dom/sub, but again I think Joel would like the power/control this exerts over his partner. Most of the time he doesn’t do it very rough — instead his hand is almost just resting on your throat and keeping you in place. His forearm will be pressed down the middle of your chest and his nose will be smooshed into your cheek while he stares deep into your eyes, watching for every flicker of emotion that they betray. He’ll give you a soft squeeze to redirect your gaze back to his when it falls away or just as your orgasm hits so the deprivation and subsequent supply of oxygen floods your nervous system with that much more ecstasy. 

Restraints - This one he uses sparingly and only when the mood is just right. He usually brings out a tie worn soft with wear or his belt when he’s had a particularly rough day. Joel has some trauma around instruments like these, so using them on you reframes the bad memories in his mind to something farther away from terrifying. He likes to restrain your wrists behind your back or bind your ankles together, tightening his belt enough so that it leaves a mark on your skin… and surprisingly, he’ll be incredibly gentle and sweet to you. No spankings, no slaps or hits - his rough hands position you with incomparable tenderness and care. His favorite thing to do is run his hand down the slope of your back slowly, feeling every inch of you, and carefully hold you down on the mattress by the back of your neck while he takes you from behind. 

L - Location (favorite places to do the do)

Joel likes being intimate at home because he's worked so hard to build a sanctuary amidst the chaos with you. It makes it easier for him to feel like he can let his guard down for once and focus entirely on you instead of having to constantly be looking over his shoulder, for Infected and nosy Jackson neighbors alike. He'll take you in multiple spots around the house just for the rush of something different, just because he can now: on top of the kitchen island, in the laundry room, on the stairs. He LOVES fucking you outdoors too. He tries his best to schedule dates with you to venture into the wild outside of patrol, since he thinks fooling around during patrol is a little irresponsible. Yet sometimes he still can't resist when you tease him while he's just trying to fulfill his duties; it's torturous watching you strut around the empty buildings or riding through the woods on horseback, knowing he can just ravish you on the floor or against a tree if he wanted and no one would ever know. 

M - Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

One word: intimacy. Joel gets hard by expressing his love for you and feeling it returned (so sweet, right?). Late night conversations with your thighs draped over his lap; gentle, admiring touches all over your still-sleepy faces in the morning sunlight; kisses where he can feel the desire for something more barely contained within you. He’s a big acts of service guy too, so if you had dinner waiting for him after he got back home from a long patrol shift he would fall to his knees at your feet in utter glory of you; he’s a simple man in that sense. At the end of the day, you can take the man out of the South but never the South out of the man. 

N - No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

Joel doesn't like things that feel forced or gimmicky. He'd never shame someone else for having these preferences, but things like role-play or sex toys beyond your standard vibrator just don't do it for him. As much as he's afraid of it, he needs genuine connection with another soul. To him, these things get in the way of or poorly try to substitute that. And of course, he would never do something you didn't like. While he enjoys pushing your limits with consent at the forefront of both your minds, he'd never think of doing something that was a hard limit of yours. If you're having a bad time so is he. 

O - Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Heaven is a place on Earth where Joel can spend hours between your legs. He prefers giving to receiving because his blood types 100% service top. His skill is impeccable because he’s so receptive: he’ll keep his eyes on you the entire time, reading flickers of your expression and feeling flutters of your folds around his fingers as cues to go faster, deeper, maintain, etc. Now, this isn’t to say he would turn down a blowjob; to him, that would be just downright disrespectful. But your taste is unparalleled in his opinion. And your moans, Jesus Christ — he could come in his pants just from listening to you, and with his tongue buried in your heat? He’s a goner. 

P - Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

 -BOAF. Capital b, capital o, capital a, capital f.

-Boaf?

-BOAF! 

Joel has the gift of rhythm, whether that’s fast and rough or slow and sensual or a heavenly mix of both. He knows how to read your mood and pick the exact pace to make you see stars. Despite his age, he’s capable of making the bed creak if he wants to — in fact, he’s joked before that he can go as hard as he wants because he’s been meaning to make a new bed frame from scratch, anyways. 

Q - Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Joel enjoys the occasional quickie, it just depends on the situation. If the two of you are alone and it’d be more of a struggle to ignore your desires than to satiate them, then he’s pinning you up against the wall before you make a trip to the market or taking you behind stable walls just before you head out on patrol. If there’s any real risk of getting caught and it’s not just an imaginary scenario to make you both hot though, then he’s not really into it. Joel has a possessive streak, but it runs so deep that he’d rather covet you all to himself than show you off in your most vulnerable beauty to unworthy eyes. 

R - Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Again, overall Joel is risk averse. At this point in his life, he’s had to weigh too many difficult choices to actively pursue something without a guarantee of it working out in his or your favor. However, in the sanctuary of your bedroom, he’s open to exploring different facets of his sexuality. To get to this point in your relationship, he’s already put so much faith and trust in you that he knows you’d never push him past his limits. Plus, he’d do absolutely anything for you that brings that beautiful, excited smile to your face. 

S - Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Joel lasts 20 minutes on average from start to finish. Nothing crazy, but just enough that you’re perfectly satisfied and ready to go again should your desires be rekindled. Speaking of which, he can confidently go two rounds. He’s accomplished three once before, but the next day he was fucking exhausted (and not particularly in a good way). 

T - Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Besides dirty magazines (do those count?), Joel doesn’t own any toys and never had the desire to. He uses your vibrator on you whenever you ask, though he’s smug enough to claim that you usually don’t need anything besides him to get you to come. Getting him to try a new toy might take some convincing or destigmatizing, but he’s open to trying anything that you think will make you happy at least once (though he can’t promise he’ll like everything). 

U - Unfair (how much they like to tease)

To me, Joel wouldn’t like to tease much when it comes to sex. He pulls your leg plenty in nearly every other situation and he never wants you to think that he doesn’t take intimacy with you seriously. Like I said, he might crack a joke or two, but he doesn’t make you hold back or lead you on (for very long, at least). For instance, when he comes out of the shower and you make a comment about how sexy he looks in his bathrobe, he’ll only make you wait as long as it takes him to brush his teeth before he starts rolling around in the sheets with you. 

V - Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Sexy old man noises are abound when you make love with Joel. He’s less about moans and more so about grunts and panting exhales. He likes to talk, both to constantly check in on you to make sure you’re enjoying yourself and because he can feel you clench around him whenever he murmurs gravelly praise in your ear, making his breath catch in his throat. He also likes to talk with you in hushed whispers while you make love because it makes the whole experience so much more intimate for him. Even if it’s just catching up on your day, Joel likes anything that reminds him he’s making love to you. That might sound stupidly simple, but Joel doesn’t have sex with you for primal reasons (though those aren’t completely lost on him). In other words, he doesn’t have sex for the sake of having sex. He makes love with you because he wants to show you how much he cares, to completely envelope himself in everything you. 

W - Wild card (a random head canon for the character)

When he went to summer camp as a teenager, one of his bunkmates had brought a Playboy and proudly showed it off to the other boys. The day before the campers returned home, Joel quietly swiped the contraband and his pension for dirty magazines was born. While that specific magazine is long gone, to this day — half a century later — Joel feels unsettled if he doesn't have some sort of printed porn in his possession. Since you entered his life, he doesn't feel the need to use stuff like that as much but he unironically thinks that some of the pictures are beautifully shot. Sometimes, he'll look at them like one would a piece of art. He likes to imagine photographing you like that, beautiful in your vulnerability, so that he can always have a little preservation of your beauty and his love to last the test of time. He's a connoisseur, but if anyone ever called him that he might just implode from humiliation. 

X - X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

In short, Joel is perfect. He’s got a girth that demands a satisfying stretch from you but it never hurts. His length is the same, reaching deep inside you without poking uncomfortably at your ending. As previously mentioned, he’s hairy all over his navel and it sparsely climbs up his shaft and around his balls. He’s got a few cute freckles too; one just right of center at his base, on his left inner thigh, and another right on the curve of his ass. 

Y - Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Joel won't lie; his increasing age has taken a toll on the rabid energy that used to consume him whenever he found himself remotely attracted to someone. Yet when he started going out with you, he felt like an old pervert: wanting more than he thought was gentlemanly, worrying that it would drive you away. When you reciprocated eagerly, it soothed that itch which comes with the question of unrequited love. Since your love has been proven to him time and time again, he doesn't feel rushed and the need to prove himself through sexual means is lessened. He knows you're understanding when he says he wants to but his body just doesn't cooperate every time. However, Joel makes sure every time counts for more than once when his physical form finds itself capable of the task. 

Z - Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

It takes Joel longer than he would like to fall asleep. Even after having a wonderful time with you, sometimes he gets stuck in a loop in his brain. As he holds you, he can’t help but think about how life would be like with you, what his family would look like, if the outbreak hadn’t happened. With your sleeping form of peaceful warmth snuggled against his chest, he feels safe to let the weight of agony push down his heart for as long as it needs. For once, he doesn’t suppress the pain but willingly, albeit reluctantly, embraces it. After his quiet tears clear, he looks around his bedroom, down in his arms at what he does have, and then he’s able to sleep with the hope that he’ll get to experience it all over again in the morning. 

main masterlist 🤎 join my taglist!

[oogaboogasphincter]

the image that provoked this thought:

what would happen if you gave count orlok an iced sugar cookie almond milk latte?

[oogaboogasphincter]

what would happen if you gave count orlok an iced sugar cookie almond milk latte?

[oogaboogasphincter]

Lie to Girls | Joel Miller x f!reader

loosely inspired by Lie To Girls by Sabrina Carpenter

summary: Joel tries to get you back one last time, but he just breaks your heart even more.

warnings/word count: MDNI angst angst angst | 1,100+ words | read part 1 to get caught up on the details of this situationship lol

a/n: i really want to create a longer series about these characters but i only have the patience for oneshots 😭 so if one day these posts disappear, they'll be reincarnated into a series!! 🥳 let me know if you guys prefer multi-chapter series or just one shots, and i hope you enjoy! :)

Being without Joel was numbing. You cried more over the strange, unnamed feeling that fogged your mind than his loss. Your daily routines were messed up. There was no brewed coffee in the morning handed to you with a smile. Your patrol pairing was silently changed. You felt the severity of the cliche when you came home and your couch remained empty, though you didn’t really want him there and that stung the most. You wanted the man you fell in love with, not the man he had become. You were mourning over what was, what could have been, instead of what is. 

Everything had gotten more difficult. Patrol felt meaningless; maybe an invasion would spark that feeling of finding something to fight for again. Distracting yourself bore even less fruit. You’d lay in bed for hours, trying to kindle anything between your thighs — with your fingers, your vibrator, different motions — to no avail. The toy sailed through the dark as you threw it and it crashed into the opposite wall while you turned over in groveling defeat, trying to ignore your swollen yet unsatiated petals and the shame they harbor.

–

One afternoon, there’s a knock at your door. You answer it and it’s him, with his hands on the doorframe like he’s ready to push it in if you hadn’t answered. You turn away, closing the door on him, but he grabs it and yanks it open. You’re too empty to stop him. 

You step back as he comes towards you, backing up until your heels hit the couch and crossing your arms. Somehow your cheeks got wet. He steps forward, slower, like he’s approaching a wounded animal; a dog he tripped over without meaning to that he knows doesn’t understand forgiveness, that makes him helplessly panic in trying to find a way to atone. His footfalls are heavy, cautious, so familiar it’s nauseating. He cradles your face in his hands, fitting his freezing cold palms to your jaw. 

“Babygirl, it’s me,” he says and his broken voice transports you back to a time when you licked his wounds. When you loved him, when he was your entire world. When looking at him was like the sun shining hopeful rays on the dismal world below. When all the horrors felt lighter just because you knew he was there. 

You squeeze your eyes shut as your heart tightens in your chest, wishing him away with all your might.

“It’s me, honey,” he soothes despite his betrayal. He leans in close and presses the curve of his nose to yours. You shake your head in his hands, telling yourself it’s not him, to not fall for his trap again. 

He wraps an arm around your back and his other cradles the back of your head to his chest, pulling you close. He breathes, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, my love.” He bunches his hand in the back of your jacket, crushing you against him. If only he could hold you so close you’d absorb into him and he could heal you from the inside without his medicine being jumbled by his stupid, stubborn mouth. 

“Please,” he prays with a series of delicate kisses to your forehead, “Come back.” 

His hands never stop moving, caressing your back or knotting in your hair with dual nurturing and possession or squeezing your arms. “I’ll stop going to therapy, you were right, it doesn’t do shit for me anyways. I’ll stop unloading all my bullshit on you, baby, just please—”

You pull back and he grants you a few inches, but nothing more. The rain outside robs your attention and you watch through the window as the drops slide down the wind chime, falling below and splatting on the back of the rocking chair Joel used to sit on and strum away on his guitar. You sigh, “Maybe there’s something wrong with me. I don’t know how to live here, in this community with all these people. I feel like an animal.”

His head shakes like his fingers trembling incessantly. He brushes them across your cheeks, murmuring, “You’re no animal, baby.”

“What if I’m comfortable being an animal? I’m good at surviving, not…” The leather couch goads in its comfortability behind you. The plates neatly piled in the kitchen sneer with prejudice at your wrinkled shirt. On the counter sits a vase of flowers, still fresh from when Joel picked them for you a few days ago, and they laugh. “...this.”

He assures solemnly, pitifully, “I can help you.”

A shake of your head, “No.” 

“We can go somewhere else,” he offers hastily as the fright of losing you again starts to settle in. To him, he still has a chance to convince you to come back. He knows there’s a thread of him permanently woven into the tapestry of your heart, one you couldn’t rip out if you wanted to. He takes advantage of its mercy, plucking at it incessantly. Tears fall down your face with every cruel strum. 

“You won’t leave Ellie. You won’t leave Tommy.” You swipe at your tears, casting yourself further out into an isolated ocean with every word you speak. “That’s normal, Joel.”

He pauses, thinking. Impatient with knowing he’s losing the battle, he gruffs, “I’m not letting you go out there by yourself.”

Agitated, you sigh. “Leave me alone,” you order. 

“No!” he barks louder than he meant to, incredulity and anger cranking his brows down low.

Unfortunately, a comforting sense of belonging weighs your heart down. It blooms through the cracks even though the sun hasn’t shone for millennia. The freedom you crave could always be satiated with the proper hand, one that lets you roam as you please but gives you a permanent resting place when the torrents rock you too hard. Joel’s case is tempting and it makes you itch.

Somehow, you get him to sleep in separate beds for the night. He doesn’t speak his vow, but you know he’ll be at your doorstep tomorrow. 

–

You leave the next morning with Joel in your heart, nudging you along the trail up the snowy mountain. He was right; he’d never leave you alone, at least not your spirit. You’d take him in your heart with you across the hills and valleys, across the country until you found a home for the two of you while maintaining just the right amount of physical distance. But for now he was where he needed to be and so were you; him in Jackson and you on the wander. 

You pause at the top of the mountain, looking back down on the town. You wonder how long it’ll take him to notice you’re gone and you start to imagine if he’s already running through your house, throwing apart rooms trying to find you… his distress makes your blood pressure spike and you quash your curiosity with haste. You can’t afford to change your mind again, so you turn with a choked sniffle and leave. You just pray he doesn’t follow you.

main masterlist 🩶 join my taglist!

taglist: @pascalpanic @pedrostories @maievdenoir @uncassettodiricordi @harriedandharassed @scentedcandletidalwave @joelsflannel @readingiskeepingmegoing

[oogaboogasphincter]

reminder to lock your fics!! on ao3, you'll have to edit each individual work > go to the privacy section > select the boxes that say "only show your work to registered users" and "only registered users can comment." it's not an airtight safeguard, but to my knowledge it minimizes the risk of your work being scraped.

Alright! Sorry for being so absent today! I was building a tool so you can all check your own names on demand.

I am asking that you not talk about it on Hugging Face. I'm sure word will get there eventually, but I'd like to avoid them accessing this as much as possible. Feel absolutely free to spread around Tumblr.

Tool is here! Use page 1 to search by username. Use page 2 to search by work ID (which you'll need to do if you're looking for an anonymous work).

That said, I did pay out of pocket for some of the accounts I've needed to do all this. If I need to, I'm fine with eating that cost, but I am going to ask nicely that if you feel like kicking in toward it, you donate to the Ko-Fi I made specifically for this technical project. I was hoping to get a short-term membership, but I was only able to buy access to host this for a full year lmao. BUT regardless, this is freely available to everyone. Do NOT feel like you need to donate if it'll put you in a bad place or even if you just don't want to. Just figured I'd ask instead of quietly sucking up the $180.

Thanks to everyone who helped with the cost to host the tool! I appreciate you so so so much. As of this edit, I'm at $185 total, and right now, I don't expect to have to pay for anything else to keep this available.

I gave the tool a quick test, but please come yell if it stops working. I'm around; I'll fix as fast as I can. It's slow as hell, but it does load eventually. Give it up to 10 minutes, and if it seems down after that, please alert me via ask! Anons are on.

Now with all that being said, time for me to start focusing on how we stop the next scrape.

[oogaboogasphincter]

aww, thank you so much!!! 🥹🫶💘💘 i have a few more wips with tovar x reader that i've left dormant for a while but you've given me the motivation to start working on them again 🫂

blue | pero tovar x f!reader

summary: Your hateful relationship with the village's most despised, Pero Tovar, takes an unexpected turn one stormy morning.

warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI dub con, enemies to (semi) lovers, unprotected piv, choking, manhandling, almost getting caught, splinters/blood, 2.2k+ words

a/n: guys i love writing for this character even though no one gaf about him 🤭😝 i hope you enjoy reading!! <3

The soft, cool soil of the riverbank squishes between your fingers as you crush its surface, imagining it's him. Those biceps always brushed with sweat or that grotesquely unkempt hair - you wanted him out of your head.

Shame and rage nip at the heels of your desire as you touch yourself, parting yourself and massaging between your folds, to thoughts of the village idiot. Even with the lack of his insufferable presence, your release is dangled on a teasing precipice and remains unsatisfied just like it is when he leans in close enough to let you taste his salacious breath but nothing more. Large swathes of the river caress your waist as they pass by, gentler than his hands ever could, and part around your submerged wrist as you picture him doing just the same to your thighs, then splitting you open with a ferocity that burns on every inhale of your sweet nectar.

Maybe it's an excusable urge. Your small village is desolate of men these days, the infertile grounds and dying horticulture driving them to yonder lands. The ones that remain should be referred to as boys, never men. They assess you like you're a good at the market, weighing your cost and risk for themselves, and remain indecisive of a burdensome bride by his side or the public embarrassment of not taking at least an old maiden. The boys here are weak in heart, meager in stature, pitiful in skill. Maybe it's just his novelty, his newness, because in reality he's much worse. 

Tovar is an unliked brute among your fellow villagers, but you figure at least he's got his stubbornness going for him. It's been so long since you've encountered a man so cunning, that lies through his teeth until they're rotten but has saved his own life by that very trick of his tongue on multiple occasions. No boy in your village could say that.

You bend over the riverbank, digging your cheek into the darkened soil and succumbing to his temptation. Your eyes flutter shut and your lips part around a soft sigh of defeat as your fingers delve into the tight warmth of your cunt, sinking deeper until you reach that spot that makes you squirm...

Twigs snap underneath the tread of boots behind you and the river flares around your body as you whirl abruptly to the sound. Seeing it's him, you cross your arms over your bare chest with haste and make your disgust unmistakable with your expression. 

He stares at you for a moment with his trademark scowl, a downturned quirk of his brow of an angry sort. Something unidentifiable flickers behind his eyes as they glance at your bare shoulders and back up to your face, something no less irritable. 

She's no better than those water wraiths that William warned you about. Her hair looks pretty like this... but it'll act like tendrils do to drag you to hell. The blue-toned sunlight of this hour makes her skin glisten otherworldly... but it'll feel like scales to the touch.

"Storm is coming," he announces briskly, looking up at the darkening sky. Charcoal clouds are sketched hastily in the sky of a powder blue only a distempered morning can conjure. "Get out of there before you get..." he rears his eyes back on you with frigidity, like he wouldn't mind you being, "electrocuted."

Goddamnit. You escaped down here to finally fulfill that craving of release your body yearned for, when it seized on itself with ecstasy that made living in the rest of the world — especially with him around — bearable again. You stand there, arms crossed, stubborn as he is. 

From behind his back he brings out a towel, holding it far out in your direction. Like if you were to touch the fabric at the same time, he would contract a virus on contact. He looks down, off to the side, he shifts his weight to his hip with impatience. 

You huff in frustration and stalk up the riverbank, snatching it from his hand. He turns to face away from you, brows furrowed heavily and mouth drawn tight as he blankly stares at the trees. 

You don't pause your stride to wrap the towel around yourself. It barely grazes the top of your thighs; you realize this is a towel fit for children. Of course, the stinking brute wouldn't know the difference because he never nears anything that has to do with sanitation. 

The splintery undergrowth pokes at your feet and you try to stay only on the damp covering of fallen leaves, buffering the pinpoints, but it doesn't stop and you keep cursing under your breath with every flinch. 

Then, there's a hand snaking across your back and another circling your abdomen, twisting you around by your waist before squeezing you tight as Tovar throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Put me down!" you land a balled fist in between his shoulder blades.

He grunts from the impact and snaps his tongue with exasperation, "Your feet are bleeding!"

"You're a little too late," you grouch. The coolness of the raindrops that have begun to fall from above sting the soles, no doubt leaving a diluted trail of blood as Tovar carries you from the river and up the small hill to your cottage. When he reaches the gate, he forgoes loosening his hold on you and pushes it open with his foot — good rationale, because you were going to bolt the moment he let you go. He brings you inside the small storage room for food stuffs that adjoins the kitchen and he sets you down on your feet, pushing the splinters in deeper. 

You turn to dart for the door but his hand grips your bicep strong enough to bruise. You try to conceal your wince as the splinters dig ever deeper when you spin on your heel to face him with animosity, "When have you cared?" you ask, baffling at your bloodiness. 

And you're stricken with some unknown emotion when he just... stands there. And if you weren't so dizzied by his actions and the radiating pain and the fearsome storm that has brewed outside, you'd think his scowl has... softened. 

He shoves an ale barrel over, braced with the might of his shoulder and heaving with the motion. He puts his calloused hands on your shoulders and pushes you down unforgivingly onto its top. Though you don't really have a choice, you remain seated and he stands back to give you a once over, sighing with irritation as he stares into your eyes. He grabs an empty bowl from the shelf and leans outside the door to fill it with the downpour.

His armor rattles with every huff as he stalks into the kitchen, but not before holding up a finger and glaring at you, "Stay." Returning a few moments later, he sets the bowl down on the floor and gets down on one knee. He holds your ankle still and brings the water to you, switching his grasp to support the bowl from underneath. You can see his lips moving with no discernible sound, and you realize he's... counting.

"What are you doing?" you inquire.

He neglects to glance up at you when he feels the force of your impatience, "William and I learned a specific way to remove splinters if you don't want them expanding inside your skin or breaking off so you have to dig for them." This time, a knowing scowl is thrown at you. You deflect with indifference.

After he's satisfied, he puts the bowl on the floor and reveals a pair of tweezers. With one hand grasping you to hold you steady, he cautiously grabs a piece of black bark and extracts it. You squirm and he taps you with the back of his fingers, wanting you to recollect yourself and gain some patience. The funny thing is, for the first time ever, that's what he seems to be full of right now. 

Tovar works carefully, alternating warm soaks of your foot in the water and removals of debris until you have only a few small cuts left over.

His eyes catch underneath your towel as he stands up, a flicker of a slip in his restraint. Your gaze widens in return, lips parted with uncertainty. 

A pregnant pause. You stand and he shoves the barrel out of his way, lunging for your waist and pushing you back as his mouth descends upon yours with vitriolic hunger. You reach to thread your fingers through his rain-soaked hair, but he turns you around to face the wall. He handles you to bend at your hips, you hold onto a shelf as he impatiently rummages through his armor for his cock. 

All those months of tempting glares streaked with wrongdoing, all the hateful exchanges you had the wherewithal to throw at each other; the culmination of your mutual, detestable desire was finally here and it felt like an unraveling of ecstasy already. 

He spits in his hand and you can hear the slick sounds as he strokes along his cock, a soft exhale of relief leaving his lips. He pushes at your entrance, and you can tell from his tense hips that he had planned on snapping them into you, but he finds the will to slow and inches in at an excruciatingly gentle pace. 

He's so big, bigger than you thought he would be even with the impressive tents you've seen him sporting underneath his tunics. Agitation had eaten you alive as you had simultaneously dreamed of castrating him of his girthy pride and taking it all the way back into your throat, gazing up at him with your nose nuzzling his navel. Tovar seethes through his teeth, the noise bleeding into a groan when he's sheathed to the hilt inside your plushness. He mirrors your disdain as he growls lowly, almost to himself, "Of course you're tight." You glare at him over your shoulder but he renders your abhorrence useless when he starts to pull out, his cock dragging viciously along your walls...

...until he shoves back inside and begins a rhythm that's harsher than you had time to adjust for, but burns so deliciously that all you can do is mewl. For some reason, you're still holding onto the towel — probably because you need something to tether you to the earth — but Tovar growls and tears it to the floor. His hands snake around you and grab your tits, pulling you upright so your back is flush to his cheek. His nose presses against your temple, his breath hot as it fans out over your cheek in rhythmic pants. 

Your eyes squeeze shut as the coil deep inside your hips tightens and tightens, threatening to snap at any moment. "Tovar," you beg in a strained plea, for what you're not sure. He switches his grasp so one arm is strapped across your chest, pinning you back against him, and his other hand curls around your throat and squeezes. He grunts in your ear, nearing his own release...

You're almost there, you're almost there... and then Ballard makes his presence known in the adjacent room; your housemate that had sown himself into your village with less resistance than his comrade who's currently buried in your heat. 

"God fucking damnit," you curse in vain, exasperated and out of breath even as Tovar slows his thrusts to a halt. He's tempted to pay no heed to his comrade's presence and continue ravishing you, but he knows the atmosphere has shifted from the private passion shared just between the two of you. Your sanctuary has been breached, an inseparable mixture of carnage and hatred spilling out like lava that would burn alive anyone who sees.

Reluctantly, he tears himself from you. He rummages behind you, your soul too dissatisfied to have a mind, until he covers you with a sheet he tore from the laundry pile. "Play dead," he whispers briskly and hoists you in his arms without a second thought, carrying you like a bride. 

With your eyes closed and face buried in his chest, Tovar's charade that, "I found her asleep outside," sounds believable. Ballard gruffs as Tovar passes by, "Be gentle with her and leave. Set her in her bedroom, I'll feed her when she wakes." 

Tovar carries you through the cottage, opens and closes doors with the toe and heel of his boot, and finally settles you with unfamiliar tenderness in your bed.

He hesitates, leaning over the side of the bed and hovering above you with his hands underneath your body. The air between you is thicker than it was even in the smaller room before, heavy with question and desires too fearful to be spoken. 

A lock of your hair has fallen out of place and some forsaken voice in your heart wants him to move it. He notices, but remains stiff. 

"I'll return after nightfall," he breathes, standing to remove himself from your induced reverie. 

Your gazes linger while he stands in your doorway, his hand twisting the knob absently with contemplation. Ultimately, he closes it and leaves without another word. 

You feel emptier than you ever have without his presence and the waning familiarity of your hatred for him. What the hell had you gotten yourself into?

main masterlist 🌧️ join my taglist!

taglist: @pascalpanic @maievdenoir @pedrostories @your-voice-is-mellifluous @uncassettodiricordi @harriedandharassed @scentedcandletidalwave @readiskeepingmegoing

[oogaboogasphincter]

coming from frankie’s wife, this is praise of the highest degree 💞💞💞 thank you mrs. berry morales 🫡🫶🫶

Frankie Morales NSFW Alphabet 🦦🧢

I've always wanted to fill out alphabets for each character in the PPCU (Pedro Pascal Cinematic Universe) according to my own personal headcanons and I'm finally getting around to it! First up: the fandom's crowned 🐱-eating king, Frankie! MDNI 18+ ONLY under the cut! (alphabet template credit: https://the-coldest-goodbye.tumblr.com/nsfw-template)

A - Aftercare (what they're like after sex)

Honestly, Frankie gets tired quickly after sex. He's fallen asleep before with a warm washcloth in his hand as he was cleaning you up, his cheek smooshed against your inner thigh. He'll make sure you have everything you need - a glass of water, a snack - and that you're wrapped up comfortably in a blanket, but then it's lights out for him (**bonus endearment points for snoring so loudly that he's woken himself up on more than one occasion, but only when he falls asleep with his head tipped back in the aftermath of bliss**). 

B - Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)

Frankie likes his hands for all the things they can accomplish: taking care of his daughter, fixing things around the house, loving you. He holds some pride for his arms, too, because he thinks they're the most impressive part of his body in terms of muscle (he holds the arm wrestling record amongst his group of friends, even against Benny). On you, Frankie isn't picky. In crude terms, he likes tits and ass equally. But he also loves thighs, ankles, your neck, hands, the curve of your back... picking a favorite body part for him is like picking a favorite child: impossible and unethical. 

C - Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Frankie's cum is an average volume, but it runs more on the clear side. He has a few bad habits that sometimes have an impact; some of his loads are more runny or thick than others. Although he loves coming inside you, he just might love it even more when he comes outside of your pussy. Watching it run over the curves of your sweet face or ass fills him with just the right amount of possessive satisfaction. You're his, and it's written all over you. 

D - Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

It drives Frankie wild when you ride his face and tug on his hair, or reach around and give his ass a slap when he's on top of you, so this has all led him to harboring one fantasy in particular: Frankie wants you to peg hin. He's not even sure of the logistics (how would you get any pleasure out of it if he's the one receiving the strap?) but picturing you taking on his role by gripping his hips and rutting into his ass from behind while he's on all fours... he doesn't let himself think too deeply about it because he fears his heart will get too excited and miss a beat. Additionally (and don't tell his friends this) but sometimes... his brotherhood with his friends feels so intimate that the thought has crossed his mind about... at least kissing one of them. Unless you catch onto his flushed cheeks and successfully interrogate him, though, he'll take this secret to his grave. 

E - Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

There are many differing origin stories amongst his buddies about his nickname, Catfish; but his closest friends would like to think that Frankie earned the moniker from his ability to find a willing participant in any situation with that endearing stubble, or "whiskers". Frankie has racked up a decent number of partners over the years, but with most of them sex seemed nearly mechanical, just the basic stuff. When he's in a committed relationship, he gains more knowledge by closely learning your specific do's and don't's and exploring new territory together. 

F - Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Dependent on his mood, but missionary is his go-to for a reason. He loves the deep intimacy that comes with gazing into your eyes, watching flickers of emotion in them with each of his movements. He likes how easy the position makes it to kiss your lips, your cheeks, your neck. And he's right there to whisper loving praise into your ear, warm promises to treat you right for as long as you'll let him. 

G - Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

I think the dominant emotion swirling around Frankie during sex is nervousness. Of course he'll be comfortable around you, but he's so eager to pleasure and he wants you to be comfortable too. He'll be constantly checking on you, his eyes reading your body language whenever he's not verbally asking you what feels good. But, he's a sucker for you - so if you laugh, he'll laugh too. If you giggle at how the noise the bottle of lube makes sounds like a fart, he'll laugh along with you. 

H - Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Again, I think Frankie's nerves get to him here. He hit his early twenties in an era that was dominated by clean shaven genitals and he fell victim to the influence during those years. Plus, he learned during his time in the military that it just feels cleaner down there when he's shaved while he doesn't have regular access to a shower. But, if you voiced your desire for something more, he would ditch his razor as soon as you asked. 

I - Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect?)

Frankie is very romantic. His calloused hands travel gently along your skin with reverence when you make love. Note: most times with him are too intimate to be considered "fucking" or simply "having sex" (though these do happen when the mood is right). When you go down on him, he'll reach for your hand and intertwine his fingers with yours. Overall, Frankie can get self-conscious so he likes to devote his attention entirely to you. 

J - Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Frankie masturbates more often than he's willing to admit. It's not because he's anywhere near dissatisfied with the intimacy he has with you, actually far from it: his drive is so high that he doesn't want to bother you with extraneous rounds, so he takes matters into his own hands (literally). He jerks off in the shower most mornings because it's become a part of his routine; it's easy clean-up and it helps keep him calm and his desire in check throughout the day. It never takes him long, just a minute or two of quick strokes over his cock with a tight fist before he's spilling over his knuckles with a breathy whine. With you on his mind, he doesn't need much stimulation to get him to that split-second of heaven. 

K - Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Breeding - Frankie already has a baby and there's nothing he'd love more than to make more with you. He spends his time daydreaming about raising little ones with you, but he's not naive: creating them occupies his mind often, too. He loves coming inside you just to keep his cock sheathed in your plush walls, keeping every last drop nestled deep inside your warm cunt. 

Lactation - You'll have nothing about your pregnancy body to be self-conscious about. In conjunction with his breeding kink, Frankie fantasizes about the magical ways in which your body will change to accommodate your little one... including your breasts. He hopes that being cradled against your warm chest and drinking your sweetness directly from you is what heaven is like. 

Anal - As previously mentioned, Frankie has a bit of a possessive streak with you. Mixed with his curiosity to discover every which way he can make you feel good, he likes exploring what your body is capable of. Your ass is a tight, warm channel that somehow grips his cock even tighter than your pussy. It's beautiful winking at him while he's fucking your cunt and the sounds you make when he slips just his finger inside are heavenly, how could he not want to stuff you full of his cock there? His pleasure reaches a new height watching you grip the bedsheets with ferocity trying to accommodate the addictive stretch, too. 

Squirting - In his opinion, what's not to like? Squirting is a physical manifestation of a deep, intense orgasm that only he has ever been able to deliver to you, giving him an ego trip like no other. Plus, it makes it so much easier to bring you to yet another release when his cock can slide so smoothly inside you when it's covered in your cum. He gets hard just thinking about it. 

L - Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere you want. Frankie prefers your bedroom for its privacy and familiarity: he likes knowing where everything is that he might need. He's had fantasies about taking you in more exotic places around the house, like the kitchen counter or not he deck chairs in the backyard, but he's been too shy to ask you (yet). Some might label him as vanilla, but he just thinks his needs are stripped down. When you joined him in the shower one morning, though, he enjoyed taking you in the same spot he's usually reduced to fantasizing about you in. While it was sexy, he was a little too preoccupied with making sure neither of you slipped and twisted something to fully enjoy the moment. He sees nothing broken to fix with your soft, pliant bed. 

M - Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Literally anything about you. Frankie's a simple guy, plus he's madly in love with you. Some things that are particularly hard for him to ignore are the way the straps of your sleeveless dresses press softly into the curve of your shoulders; how your sweatpants hug your ass as you walk around the house; and that tousled look you have in the morning. Even if you think you're too mussed to be dissolved in a sexy way, Frankie disagrees. There's something so endearing about you blinking the sleep out of your eyes as you stir in the morning; it makes it incredibly difficult for him to drag himself away from you. 

N - No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

Frankie can be swayed to try anything. He was averse to toys the first time you mentioned them, but now that his ego has been checked he absolutely loves pressing a vibrator to your clit while he's fucking you until you're trembling around him. His boundaries are more or less dictated by your own - he would never do something that you specified you don't like. 

O - Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Frankie has been crowned the pussy-eating king of the PPCU and I agree with this knighthood. He could spend hours between your plush thighs caressing your folds with unhurried licks and suckling on your clit. He's a good learner and knows how to be gentle and firm in all the right places. He'll moan while he has a mouthful of your pussy because giving you pleasure gets him off more than anything. However, he equally likes receiving oral from you. It just doesn't take nearly as long because once your warm tongue is wrapped around him, he's instantly having to fight the urge to come with heavy, panting breaths. 

P - Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Frankie has had to condition himself to stave off coming because you just feel so good. He oscillates between fast and rough and slow and sensual because both paces are difficult for him not to lose himself in. Agility is his friend for lasting long enough to hit the threshold he has set for himself of making sure you come at least twice before he allows himself to burst. 

Q - Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Surprisingly, Frankie's not a fan of quickies despite his short stamina. He carries some level of guilt with him that he doesn't last long, so he doesn't like when a fast precedent is already set. He enjoys taking his time with you, gradually working you up with a combination of his tongue, fingers, and cock until you're leaking and whimpering for him. But if you're clawing at his flannel or pulling him close by his belt, it's impossible for him to say no to you. If you're in public, he'll guide you with his hand on your lower back to the nearest place with just the right amount of privacy, whether that's a single stall bathroom or his truck parked out front. 

R - Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Like I mentioned, Frankie's game for pretty much anything you set your mind to. Though he has his preferences, unlike his lower back they're flexible. All you have to do is voice your desire to try something and Frankie's willing to try it at least once. He's always on the hunt for things to diversify your pleasure, whether it's a new position, location, or fantasy narrative, and he can't find those if he doesn't try new things. Frankie's respect for your boundaries is endless so he usually waits for you to suggest something first, or at the very least he'll brief you on anything he might do differently before you get in the sheets. 

S - Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Frankie can go for multiple rounds, but only if they're relatively short and he'll need a large refractory period in between each one. For example, one of his favorite days was when you fucked in the morning while showering, then again on the couch at lunchtime, then again right before dinner, and a final time later in the night as you fell asleep in bed. He stretches out the first round with lots and lots of foreplay and deep, satisfying ruts of his hips against yours, so you're both sufficiently pleased with just the one round. 

T - Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

While he was single, Frankie fed his curiosity and bought a FleshLight. His cheeks flushed red with embarrassment every time he used it, but the added nerves actually helped him in getting off. He stopped when he started dating you, but after a few months he swallowed his pride and revealed his dirty secret to you. Now it's just something the two of you can laugh at the visual absurdity of together; you joke that it created more bonding between the two of you, but not in the way it was intended to. Frankie also thinks of your vibrator as his best friend: it's a pretty color, a funny shape, and it helps get his girl off - what's not to like? He isn't intimated by it anymore, using it almost every time you have sex. He's even tried grazing it along his shaft and nestled it against his taint, right behind his balls, and it made him cum harder than he thought it would. He doesn't wear it every time but he also enjoys the constricting feeling oof a cock ring, plus it helps him last longer. 

U - Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Frankie is very fair. The most teasing he does is physical, like dipping the head of his cock into your plush, warm cunt just to pull back out or squeezing your pert nipple between his thumb and forefinger until you squirm out of his grasp. He might think about specific ways or things he can say to playfully taunt you, but the moment heats up fast and he doesn't have time for joking around. He doesn't like to hold you off for long when you express your desire for him because he feels lucky that a beautiful woman like you wants him at all. Out of his friends, he feels like he has the least "rizz" so he relies on chivalry rather than charm to seduce the ladies. 

V - Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

I would describe Frankie as moderately vocal. He doesn't suppress his noises as he's making love to you, but they're not loud. Instead of deep groans or low growls, you're more likely to get breathy whines or sweet moans out of his mouth. When he first penetrates you, he inhales sharply and chokes on a moan. He loves murmuring sweet praises to you as he gently brushes your hair out of your face, whether you're in missionary or going down on him. When he cums it almost sounds like he's in pain, seething through his teeth, but it's just the ecstasy ripping up his spine like flames that erases all aches from his soul for those blissful ten seconds. 

W - Wild card (a random head canon for the character)

He shaves the sparse patches in his beard because of two reasons: 1) he feels insecure about them, and 2) it's right where you'd get beard burn on your inner thighs from. No beard = no burn = longer amount of time he can eat your pussy to oblivion. 

X - X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

Frankie's base is thick, usually with stubble poking through the skin of his navel; extending into an average-length shaft with one larger vein on his left side and one smaller vein underneath; that tapers to a spongy head. His balls are also average, a but on the smaller side and don't hang low beneath his cock (because he's almost always on the verge of coming). 

Y - Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

I touched on this already, but he downplays his sex drive a lot because he doesn't ever want to inconvenience you or seem like he's not being satisfied with the sex you do have. But he never turns you down, even when sometimes he thinks he should because he's a little too tired or under the weather - he can never say no to you, not when he loves you so. 

Z - Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Like I mentioned at the very beginning of this post - and I shall end it like Frankie would - Frankie falls asleep with you nestled in his arms before he even knows—

[oogaboogasphincter]

blue | pero tovar x f!reader

summary: Your hateful relationship with the village's most despised, Pero Tovar, takes an unexpected turn one stormy morning.

warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI dub con, enemies to (semi) lovers, unprotected piv, choking, manhandling, almost getting caught, splinters/blood, 2.2k+ words

a/n: guys i love writing for this character even though no one gaf about him 🤭😝 i hope you enjoy reading!! <3

The soft, cool soil of the riverbank squishes between your fingers as you crush its surface, imagining it's him. Those biceps always brushed with sweat or that grotesquely unkempt hair - you wanted him out of your head.

Shame and rage nip at the heels of your desire as you touch yourself, parting yourself and massaging between your folds, to thoughts of the village idiot. Even with the lack of his insufferable presence, your release is dangled on a teasing precipice and remains unsatisfied just like it is when he leans in close enough to let you taste his salacious breath but nothing more. Large swathes of the river caress your waist as they pass by, gentler than his hands ever could, and part around your submerged wrist as you picture him doing just the same to your thighs, then splitting you open with a ferocity that burns on every inhale of your sweet nectar.

Maybe it's an excusable urge. Your small village is desolate of men these days, the infertile grounds and dying horticulture driving them to yonder lands. The ones that remain should be referred to as boys, never men. They assess you like you're a good at the market, weighing your cost and risk for themselves, and remain indecisive of a burdensome bride by his side or the public embarrassment of not taking at least an old maiden. The boys here are weak in heart, meager in stature, pitiful in skill. Maybe it's just his novelty, his newness, because in reality he's much worse. 

Tovar is an unliked brute among your fellow villagers, but you figure at least he's got his stubbornness going for him. It's been so long since you've encountered a man so cunning, that lies through his teeth until they're rotten but has saved his own life by that very trick of his tongue on multiple occasions. No boy in your village could say that.

You bend over the riverbank, digging your cheek into the darkened soil and succumbing to his temptation. Your eyes flutter shut and your lips part around a soft sigh of defeat as your fingers delve into the tight warmth of your cunt, sinking deeper until you reach that spot that makes you squirm...

Twigs snap underneath the tread of boots behind you and the river flares around your body as you whirl abruptly to the sound. Seeing it's him, you cross your arms over your bare chest with haste and make your disgust unmistakable with your expression. 

He stares at you for a moment with his trademark scowl, a downturned quirk of his brow of an angry sort. Something unidentifiable flickers behind his eyes as they glance at your bare shoulders and back up to your face, something no less irritable. 

She's no better than those water wraiths that William warned you about. Her hair looks pretty like this... but it'll act like tendrils do to drag you to hell. The blue-toned sunlight of this hour makes her skin glisten otherworldly... but it'll feel like scales to the touch.

"Storm is coming," he announces briskly, looking up at the darkening sky. Charcoal clouds are sketched hastily in the sky of a powder blue only a distempered morning can conjure. "Get out of there before you get..." he rears his eyes back on you with frigidity, like he wouldn't mind you being, "electrocuted."

Goddamnit. You escaped down here to finally fulfill that craving of release your body yearned for, when it seized on itself with ecstasy that made living in the rest of the world — especially with him around — bearable again. You stand there, arms crossed, stubborn as he is. 

From behind his back he brings out a towel, holding it far out in your direction. Like if you were to touch the fabric at the same time, he would contract a virus on contact. He looks down, off to the side, he shifts his weight to his hip with impatience. 

You huff in frustration and stalk up the riverbank, snatching it from his hand. He turns to face away from you, brows furrowed heavily and mouth drawn tight as he blankly stares at the trees. 

You don't pause your stride to wrap the towel around yourself. It barely grazes the top of your thighs; you realize this is a towel fit for children. Of course, the stinking brute wouldn't know the difference because he never nears anything that has to do with sanitation. 

The splintery undergrowth pokes at your feet and you try to stay only on the damp covering of fallen leaves, buffering the pinpoints, but it doesn't stop and you keep cursing under your breath with every flinch. 

Then, there's a hand snaking across your back and another circling your abdomen, twisting you around by your waist before squeezing you tight as Tovar throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Put me down!" you land a balled fist in between his shoulder blades.

He grunts from the impact and snaps his tongue with exasperation, "Your feet are bleeding!"

"You're a little too late," you grouch. The coolness of the raindrops that have begun to fall from above sting the soles, no doubt leaving a diluted trail of blood as Tovar carries you from the river and up the small hill to your cottage. When he reaches the gate, he forgoes loosening his hold on you and pushes it open with his foot — good rationale, because you were going to bolt the moment he let you go. He brings you inside the small storage room for food stuffs that adjoins the kitchen and he sets you down on your feet, pushing the splinters in deeper. 

You turn to dart for the door but his hand grips your bicep strong enough to bruise. You try to conceal your wince as the splinters dig ever deeper when you spin on your heel to face him with animosity, "When have you cared?" you ask, baffling at your bloodiness. 

And you're stricken with some unknown emotion when he just... stands there. And if you weren't so dizzied by his actions and the radiating pain and the fearsome storm that has brewed outside, you'd think his scowl has... softened. 

He shoves an ale barrel over, braced with the might of his shoulder and heaving with the motion. He puts his calloused hands on your shoulders and pushes you down unforgivingly onto its top. Though you don't really have a choice, you remain seated and he stands back to give you a once over, sighing with irritation as he stares into your eyes. He grabs an empty bowl from the shelf and leans outside the door to fill it with the downpour.

His armor rattles with every huff as he stalks into the kitchen, but not before holding up a finger and glaring at you, "Stay." Returning a few moments later, he sets the bowl down on the floor and gets down on one knee. He holds your ankle still and brings the water to you, switching his grasp to support the bowl from underneath. You can see his lips moving with no discernible sound, and you realize he's... counting.

"What are you doing?" you inquire.

He neglects to glance up at you when he feels the force of your impatience, "William and I learned a specific way to remove splinters if you don't want them expanding inside your skin or breaking off so you have to dig for them." This time, a knowing scowl is thrown at you. You deflect with indifference.

After he's satisfied, he puts the bowl on the floor and reveals a pair of tweezers. With one hand grasping you to hold you steady, he cautiously grabs a piece of black bark and extracts it. You squirm and he taps you with the back of his fingers, wanting you to recollect yourself and gain some patience. The funny thing is, for the first time ever, that's what he seems to be full of right now. 

Tovar works carefully, alternating warm soaks of your foot in the water and removals of debris until you have only a few small cuts left over.

His eyes catch underneath your towel as he stands up, a flicker of a slip in his restraint. Your gaze widens in return, lips parted with uncertainty. 

A pregnant pause. You stand and he shoves the barrel out of his way, lunging for your waist and pushing you back as his mouth descends upon yours with vitriolic hunger. You reach to thread your fingers through his rain-soaked hair, but he turns you around to face the wall. He handles you to bend at your hips, you hold onto a shelf as he impatiently rummages through his armor for his cock. 

All those months of tempting glares streaked with wrongdoing, all the hateful exchanges you had the wherewithal to throw at each other; the culmination of your mutual, detestable desire was finally here and it felt like an unraveling of ecstasy already. 

He spits in his hand and you can hear the slick sounds as he strokes along his cock, a soft exhale of relief leaving his lips. He pushes at your entrance, and you can tell from his tense hips that he had planned on snapping them into you, but he finds the will to slow and inches in at an excruciatingly gentle pace. 

He's so big, bigger than you thought he would be even with the impressive tents you've seen him sporting underneath his tunics. Agitation had eaten you alive as you had simultaneously dreamed of castrating him of his girthy pride and taking it all the way back into your throat, gazing up at him with your nose nuzzling his navel. Tovar seethes through his teeth, the noise bleeding into a groan when he's sheathed to the hilt inside your plushness. He mirrors your disdain as he growls lowly, almost to himself, "Of course you're tight." You glare at him over your shoulder but he renders your abhorrence useless when he starts to pull out, his cock dragging viciously along your walls...

...until he shoves back inside and begins a rhythm that's harsher than you had time to adjust for, but burns so deliciously that all you can do is mewl. For some reason, you're still holding onto the towel — probably because you need something to tether you to the earth — but Tovar growls and tears it to the floor. His hands snake around you and grab your tits, pulling you upright so your back is flush to his cheek. His nose presses against your temple, his breath hot as it fans out over your cheek in rhythmic pants. 

Your eyes squeeze shut as the coil deep inside your hips tightens and tightens, threatening to snap at any moment. "Tovar," you beg in a strained plea, for what you're not sure. He switches his grasp so one arm is strapped across your chest, pinning you back against him, and his other hand curls around your throat and squeezes. He grunts in your ear, nearing his own release...

You're almost there, you're almost there... and then Ballard makes his presence known in the adjacent room; your housemate that had sown himself into your village with less resistance than his comrade who's currently buried in your heat. 

"God fucking damnit," you curse in vain, exasperated and out of breath even as Tovar slows his thrusts to a halt. He's tempted to pay no heed to his comrade's presence and continue ravishing you, but he knows the atmosphere has shifted from the private passion shared just between the two of you. Your sanctuary has been breached, an inseparable mixture of carnage and hatred spilling out like lava that would burn alive anyone who sees.

Reluctantly, he tears himself from you. He rummages behind you, your soul too dissatisfied to have a mind, until he covers you with a sheet he tore from the laundry pile. "Play dead," he whispers briskly and hoists you in his arms without a second thought, carrying you like a bride. 

With your eyes closed and face buried in his chest, Tovar's charade that, "I found her asleep outside," sounds believable. Ballard gruffs as Tovar passes by, "Be gentle with her and leave. Set her in her bedroom, I'll feed her when she wakes." 

Tovar carries you through the cottage, opens and closes doors with the toe and heel of his boot, and finally settles you with unfamiliar tenderness in your bed.

He hesitates, leaning over the side of the bed and hovering above you with his hands underneath your body. The air between you is thicker than it was even in the smaller room before, heavy with question and desires too fearful to be spoken. 

A lock of your hair has fallen out of place and some forsaken voice in your heart wants him to move it. He notices, but remains stiff. 

"I'll return after nightfall," he breathes, standing to remove himself from your induced reverie. 

Your gazes linger while he stands in your doorway, his hand twisting the knob absently with contemplation. Ultimately, he closes it and leaves without another word. 

You feel emptier than you ever have without his presence and the waning familiarity of your hatred for him. What the hell had you gotten yourself into?

main masterlist 🌧️ join my taglist!

taglist: @pascalpanic @maievdenoir @pedrostories @your-voice-is-mellifluous @uncassettodiricordi @harriedandharassed @scentedcandletidalwave @readiskeepingmegoing

[oogaboogasphincter]

Frankie Morales spicy alphabet 🦦🧢

I've always wanted to fill out alphabets for each character in the PPCU (Pedro Pascal Cinematic Universe) according to my own personal headcanons and I'm finally getting around to it! First up: the fandom's crowned 🐱-eating king, Frankie! MDNI 18+ ONLY under the cut! (alphabet template credit here)

A - Aftercare (what they're like after sex)

Honestly, Frankie gets tired quickly after sex. He's fallen asleep before with a warm washcloth in his hand as he was cleaning you up, his cheek smooshed against your inner thigh. He'll make sure you have everything you need - a glass of water, a snack - and that you're wrapped up comfortably in a blanket, but then it's lights out for him (**bonus endearment points for snoring so loudly that he's woken himself up on more than one occasion, but only when he falls asleep with his head tipped back in the aftermath of bliss**). 

B - Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)

Frankie likes his hands for all the things they can accomplish: taking care of his daughter, fixing things around the house, loving you. He holds some pride for his arms, too, because he thinks they're the most impressive part of his body in terms of muscle (he holds the arm wrestling record amongst his group of friends, even against Benny). On you, Frankie isn't picky. In crude terms, he likes tits and ass equally. But he also loves thighs, ankles, your neck, hands, the curve of your back... picking a favorite body part for him is like picking a favorite child: impossible and unethical. 

C - Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Frankie's cum is an average volume, but it runs more on the clear side. He has a few bad habits that sometimes have an impact; some of his loads are more runny or thick than others. Although he loves coming inside you, he just might love it even more when he comes outside of your pussy. Watching it run over the curves of your sweet face or ass fills him with just the right amount of possessive satisfaction. You're his, and it's written all over you. 

D - Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

It drives Frankie wild when you ride his face and tug on his hair, or reach around and give his ass a slap when he's on top of you, so this has all led him to harboring one fantasy in particular: Frankie wants you to peg hin. He's not even sure of the logistics (how would you get any pleasure out of it if he's the one receiving the strap?) but picturing you taking on his role by gripping his hips and rutting into his ass from behind while he's on all fours... he doesn't let himself think too deeply about it because he fears his heart will get too excited and miss a beat. Additionally (and don't tell his friends this) but sometimes... his brotherhood with his friends feels so intimate that the thought has crossed his mind about... at least kissing one of them. Unless you catch onto his flushed cheeks and successfully interrogate him, though, he'll take this secret to his grave. 

E - Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

There are many differing origin stories amongst his buddies about his nickname, Catfish; but his closest friends would like to think that Frankie earned the moniker from his ability to find a willing participant in any situation with that endearing stubble, or "whiskers". Frankie has racked up a decent number of partners over the years, but with most of them sex seemed nearly mechanical, just the basic stuff. When he's in a committed relationship, he gains more knowledge by closely learning your specific do's and don't's and exploring new territory together. 

F - Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Dependent on his mood, but missionary is his go-to for a reason. He loves the deep intimacy that comes with gazing into your eyes, watching flickers of emotion in them with each of his movements. He likes how easy the position makes it to kiss your lips, your cheeks, your neck. And he's right there to whisper loving praise into your ear, warm promises to treat you right for as long as you'll let him. 

G - Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

I think the dominant emotion swirling around Frankie during sex is nervousness. Of course he'll be comfortable around you, but he's so eager to please and he wants you to be comfortable too. He'll be constantly checking on you, his eyes reading your body language whenever he's not verbally asking you what feels good. But, he's a sucker for you - so if you laugh, he'll laugh too. If you giggle at how the noise the bottle of lube makes sounds like a fart, he'll laugh along with you. 

H - Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Again, I think Frankie's nerves get to him here. He hit his early twenties in an era that was dominated by clean shaven genitals and he fell victim to the influence during those years. Plus, he learned during his time in the military that it just feels cleaner down there when he's shaved while he doesn't have regular access to a shower. But, if you voiced your desire for something more, he would ditch his razor as soon as you asked. 

I - Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect?)

Frankie is very romantic. His calloused hands travel gently along your skin with reverence when you make love. Note: most times with him are too intimate to be considered "fucking" or simply "having sex" (though these do happen when the mood is right). When you go down on him, he'll reach for your hand and intertwine his fingers with yours. Overall, Frankie can get self-conscious so he likes to devote his attention entirely to you. 

J - Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Frankie masturbates more often than he's willing to admit. It's not because he's anywhere near dissatisfied with the intimacy he has with you, actually far from it: his drive is so high that he doesn't want to bother you with extraneous rounds, so he takes matters into his own hands (literally). He jerks off in the shower most mornings because it's become a part of his routine; it's easy clean-up and it helps keep him calm and his desire in check throughout the day. It never takes him long, just a minute or two of quick strokes over his cock with a tight fist before he's spilling over his knuckles with a breathy whine. With you on his mind, he doesn't need much stimulation to get him to that split-second of heaven. 

K - Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Breeding - Frankie already has a baby and there's nothing he'd love more than to make more with you. He spends his time daydreaming about raising little ones with you, but he's not naive: creating them occupies his mind often, too. He loves coming inside you just to keep his cock sheathed in your plush walls, keeping every last drop nestled deep inside your warm cunt. 

Lactation - You'll have nothing about your pregnancy body to be self-conscious about. In conjunction with his breeding kink, Frankie fantasizes about the magical ways in which your body will change to accommodate your little one... including your breasts. He hopes that being cradled against your warm chest and drinking your sweetness directly from you is what heaven is like. 

Anal - As previously mentioned, Frankie has a bit of a possessive streak with you. Mixed with his curiosity to discover every which way he can make you feel good, he likes exploring what your body is capable of. Your ass is a tight, warm channel that somehow grips his cock even tighter than your pussy. It's beautiful winking at him while he's fucking your cunt and the sounds you make when he slips just his finger inside are heavenly, how could he not want to stuff you full of his cock there? His pleasure reaches a new height watching you grip the bedsheets with ferocity trying to accommodate the addictive stretch, too. 

Squirting - In his opinion, what's not to like? Squirting is a physical manifestation of a deep, intense orgasm that only he has ever been able to deliver to you, giving him an ego trip like no other. Plus, it makes it so much easier to bring you to yet another release when his cock can slide so smoothly inside you when it's covered in your cum. He gets hard just thinking about it. 

L - Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere you want. Frankie prefers your bedroom for its privacy and familiarity: he likes knowing where everything is that he might need. He's had fantasies about taking you in more exotic places around the house, like the kitchen counter or the deck chairs in the backyard, but he's been too shy to ask you (yet). Some might label him as vanilla, but he just thinks his needs are stripped down. When you joined him in the shower one morning, though, he enjoyed taking you in the same spot he's usually reduced to fantasizing about you in. While it was sexy, he was a little too preoccupied with making sure neither of you slipped and twisted something to fully enjoy the moment. He sees nothing broken to fix with your soft, pliant bed. 

M - Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Literally anything about you. Frankie's a simple guy, plus he's madly in love with you. Some things that are particularly hard for him to ignore are the way the straps of your sleeveless dresses press softly into the curve of your shoulders; how your sweatpants hug your ass as you walk around the house; and that tousled look you have in the morning. Even if you think you're too mussed to be dissheveled in a sexy way, Frankie disagrees. There's something so endearing about you blinking the sleep out of your eyes as you stir in the morning; it makes it incredibly difficult for him to drag himself away from you. 

N - No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

Frankie can be swayed to try anything. He was averse to toys the first time you mentioned them, but now that his ego has been checked he absolutely loves pressing a vibrator to your clit while he's fucking you until you're trembling around him. His boundaries are more or less dictated by your own - he would never do something that you specified you don't like. 

O - Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Frankie has been crowned the pussy-eating king of the PPCU and I agree with this knighthood. He could spend hours between your plush thighs caressing your folds with unhurried licks and suckling on your clit. He's a good learner and knows how to be gentle and firm in all the right places. He'll moan while he has a mouthful of your pussy because giving you pleasure gets him off more than anything. However, he equally likes receiving oral from you. It just doesn't take nearly as long because once your warm tongue is wrapped around him, he's instantly having to fight the urge to come with heavy, panting breaths. 

P - Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Frankie has had to condition himself to stave off coming because you just feel so good. He oscillates between fast and rough and slow and sensual because both paces are difficult for him not to lose himself in. Agility is his friend for lasting long enough to hit the threshold he has set for himself of making sure you come at least twice before he allows himself to burst. 

Q - Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Surprisingly, Frankie's not a fan of quickies despite his short stamina. He carries some level of guilt with him that he doesn't last long, so he doesn't like when a fast precedent is already set. He enjoys taking his time with you, gradually working you up with a combination of his tongue, fingers, and cock until you're leaking and whimpering for him. But if you're clawing at his flannel or pulling him close by his belt, it's impossible for him to say no to you. If you're in public, he'll guide you with his hand on your lower back to the nearest place with just the right amount of privacy, whether that's a single stall bathroom or his truck parked out front. 

R - Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Like I mentioned, Frankie's game for pretty much anything you set your mind to. Though he has his preferences, unlike his lower back they're flexible. All you have to do is voice your desire to try something and Frankie's willing to try it at least once. He's always on the hunt for things to diversify your pleasure, whether it's a new position, location, or fantasy narrative, and he can't find those if he doesn't try new things. Frankie's respect for your boundaries is endless so he usually waits for you to suggest something first, or at the very least he'll brief you on anything he might do differently before you get in the sheets. 

S - Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Frankie can go for multiple rounds, but only if they're relatively short and he'll need a large refractory period in between each one. For example, one of his favorite days was when you fucked in the morning while showering, then again on the couch at lunchtime, then again right before dinner, and a final time later in the night as you fell asleep in bed. He stretches out the first round with lots and lots of foreplay and deep, satisfying ruts of his hips against yours, so you're both sufficiently pleased with just the one round. 

T - Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

While he was single, Frankie fed his curiosity and bought a FleshLight. His cheeks flushed red with embarrassment every time he used it, but the added nerves actually helped him in getting off. He stopped when he started dating you, but after a few months he swallowed his pride and revealed his dirty secret to you. Now it's just something the two of you can laugh at the visual absurdity of together; you joke that it created more bonding between the two of you, but not in the way it was intended to. Frankie also thinks of your vibrator as his best friend: it's a pretty color, a funny shape, and it helps get his girl off - what's not to like? He isn't intimidated by it anymore, using it almost every time you have sex. He's even tried grazing it along his shaft and nestled it against his taint, right behind his balls, and it made him cum harder than he thought it would. He doesn't wear it every time but he also enjoys the constricting feeling of a cock ring, plus it helps him last longer. 

U - Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Frankie is very fair. The most teasing he does is physical, like dipping the head of his cock into your plush, warm cunt just to pull back out or squeezing your pert nipple between his thumb and forefinger until you squirm out of his grasp. He might think about specific ways or things he can say to playfully taunt you, but the moment heats up fast and he doesn't have time for joking around. He doesn't like to hold you off for long when you express your desire for him because he feels lucky that a beautiful woman like you wants him at all. Out of his friends, he feels like he has the least "rizz" so he relies on chivalry rather than charm to seduce the ladies. 

V - Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

I would describe Frankie as moderately vocal. He doesn't suppress his noises as he's making love to you, but they're not loud. Instead of deep groans or low growls, you're more likely to get breathy whines or sweet moans out of his mouth. When he first penetrates you, he inhales sharply and chokes on a moan. He loves murmuring sweet praises to you as he gently brushes your hair out of your face, whether you're in missionary or going down on him. When he cums it almost sounds like he's in pain, seething through his teeth, but it's just the ecstasy ripping up his spine like flames that erases all aches from his soul for those blissful ten seconds. 

W - Wild card (a random head canon for the character)

He shaves the sparse patches in his beard because of two reasons: 1) he feels insecure about them, and 2) it's right where you'd get beard burn on your inner thighs from. No beard = no burn = longer amount of time he can eat your pussy to oblivion. 

X - X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

Frankie's base is thick, usually with stubble poking through the skin of his navel; extending into an average-length shaft with one larger vein on his left side and one smaller vein underneath; that tapers to a spongy head. His balls are also average, a but on the smaller side and don't hang low beneath his cock (because he's almost always on the verge of coming). 

Y - Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

I touched on this already, but he downplays his sex drive a lot because he doesn't ever want to inconvenience you or seem like he's not being satisfied with the sex you do have. But he never turns you down, even when sometimes he thinks he should because he's a little too tired or under the weather - he can never say no to you, not when he loves you so. 

Z - Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Like I mentioned at the very beginning of this post - and I shall end it like Frankie would - Frankie falls asleep with you nestled in his arms before he even knows—

[oogaboogasphincter]

who else up crying about what a good father joel miller is???

[oogaboogasphincter]

Dumb & Prophetic

inspired by Dumb & Poetic by Sabrina Carpenter

summary: Your relationship with Joel has changed since your arrival to Jackson. His avoidance spells an unmendable ending for the two of you.

warnings: angst, reader has the ability to have kids, established relationship, domestic arguing, yelling, break-up | 1400+ words

a/n: submitted without comment 😁

After trudging through the emaciated shell of post-apocalyptic America, toting a vulnerable you and an ambivalent Ellie by his side, Joel was finally trying to help himself in Jackson. But he was trying to patch up his gaping wounds with sparkly band-aids and no antibiotics, letting the virus fester in his soul without leaking it to the outside world. He had found a place in the woodwork of Jackson and made a caricature of it. 

You’re so dumb and poetic // It’s just what I fall for, I like the aesthetic

Joel was concernedly nonchalant about the enemies he had made along the way to this safe haven, whose advertisement he suckled from without reading the fine print. You knew there was bound to be someone out there of the many, many, many he had put in an early grave — he had to — who possessed a vengeance like him. 

But he was decidedly ignorant, would always tell you that you were paranoid, that you had yet to shake off the ingrained fight or flight response that came with surviving a world like this one for so long. The walls of Jackson were the perimeter of his responsibility, often reduced to just the warped inner workings of his mind. It’s like his instincts that had once been sharp enough to protect you to the ends of the Earth with ruthless lethality have died. Instead, he pours all his energy into “healing” himself. 

Gold star for highbrow manipulation // And “love everyone” is your favorite quotation

You were forced to witness the facade of his friendliness to his brother, like some kind of collateral. Then, Joel would come home to you and haunt your evenings with complaints about Tommy. The masks of those sweet smiles and lighthearted jokes of earlier would melt off and you were left to face the carnage of the embroiled rage and jealousy that Joel felt for his brother. “How could he ever bring a kid into a world like this?” “How can he say Jackson is so wonderful when there are fist fights and threats of raiders or Infected every day?” In some instances, you agreed with Joel’s ravings. And yet, he was never man enough to hint any of this to his brother’s face. You were expected to keep your mouth shut and pretend like everything was warm and cordial in the family.

Try to come off like you’re soft and well-spoken // Jack off to lyrics by Leonard Cohen 

In your own relationship, you had asked Joel to be more open — and opted to nudge him with subtlety when the words shone like headlights on his heart of a deer. All he gave you was regurgitated lines from his newfound coping mechanism: therapy. You had no idea why he went; that just wasn’t him, not the him that you knew and loved fiercely. Joel always took it upon himself to fix everything, took on every burden under the sun just so it wouldn’t pester the ones he loved. He was always self-sacrificial but he had reached a new level and, in doing so, he had become annoying. 

Don’t think you understand // Just ‘cause you talk like one doesn’t make you a man

After saying it nicely a million times over, you were tired of his negativity that trampled both your efforts to hoist his spirit. Finally, one day your resolve snapped, “I don’t want to hear it anymore, Joel! If you learned how to analyze your relationship with Tommy so well, why don’t you actually try and make it better? Better yet, try dumping all the shit you tell me about Tommy onto him! See if you can respect each other’s boundaries then.” 

Joel just stood there, hands in his pockets and staring through the floor. You took a step closer to him, softening your voice and the blow for his stupid, sad eyes. Well, just a little bit — “Why do you even take advice from some woman who can’t even fix her own problems? That you have to bribe to talk to?”

Joel inhales sharply, surfacing from his hellish reverie and looking you square in the eye. His gleam with guilt and ire, “Everyone has a price.” 

Your brows furrow so hard at his condescension that they hurt. “Yeah, exactly. And mine is—“

You cut yourself off, getting tearful as your emotions choke you up. You cross your arms and turn away, walking away, before you whirl back on your heel to make a leveling plea, “Do you really feel that alone? That you can’t talk to your family or Ellie? That you can’t talk to me?” 

Joel visibly gets angry at your indication that Ellie wasn’t family, even though she wasn’t acting like a very grateful member recently. Joel never could stomach your critique that Ellie wasn’t deserving of Joel’s tireless efforts to reconnect with her, not even after her futile display of repayment for what he did. She always groveled that he took her life’s purpose away from her; but without Joel, Ellie wouldn’t have had a shot either way. 

Joel takes a step toward you, shoulders square and gaze dark, and you don’t flinch. You’d seen him pull the same act on raiders he was trying to intimidate on the road in preparation to ignore whatever script they had rehearsed, to instead use that time to plot how he was going to use their stolen souls toward your salvation. You were utterly shattered that you were now on the receiving end of that treatment instead of being tucked protectively behind his hulking frame. Though tears spill over your eyes and run down your cheeks, a smile of cruel disbelief twitches on your mouth as a severe whisper ghosts past your lips, “I’m not scared of you.”

With his ego blown, he sits back on his haunches a bit. He gruffs, “I’m sorry if you only loved me when I was tortured. If you can’t love me as a healed man, then you don’t love me.”

You scoff, “Are you fucking crazy?” His creased brow of idiotic confusion makes you yell, “You’re not healed! If anything, you were more level-headed when we were out in the thick of all that man-eat-man shit!” 

He shakes his head, looking to the side and huffing an irritated chuckle out of the corner of his mouth. He shifts his weight to his hip and shoves his hands in his pockets again, not giving you the respect of eye contact. Instead, you’re forced to look at the profile you have countlessly tried to imagine how it would morph with your own if, in a perfect world or perhaps a past life, you and Joel had kids.

You’re runnin’ so fast from the hearts that you’re breakin’ // Save all your breath for your floor mediation 

You inhale deeply with rage and plea, “I love you, Joel. There’s nothing I want more than to see you relaxed and happy.” He starts to interject, putting his hand up in the air as if to stop you. You cut him off before he can, “But this isn’t it. This isn’t you. You know it. I know it. You can’t fucking tell me you’re happy here, happy with your life.”

You’re so empathetic, you’d make a great wife // And I promise the mushrooms aren’t changing your life 

Joel sighs, tired and hollow, “It’s the best I can do with what’s left of it.” 

You cross your arms as you get tearful and hesitate your speech to find your voice in the rubble of the demeaning comment, “If I’m something you’re settling for, then I don’t want to be with you.”

Joel looks up at you, his expression snapping into fright.

You say, “You’re right. I don’t love you.”

He runs after you as you flee to the door, tugging on your sleeve in speechless begging to get you to stay. You face him and caution, “I’m scared for you. You’ve turned into something pathetic that I don’t even recognize. I’m worried how you’re gonna treat Ellie and Tommy and everyone else that loves you.” You wrench the door open around his frame and push your way out, groveling, “And this good guy persona? No one fucking buys it. And I fucking hate it.”

Well, you crashed the car and abandoned the wreckage // Fuck with my head like it’s some kind of fetish

You walk out, pausing and turning to say a final, devastated few words to Joel as he hunches in the doorway like he’s been shot. “You were a good man before. I’m sorry that I clearly didn’t make you feel that way.” You swallow thickly as a foreboding tendril shivers up the back of your neck, “I hope you stop being nice to the wrong people.”

Joel swallows too.

Don’t think you understand // Just 'cause you leave like one doesn’t make you a man

main masterlist 🖤 join my taglist!

taglist: @pascalpanic @maievdenoir @pedrostories @uncassettodiricordi @harriedandharassed @scentedcandletidalwave @joelsflannel @readiskeepingmegoing

[oogaboogasphincter]

if anyone has any feedback for me i’d really appreciate it 🥺🫶🫶 i know this content isn’t for everyone but if you feel comfortable reading it, please feel free to comment!

Ezra's Elixir (dark!Ezra x f!reader) Snake Oil - Chapter 1

middle gif credit: @gracevanpelt collage by me!

summary: While trying to deal with the turmoil of your best-friend-turned-lover's disappearance, you come across an oddly welcoming stranger who might hold a solution to ease your pain.

warnings: MDNI 18+ ONLY - reader is bisexual, was in a relationship with a f!oc, and is described as having a "womanly" shape; period typical medical misinformation, misogyny and gender role stereotypes; manipulation; themes of shame, grief and isolation; religious/christianity references and trauma; discussion about sexuality, queer repression and homophobia; stigma around doctors, mental illness and health; non con; drugging/drug use; unprotected piv sex; creampie | 5.9k words

a/n: oh my goodness i'm so excited to share this with you all! **i would like to reiterate that since this is a dark! series, i ask that you please do not read this series if the content bothers you. if you’re a regular reader of my work, please don’t feel pressured to read this if it’s not your cup of tea!! in the same vein, i ask that everyone adhere to fandom etiquette and not direct hate towards myself nor anyone who reads this material. additionally, just because i write about something DOES NOT mean i condone it. fictitious material is a creative outlet for exploring dark themes in a safe manner. lots of people heal from real life traumas through dark fiction by being able to rewrite their memories or feel a gain in sense of control over their memories. you are responsible for your own media consumption.** if you would like to be added or removed from the taglist, please let me know in the comments! other than that, i hope you all enjoy!

You wrap yourself in a dark cloak and sweep through the night to downtown, coming to a shadowed corner and hiding in its obscurity as crowds of men file in before showtime. With your eye on the glowing clock across the street, you count through the first and second acts and watch as the moths try to dodge the raindrops to get to their sacred light. There’s one thing you’d fight to taste again…

When the time is right, you approach the ticket booth with your hood drawn and keep the waist of your coat loose so as to not silhouette and betray your womanly shape to onlookers. You put down the money and the clerk furrows his brow at the hand half as wide as the ones that usually come through here. Your heart beats so loud it nearly muddles the crashing thunder in the background. In a flash of lightning, he catches a glint of your smudged eyeliner. His pupils narrow, but not from the light. Without missing a beat, you take out twice the amount of admission and set it on the counter, trying to hide the fact that you’re finding it hard to breathe around your throat that has swelled to a pinhole. By some evil, the clerk pushes your money back to you… but by some grace, he holds your gaze and tilts his head back in the direction of the entrance doors. You depart with a mutual nod, a silent oath to your secrecy in this exchange, before you find your way inside. 

It had been two months since Sadie disappeared. Two long, ever-grieving months of trying to find your best friend turned lover. You had been the one to report her missing after she didn’t come home for two days, the one to inform her parents soon after, and the one to spearhead the search efforts — all to no avail, not even an anecdotal trace. 

Being in love with another woman was no easy thing in your environment of 1895 New Orleans, Louisiana. You and Sadie had bided your time chatting up men in the parlors downtown if only to deter anyone from getting too suspicious that neither of you had taken a husband yet. The lies were just too easy: the spark was lost on William, George wasn’t as cute as you remembered, and Henry was no Mr. Right. It was even easier to go home with Sadie and just be with her unconditional companionship, her perpetual love, her tender kisses. 

In your state of distress, you succumbed to the distraction of your more base desires and sought out the lurid company of a burlesque show. You keep to the back of the huddled crowd of men who are practically falling out of their seats with eagerness. Their hushed whispers of excitement waft in the air like their tobacco smoke, murmured sexist comments woven between the fleeting flicks of their lighters. When the lights brighten, their chitters crescend to whoops and hollers in time with your nerves as the dancer sashays onto the stage. 

Big band jazz blasts from somewhere unseen as she begins her striptease and you look on hungrily while taking on the unfelt guilt of every man in the room. A warm pit forms in your stomach as the silk slips off her body like water and puddles onto the floor. Her endless skin inflicts a hankering on your tongue for that of Sadie, for her glossed lips and the familiar, warm underside of her jaw…

Your pulse thrums so strong throughout your body that it carries your feet down the stained velveteen halls to the exit. Your greed kept you for too long and what was meant to be a quiet escape before the show officially ended has been replaced with the ambling footsteps of men that gain on you like a stampede. You keep your head low and your strides swift but bulky like any other patron here tonight, like a man rushing home to his wife who was expecting him three hours ago. 

A double take from two men as you shoulder by them makes your heart stutter so abruptly you choke on it and have to cover it with a cough. In your debacle, you nearly run into a streetlight advertising yet another reason why you shouldn’t be here, especially not this late at night: the Cajun Kidnapper, a man who has been surveying the downtown streets like a hawk awaiting pretty, young women like you to give him one second too many of courtesy before they disappear without a trace. No identifying details about his appearance or methods has been published, and yet his elusiveness makes him seem both a faraway threat and a waiting shadow at the same time. 

You pick up your pace as the rain pours down in buckets, thunder reverberating so loud it shakes the loose pieces of tar from the street’s edge. You stick to the sides and out of the way of racing horse buggies that splash through puddles and onto your clothes. You don’t have time to stop and pester, and can’t afford to be caught as a lone woman by anyone this time of night. 

To distract yourself, you think about the burlesque. The woman’s soft curves, her potent sexuality… 

Two women yank you from your reverie. They stand on the steps of a house just a few yards from you, holding their shawls tight around their faces as they look into the night. One of them notices you as you come closer, the street lamp shining just enough to illuminate the damning features of your face. 

“Madam! Please, get out of this rain and get home! It’s not safe for a woman!” she begs.

Another distraction comes; a whinny from a police horse that has been reigned to a stop in the street. 

“You there!” an officer shouts. “Where’s your husband?”

A third bystander gets involved, this time on the opposite side of the street. The back doors of a small carriage clap open and a man jumps down from the inside. His boots splash in the thick mud that has accumulated in the slope of the road, acting as wheel chocks to his parked vessel. His broad silhouette whips around, clearly looking for something in the dark. He stops when he pivots toward your direction and he beckons you over with his hand held high in the rain. 

“Right here, sir!” he yells through the thunder. 

The torrential downpour isn’t showing any signs of laying off and it’s waterlogging your clothes. The possibility of you trudging home before your dress becomes immovable is slim. Though you don’t know this man, he must respect a woman’s right to her livelihood since he’s covering for you without even knowing your name. You eye the cab of the carriage and it looks big enough for two people like he’s suggesting… and, if necessary, the blade of your knife tucked away in your boot reminds you of its presence as it presses coldly against your shin. If necessary, you think, you’ll be okay. Besides, would the Cajun Kidnapper be this obvious in trapping his prey?

Perhaps. 

You run over to the back of the carriage.

–

The stranger clambers into the back of his carriage first and hoists you up by your hands, gripping you tightly so your rain-soaked skins don’t slip from each other. The wind is spared from blame for the detestable weather outside, the culprit being the thunder and rain, so the stranger leaves the back doors of his carriage open for now — and for good reason.

An oil lamp illuminates that what appeared on the outside to be a spacious cab has severely narrowed due to the shelves of goods that line the interior. Your unnamed comrade sits with his back pressed to the driver’s box and his knees tucked up into his chest, reminding you of a young child. Yet, his words are almost chiding as he gruffs in an amalgamated accent, “For what irrelevant reason is a marvelous specimen such as yourself roaming forbiddenly about the streets of the South on this night?” 

You sit across from him, folding your legs underneath yourself and your hands in your lap. “I was visiting a friend,” you lie seamlessly, “We had an argument and I wanted to go back home.”

The stranger pauses his reply, drinking in your stoic expression with an analytic gleam. He says quieter, “Pardon my unsavory ideals, but a friend who lets a pretty lady like you go wandering off on her own just because of some argument is no friend.”

You shrug. A faint smile graces your lips at his sympathetic honesty. “People vary.”

“Indeed they do,” he mutters to himself, almost matter-of-factly. He leans forward and sticks his hand out to you, “I’m Ezra.”

You accept his introduction and shake on it, exchanging raindrops from your palm to his. Thin lines scar his skin from in between his knuckles to the center, almost like a firework… there’s a matching crescent on his cheek, too. 

“And whose unparalleled beauty do I have the immense pleasure of sheltering from the rain?” he keeps hold of your hand and raises his brow to tease you with the truth that you share no matrimony. Your gaze drops out of shyness, but the corners of your mouth turn up in amused betrayal. 

You tell him your name and he sits back with a satisfied exhale. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he nearly purrs, his voice becoming a little breathy as if he suddenly got tired. When you gather the courage to look at him again, you catch his eyes climbing slowly from your thighs to your face. There’s a comforting warmth that strikes through the darkness of his gaze, appraising and welcoming. If you weren’t imagining things, he appeared fond to have such a perfect stranger in these close confines. You think that you share the same fondness with the fact that you may as well have been hauled off to a holding cell by now for walking the streets unaccompanied. He saved you, and despite anything else he might do, you thank him for that. 

He’s dropped his legs from his chest, stretching them out to fill the length of the cab. His boots nearly touch your thigh and though he respects your space, he shows no intention of giving you any more. His hand rests on his thigh, dangerously close to what you hope is just a fold of the thick fabric of his pants… or do you?

Ezra’s handsomeness is hefty, you know this even without the filter of desperation shrouding your carnal restraint. His features are so masculine, so rugged yet somehow they’re pieced together in such a manner that he remains intriguing, not severe. Not like a symphony, but more like a ransom note in its plain mystery.

Thunder breaks you from your daze and lightning calls your attention as it snaps a tree in half outside. Before you know it, Ezra is reaching past you to pull the doors closed with his other hand steady on your shoulder. He complains with amicable distaste, “Damn torrents. I swear, Louisiana doesn’t give one poor soul much of a warning ‘fore she washes them through.” He retakes his seat and his ankle grazes your knee. 

You give him a soft smile to match the mulled noise from outside. “Thank you. For—”

He stops you short with a breathy, self-assured chuckle and a crooked smirk on his cheeks. “You’re mighty welcome.”

You tighten your smile before you drop your gaze. Eye contact seems far more intimate now without it viewable to the outside world. With the doors shut, your attention is pulled to study your new surroundings. 

Rows of shelves comprise the interior walls of the carriage, each one stockpiled with small glass vials with cork stoppers. You lean forward slightly and wipe through the raindrops on your lashes to get a better look at their scrawn labels. A bottle of purple sprigs reads “lavender”; another with dashes of green reads “thyme”… but the oddities grow as you peruse down the line. One vial of red liquid reads “Vampyr’s Solution,” another of yellow reads, “In Place of the Sun.” 

“What’s all this?” you inquire.

Ezra gives a sly grin as he explains, “I’m a medicine man. I travel the outskirts of the world, the parts where those privileged, techno-wizardry doctors,” he waggles his fingers mockingly, “of our modern times don’t dare to hang up their bleached coats. I provide antidotes to the pained, ailments to the healthy, and refuge to the weary.”

Sitting forward, he focuses his stare on you, waiting for you to connect your gaze with his before he speaks, “Now, if I knew any better I’d keep my mouth shut… but I think somethin’s plaguing that mind of yours, sweetheart.” 

Your nerves freeze the words in the air. Your reply starts to come out before you’ve approved it, fiending for release. “Yes, I… I’ve been feeling…”

You debate sharing your story with Ezra. He may have helped you evade the discriminatory eyes of the law, but where does it terminate? Coming across someone welcoming of “deviantes” was more rare than a feminist which, in these times, was scarce on its own. But, you don’t have to give him context. He only inquired, you just have to complete your sentence and nothing else. Plenty of circumstances are treated without probable cause. 

You wrack your brain for the right word to describe the hollow sensation you’ve been feeling. It didn’t hit right as Sadie disappeared, probably because you had faith in her to find her way back. She was — is, dear god. She is resourceful, determined, and utterly in love with you as much as you are with her. But maybe the stigma of your relationship that you’re trying to conceal now was just too much for her to bear… you would never blame her. “Disparate.”

Ezra gleans, sitting up on his thighs like you, “Well, by the looks of it the Maker has divinely orchestrated our meeting.” He closes the small gap between you two and takes your hand in his, covering it with his other. “Tell me your symptom picture. What have you been feeling lately, my child?” His tone is like that of a priest, who happens to be the last person that held your hand like this. The last time you stepped foot in a church was long before your parents thought you had stopped attending. You couldn’t find refuge in religion, not then and not now even with its doctrines overhanging your conscience. Maybe Ezra holds your salvation, or at least a temporary one. There’s no harm in trying, you think. 

You swallow thickly, your dry tongue cloying to the walls of your mouth. “I-I’m not sure how to describe it…”

Ezra’s hand gravitates toward the shelf behind him while his eyes remain on you, so well-versed in his inventory that he doesn’t have to see it to know its location. His fingertips rest on the cork of a bottle of chartreuse liquid. “Have you had any sort of cough?” When you shake your head, his fingers hover over another; this time, a lilac concoction that has been steeped with pink wilted petals and cinnamon sticks. 

“Your menses are regular? Not too painful or copious?” You silently indicate no, and he moves on again. 

“Any stomach aches?” A negative from you and his hand leaves a bottle of what looks like dandelion flowers. He sits back on his haunches with a deliberative exhale, “So it’s mostly mental.” 

Your posture stiffens with fear. Since your body is in working order, you find no reason that your mind wouldn’t also be in shape. Sure, you’re well aware of your inner turmoil, but the way society at large mentions it is as if you have an illness, some bothersome obstacle plaguing you like a virus that is incurable in its invisibility. Thoughts are just that, no?

Ezra must sense your nerves because he soothes his hand down your temple to your jaw. He gently hooks his finger underneath your chin to redirect your gaze into his own. His voice quietens to that velvety, comforting chord again, “Don’t fret, my dearest beauty. Mental distress is highly treatable.”

“It is?” you ask, hope crackling through your disbelief.

Ezra’s gaze earns a curiously dark gleam as he says, “Oh yes, the mind is very… malleable.” He asserts, “Under my supervision, I haven’t had one patient whose torment continued after I administered their treatment. We simply learn how best it is for them to… manage their woes.”

You nod, opening up to this prognosis, and gaze at the wall of medicine. If Ezra has all of these solutions, he’s bound to have one for your predicament. He recalls your attention as he asks, “Tell me, do you experience nervousness?” You nod.

“Are you fraught by it?” You think for a moment, then shake your head.

“Depression?”

From what you’ve heard, depression does sound like a fitting label for what you’ve been suffering lately. Feelings of emptiness, hopelessness… bouts of torrential tears equally twined with episodes of numbness that last for days… 

“Moments of it, yes…”

“But not fraught?”

Pondering, you face the blackened mirror in your mind. Sadie…

“...Yes. Yes, fraught.”

“Have you suffered the ramifications of…” Ezra’s brow quirks and his eyes lift up, as if he’s trying to search for the right word in the wood grain of the ceiling. The corner of his mouth raises just slightly in a peculiar grin as he utters, “female hysteria?”

You were familiar with the term, but only as a dark inkling on the edges of your mind. The sound of it made you tense up again as horror stories flooded your conscience of women who were sent away to mental asylums, forever shackled to routine doctor visits; or even more fearsome, their condition worsened and registered them in the eyes of the public as something worse than a deviante, a satanic pariah that was studied by religious officials like a zoo animal in the hopes of finding a method for salvation. 

Your mind conjures up the running tally of moments you sought company with your own hands for lack of physical intimacy with Sadie both before and after her disappearance. Touching yourself, your love for Sadie, the burlesque visits… sin after sin after sin. Guilt floods your veins like molten iron and poisons your windpipe as you can hardly squeak out a shameful, “Yes.”

Ezra puts his hands together quietly in prayer. “I shall keep your symptom picture confidential, my darling, and I shall craft you an elixir.” He takes a deep, steadying breath with his eyes closed, meditating… before he opens them and starts taking bottles off the shelves with a fluidity that he must have visualized. He clutches the ensemble to his chest and opens a loose floorboard with his free hand, fishing out two glasses. 

With rampant curiosity, you crawl over to him to take a seat by his side. He looks on your position disapprovingly before he grunts, “Come, watch me concoct your personalized antidote.” He parts his legs on the floor, making room for you to sit between them. You eye the space with hesitancy, but his smile welcomes you in. You crawl over his leg and sit between his thighs. 

Ezra looms over your back, his arms reaching around you and his chin hovering above your shoulder, as he ladles warm whispers into your ear.

“With a dash of this,” he tilts a green liquid into the glass, “and a sprig of that,” he takes out a pod of purple flower and crumples it in his palm before he forms his hand into a siphon and lets the pieces drain into the glass.

“And a few drops of this,” he takes out a bottle dropper and adds ten drops of a clear liquid, “...with a few extra for your added hysteria.”: three additional drops. He picks up the glass by its base and swirls the ingredients inside until they combine to form a dark purple slurry. “This elixir promises to relax you, satiate your desires, and, in the morning, you will forget that you ever felt so poorly. No hangover. No more pain, no more suffering.”

“There has to be a catch.” You implore, eyeing the concoction with hopeful caution. 

Ezra huffs out a soft laugh and purrs, “Smart girl.” He reaches behind him and reveals a bottle of whiskey. “The taste,” he says with a grimace, scrunching his nose with unfeeling eyes, “is near unbearable.” Ezra uncaps the bottle and pours one part whiskey for one part concoction into the glass. He puts the whiskey down and swirls the drink again, mixing the two. “The elixir acts on its best behavior when mixed with liquor. It makes it easier to drink, too.” Ezra offers you the glass and you take it, too enthralled in the swirling shimmers inside to notice his hands settling light as feathers on your waist. 

You glance over your shoulder at him and ask with quiet caution, “I drink all of it?”

He nods. In this close proximity, you try not to focus too much on the way his soft lips dance alongside his bristly mustache as he speaks. He tries to not let you know he’s taken notice of your staring.

“Yes. If you drink too little, your body will grow a tolerance and it won’t fight off your ailment properly. Tuberculosis isn’t cured by a minute’s worth of fresh air.”

His logic impresses upon you. You glance at the shelves again, thinking about how he knew the exact ingredients to procure after listening to your symptoms like it was fluent to him. You agree with him, too, that modern doctors tend to fall to the wayside when it comes to the populations that can’t provide with coin, or the legitimate ailments that are left unseen by the naked eye. You know if you sought professional help, they would immediately turn you away; god forbid you tell them the honest reasons behind your distress and they would report you to the authorities before taking their pick of shipping you off to a sanitarium or a prison. A life for queer, mentally distressed women in the South is a life in solitary apprehension. Though Ezra doesn’t know the full extent of your story, he has taken on your case with exceptional acceptance. 

You swallow your pride and worry with a sharp breath as you lift the glass to your lips, tilting your head back. The immediate reaction is that Ezra was right: the taste is remarkably foul. An unexpected salt creeps up your nose and sparks like bang snaps. You splutter but he rests his hands on your shaking shoulders, murmuring soft encouragement, “Good girl. Don’t let one drop go to waste.” 

You chug the four swallows it takes to empty the glass and set it down before launching into a coughing fit. Ezra rubs up and down your arm and turns you into his chest, soothing, “Good girl, good girl… that’s it, just breathe, honey.” He presses a kiss to your temple, resting his lips against your hair and… his inhale is soft but it lasts, almost like he’s trying to flood his brain with your scent. 

Your senses are already muddled by the adrenaline rush of the whole ordeal. The anticipation inside you builds as you know that there’s no turning back now: it’s only a matter of time before the elixir seeps into your bloodstream and starts to affect you. 

Ezra lays you down on the blanket behind the driver’s box he was sitting on earlier, presumably his makeshift bed for long hauls across the country. He winds a shirt around his fist into a bunch to act as a pillow that he puts underneath your head. You have started to feel something because you don’t know how it got there — you don’t remember him lifting your neck, asking you to turn over, or anything, it’s just here now…

His voice is a clear contrast to your vision that sees the wood grain of the ceiling errantly swimming like fish, “You shall rest right here, under my care, through the night. I’ll watch over you and treat any abnormalities that may arise, though highly unlikely.” 

He pets your hair and your head lolls towards his hand, hungry for touch and unyielding to any opposing thought. 

Your lips part around your heavy tongue that has begun to feel dry and thick, and your eyes glaze over as you focus in the distance on nothing in particular. 

“Think soft thoughts. The elixir can penetrate more easily when your mind is soft and pliant.” Ezra.

In your mind you nod, but your body doesn’t express it as it solidifies into the bed. The last thing you settle on is Ezra’s thick, scarred fingers before your eyes shutter closed and you succumb to the effects.

You don’t realize until you come to that you had drifted off into blackness for some time, you aren’t sure how long — it could’ve been hours, minutes, or seconds. Your eyes feel like they can barely open but when they do, they’re dizzy and blurred around the edges. You’re in the carriage still, but the size of things and your depth perception are all wrong and distorted to unreal proportions — you must be dreaming.

You roll your head about face and Ezra is above. He’s straddling you, but below his hips blurs to an infinity you can’t decipher. What you can see and feel like weights are his hands around your waist, gripping your flesh squarely. The slope of your body fits so perfectly in the curve of his palms, like a lock and key…

Somewhere, Ezra’s disembodied voice speaks, “Are you starting to feel the effects?” Above you, in your dream, his lips remain sealed.

“Uh-huh,” you hum, suddenly self-conscious of what your body might be doing outside of your delusion. Your ability to use your voice is a surprise and you flinch back from the sound like a frightened animal. An invisible weight, presumably Ezra’s hands, settles on yours and brings them down to your chest again. 

Ezra quietens you, “Shh, think soft thoughts. Soft thoughts.”

You nod but again, you don’t think your body received the signal from your brain to do so. 

Ezra has started to lift up your skirts, reflecting them away from your legs that part of their own accord. Your thighs fall back helpless and… wanting. 

You knew you liked both sexes in the same manner. Despite this, men always drew a specific curiosity from you. You fawned over the handsome ones in the streets, joining in on the teasing that your friends would throw back and forth about swooning crushes. But you found yourself possessing a sort of… fear of them, in a way. The men around you always seemed so tall and imposing, like you could never possibly reach their heads to hear the exact words that would come out of their mouths. Their thoughts seemed to be in an unbreachable part of the atmosphere, high above your own, and too many experiences had instilled an aversion in you that your naivety wouldn’t protect you from them abusing it. When you got to talking with one, all of them to some degree — some more than others — looked down upon you as if you were some equally unintelligible, less-than creature. Their faux awe at your femininity would quickly fade to robust aggression once they had the slightest notion that they could claim you, own you…

But Ezra is bathed in plum-hued sparkles that do more than lure; they accept and nurture. His covetousness is bound by intimacy to please you. 

You whimper in need and he looks up, his eyes dark and taken aback by your pathetic sound. He grabs the back of your neck and leans down to kiss you deeply, robbing you of air. Surprisingly, you are able to lift your arms, though they feel like they’re traveling through water, to drape around his back. You pull him closer, tongues licking into the other’s mouth, and get drunk on the hypoxia. 

Ezra unhooks the eye closures of your corset blouse. Shock riddles his expression when he sees that you have nothing underneath; you couldn’t afford the finer undergarments that the upper class women would wear to accentuate their figures. Ezra growls lowly, but the sound only draws you nearer instead of repelling you away. It’s almost like the elixir has taken your fight or flight response and flipped it on its head. 

This time, his lips match the sound that travels to your ears on a lithe crack of thunder. He utters five syllables that you can’t quite make out under his breath, you just know that he sounds hungry. 

With a reluctant expression, he sits back on his haunches, rips off his overcoat and flings his worn suspenders from his broad shoulders before he pushes his trousers down with haste. The fastened waist cuts into his thick thighs, but his strong forearms tear the obstacle away swiftly to push his underwear down too. There, settled between sturdy hips and beneath a dark thatch of hair, stands his cock. He grips it with a hold that only angers the reddened head and makes it drip something silky and clear from the tip onto your navel. Ecstasy ripples from the spot it lands, spreading all the way to your brain and slithering sensually between the folds rendered malleable from his medicine. 

Ezra goes at your underwear, nearly ripping the fabric in his attempt to get you bare. He pulls your panties all the way down your legs, lifting your feet up one by one to strategically extract them around your shoes, and tosses them carelessly behind himself. He settles one of his meaty hands beside your waist, his wrist brushing against your skin and it makes you moan breathily. 

Ezra nudges your engorged clit with the tip of his cock, drenched with his self-lubrication. You want to hiss at the sensation, but your body remains still and willing as it seethes in hot nerves. He directs a line of spit onto your puffy folds and spreads it around with his hardness. 

He notches himself at your entrance and pushes inside your cunt, slow but determined. Your moan builds as he slides inside and it breaks off in a gasp when he’s fully sheathed. His eyes flutter closed as a shiver runs up the length of his neck and makes him tremble above you, nearly shivering with carnality. Your core quivers at the intrusion; it feels like he’s tickling the bottom of your lungs. 

“Good girl,” sounds somewhere, elsewhere. 

Ezra rocks his hips just once and it’s so much. Your eyes water from the overwhelming stretch, though it isn’t painful, just so different. He retains patience, giving your tight cunt time to adjust on each in and out. When the crease between your brows starts to relax, his thrusts get harder. His groans are divine to your ears, the perfect mix of blissfully satiated and ravenous for more as he continues to fuck you. 

He grips your waist and pulls your compliant body into every surge of his hips, his cock reaching further inside you each time. Sweat starts to accrue on his brow and tears start to roll quietly down your cheeks as your pleasure builds. You don’t know if it’s the catharsis from heartbreak, finally getting some respite from your repressed desire, or the strange longing for Ezra himself, but the tears fall and fall. He wraps one of his hands around the side of your face, his thumb on your cheek, as he holds you steady. 

“Let it cure you,” drifts past his lips.

Your breaths come short and sparse as the elixir’s euphoria settles heavy and festers in your veins. Your nipples peak against the cold, damp air so hard that they ache. Ezra’s hand moves from the side of your face to settle around your neck, his thumb and forefinger creating a column for your moans to escape from as tight as your pussy. 

Without warning, your orgasm steps forward from a dense mist in your mind. Your jaw drops and saliva spills out of the corner of your mouth as you try not to swallow your tongue. Moans gurgle out of you like vomit, relentless and vile. The fluttering endorphins that whirl inside you play with your eyes like puppets on strings. 

Ezra groans deeply and a warmth spurts inside you. He pulls his cock from your plush walls and you whimper instantly at the loss, reaching to put him back, but he evaporates into the darkness that swallows him from behind, leaving you alone. The sticky warmth seeps onto your inner thigh before you meet the blackness again, slowly spinning like vertigo until there’s nothing…

Ezra’s voice sounds assured but weary, “You did amazingly well. Now your mind needs to rest to reform without your depressive quarries. Sleep.”

–

In the morning, you wake from light streaming in between gaps of the wooden boards that make up the carriage walls. You’re settled on the blanket, yet Ezra is nowhere to be seen. You sit up too fast and everything spins with the force of a wheel. But, in your effort to try and locate him, you notice that one of the carriage doors is slightly ajar. 

Outside is damp, everything powdered over with pale blue fog. The puddles on the street remain unflinching in the stillness of your surroundings; no carriages, no people, nothing.

The first thing that lets you know you’re not completely alone in the world is a bird chirping as it soars in the sky overhead. You step out onto the ground to follow its path through the clouds and see that… the carriage is parked outside your house. You don’t remember making it anywhere close to home on your walk of shame after the burlesque last night…

To thank Ezra, you walk up to the driver’s box but he’s not there either. The carriage is completely devoid of his presence, save for the medicine in the back arranged like the night before and his coat neatly folded on the leather driver’s seat. You dig in your pockets for some money and, not sure how much the elixir and the ride home will cost you, you leave more than you think is necessary — after all, he gave you shelter from the rain and the thunderstorm of your mind. 

When you get inside your home, Sadie’s absence seems more poignant than usual. Though you slept the night before, your exhaustion tells differently. To bypass the impending pain of remembering her loss, you head upstairs to the bathroom to freshen yourself up before you go to sleep. 

Stripping from your dress is unusually quick, almost as if some of the fastenings weren’t done up. You had specifically tightened them to remain slender under your overcoat, hiding your form from any onlookers as you left the burlesque, but the cold sweat dappled on your chest hints that you might have unbuttoned it yourself subconsciously while you were under the influence. Ezra had said there could be some side effects, and you were so out of it that there’s no way you would remember anything you did besides… how glorious you felt. Finally at peace for the first time in weeks.

You wash up quickly and lay down in bed, attempting to regain with only the power of your mind a sense of the elixir’s potent high to lull you to sleep. Ezra had given you an experience that the more you reminisce, the more you think you’ll seek out his services again. If only it weren’t for the nagging feeling that you were doing something you weren’t supposed to… but maybe a little measured rebellion is just what you need to break free.

series masterlist | main masterlist | join my taglist!

taglist: @rav3n-pascal22 @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @recklessfangirl-blog @movievillainess721 @morpheusdrinkingaforty @onentaien-kwara @clawdee-tbr @yorksgirl

[oogaboogasphincter]

Ezra's Elixir (dark!Ezra x f!reader) Snake Oil - Chapter 1

middle gif credit: @gracevanpelt collage by me!

summary: While trying to deal with the turmoil of your best-friend-turned-lover's disappearance, you come across an oddly welcoming stranger who might hold a solution to ease your pain.

warnings: MDNI 18+ ONLY - reader is bisexual, was in a relationship with a f!oc, and is described as having a "womanly" shape; period typical medical misinformation, misogyny and gender role stereotypes; manipulation; themes of shame, grief and isolation; religious/christianity references and trauma; discussion about sexuality, queer repression and homophobia; stigma around doctors, mental illness and health; non con; drugging/drug use; unprotected piv sex; creampie | 5.9k words

a/n: oh my goodness i'm so excited to share this with you all! **i would like to reiterate that since this is a dark! series, i ask that you please do not read this series if the content bothers you. if you’re a regular reader of my work, please don’t feel pressured to read this if it’s not your cup of tea!! in the same vein, i ask that everyone adhere to fandom etiquette and not direct hate towards myself nor anyone who reads this material. additionally, just because i write about something DOES NOT mean i condone it. fictitious material is a creative outlet for exploring dark themes in a safe manner. lots of people heal from real life traumas through dark fiction by being able to rewrite their memories or feel a gain in sense of control over their memories. you are responsible for your own media consumption.** if you would like to be added or removed from the taglist, please let me know in the comments! other than that, i hope you all enjoy!

You wrap yourself in a dark cloak and sweep through the night to downtown, coming to a shadowed corner and hiding in its obscurity as crowds of men file in before showtime. With your eye on the glowing clock across the street, you count through the first and second acts and watch as the moths try to dodge the raindrops to get to their sacred light. There’s one thing you’d fight to taste again…

When the time is right, you approach the ticket booth with your hood drawn and keep the waist of your coat loose so as to not silhouette and betray your womanly shape to onlookers. You put down the money and the clerk furrows his brow at the hand half as wide as the ones that usually come through here. Your heart beats so loud it nearly muddles the crashing thunder in the background. In a flash of lightning, he catches a glint of your smudged eyeliner. His pupils narrow, but not from the light. Without missing a beat, you take out twice the amount of admission and set it on the counter, trying to hide the fact that you’re finding it hard to breathe around your throat that has swelled to a pinhole. By some evil, the clerk pushes your money back to you… but by some grace, he holds your gaze and tilts his head back in the direction of the entrance doors. You depart with a mutual nod, a silent oath to your secrecy in this exchange, before you find your way inside. 

It had been two months since Sadie disappeared. Two long, ever-grieving months of trying to find your best friend turned lover. You had been the one to report her missing after she didn’t come home for two days, the one to inform her parents soon after, and the one to spearhead the search efforts — all to no avail, not even an anecdotal trace. 

Being in love with another woman was no easy thing in your environment of 1895 New Orleans, Louisiana. You and Sadie had bided your time chatting up men in the parlors downtown if only to deter anyone from getting too suspicious that neither of you had taken a husband yet. The lies were just too easy: the spark was lost on William, George wasn’t as cute as you remembered, and Henry was no Mr. Right. It was even easier to go home with Sadie and just be with her unconditional companionship, her perpetual love, her tender kisses. 

In your state of distress, you succumbed to the distraction of your more base desires and sought out the lurid company of a burlesque show. You keep to the back of the huddled crowd of men who are practically falling out of their seats with eagerness. Their hushed whispers of excitement waft in the air like their tobacco smoke, murmured sexist comments woven between the fleeting flicks of their lighters. When the lights brighten, their chitters crescend to whoops and hollers in time with your nerves as the dancer sashays onto the stage. 

Big band jazz blasts from somewhere unseen as she begins her striptease and you look on hungrily while taking on the unfelt guilt of every man in the room. A warm pit forms in your stomach as the silk slips off her body like water and puddles onto the floor. Her endless skin inflicts a hankering on your tongue for that of Sadie, for her glossed lips and the familiar, warm underside of her jaw…

Your pulse thrums so strong throughout your body that it carries your feet down the stained velveteen halls to the exit. Your greed kept you for too long and what was meant to be a quiet escape before the show officially ended has been replaced with the ambling footsteps of men that gain on you like a stampede. You keep your head low and your strides swift but bulky like any other patron here tonight, like a man rushing home to his wife who was expecting him three hours ago. 

A double take from two men as you shoulder by them makes your heart stutter so abruptly you choke on it and have to cover it with a cough. In your debacle, you nearly run into a streetlight advertising yet another reason why you shouldn’t be here, especially not this late at night: the Cajun Kidnapper, a man who has been surveying the downtown streets like a hawk awaiting pretty, young women like you to give him one second too many of courtesy before they disappear without a trace. No identifying details about his appearance or methods has been published, and yet his elusiveness makes him seem both a faraway threat and a waiting shadow at the same time. 

You pick up your pace as the rain pours down in buckets, thunder reverberating so loud it shakes the loose pieces of tar from the street’s edge. You stick to the sides and out of the way of racing horse buggies that splash through puddles and onto your clothes. You don’t have time to stop and pester, and can’t afford to be caught as a lone woman by anyone this time of night. 

To distract yourself, you think about the burlesque. The woman’s soft curves, her potent sexuality… 

Two women yank you from your reverie. They stand on the steps of a house just a few yards from you, holding their shawls tight around their faces as they look into the night. One of them notices you as you come closer, the street lamp shining just enough to illuminate the damning features of your face. 

“Madam! Please, get out of this rain and get home! It’s not safe for a woman!” she begs.

Another distraction comes; a whinny from a police horse that has been reigned to a stop in the street. 

“You there!” an officer shouts. “Where’s your husband?”

A third bystander gets involved, this time on the opposite side of the street. The back doors of a small carriage clap open and a man jumps down from the inside. His boots splash in the thick mud that has accumulated in the slope of the road, acting as wheel chocks to his parked vessel. His broad silhouette whips around, clearly looking for something in the dark. He stops when he pivots toward your direction and he beckons you over with his hand held high in the rain. 

“Right here, sir!” he yells through the thunder. 

The torrential downpour isn’t showing any signs of laying off and it’s waterlogging your clothes. The possibility of you trudging home before your dress becomes immovable is slim. Though you don’t know this man, he must respect a woman’s right to her livelihood since he’s covering for you without even knowing your name. You eye the cab of the carriage and it looks big enough for two people like he’s suggesting… and, if necessary, the blade of your knife tucked away in your boot reminds you of its presence as it presses coldly against your shin. If necessary, you think, you’ll be okay. Besides, would the Cajun Kidnapper be this obvious in trapping his prey?

Perhaps. 

You run over to the back of the carriage.

–

The stranger clambers into the back of his carriage first and hoists you up by your hands, gripping you tightly so your rain-soaked skins don’t slip from each other. The wind is spared from blame for the detestable weather outside, the culprit being the thunder and rain, so the stranger leaves the back doors of his carriage open for now — and for good reason.

An oil lamp illuminates that what appeared on the outside to be a spacious cab has severely narrowed due to the shelves of goods that line the interior. Your unnamed comrade sits with his back pressed to the driver’s box and his knees tucked up into his chest, reminding you of a young child. Yet, his words are almost chiding as he gruffs in an amalgamated accent, “For what irrelevant reason is a marvelous specimen such as yourself roaming forbiddenly about the streets of the South on this night?” 

You sit across from him, folding your legs underneath yourself and your hands in your lap. “I was visiting a friend,” you lie seamlessly, “We had an argument and I wanted to go back home.”

The stranger pauses his reply, drinking in your stoic expression with an analytic gleam. He says quieter, “Pardon my unsavory ideals, but a friend who lets a pretty lady like you go wandering off on her own just because of some argument is no friend.”

You shrug. A faint smile graces your lips at his sympathetic honesty. “People vary.”

“Indeed they do,” he mutters to himself, almost matter-of-factly. He leans forward and sticks his hand out to you, “I’m Ezra.”

You accept his introduction and shake on it, exchanging raindrops from your palm to his. Thin lines scar his skin from in between his knuckles to the center, almost like a firework… there’s a matching crescent on his cheek, too. 

“And whose unparalleled beauty do I have the immense pleasure of sheltering from the rain?” he keeps hold of your hand and raises his brow to tease you with the truth that you share no matrimony. Your gaze drops out of shyness, but the corners of your mouth turn up in amused betrayal. 

You tell him your name and he sits back with a satisfied exhale. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he nearly purrs, his voice becoming a little breathy as if he suddenly got tired. When you gather the courage to look at him again, you catch his eyes climbing slowly from your thighs to your face. There’s a comforting warmth that strikes through the darkness of his gaze, appraising and welcoming. If you weren’t imagining things, he appeared fond to have such a perfect stranger in these close confines. You think that you share the same fondness with the fact that you may as well have been hauled off to a holding cell by now for walking the streets unaccompanied. He saved you, and despite anything else he might do, you thank him for that. 

He’s dropped his legs from his chest, stretching them out to fill the length of the cab. His boots nearly touch your thigh and though he respects your space, he shows no intention of giving you any more. His hand rests on his thigh, dangerously close to what you hope is just a fold of the thick fabric of his pants… or do you?

Ezra’s handsomeness is hefty, you know this even without the filter of desperation shrouding your carnal restraint. His features are so masculine, so rugged yet somehow they’re pieced together in such a manner that he remains intriguing, not severe. Not like a symphony, but more like a ransom note in its plain mystery.

Thunder breaks you from your daze and lightning calls your attention as it snaps a tree in half outside. Before you know it, Ezra is reaching past you to pull the doors closed with his other hand steady on your shoulder. He complains with amicable distaste, “Damn torrents. I swear, Louisiana doesn’t give one poor soul much of a warning ‘fore she washes them through.” He retakes his seat and his ankle grazes your knee. 

You give him a soft smile to match the mulled noise from outside. “Thank you. For—”

He stops you short with a breathy, self-assured chuckle and a crooked smirk on his cheeks. “You’re mighty welcome.”

You tighten your smile before you drop your gaze. Eye contact seems far more intimate now without it viewable to the outside world. With the doors shut, your attention is pulled to study your new surroundings. 

Rows of shelves comprise the interior walls of the carriage, each one stockpiled with small glass vials with cork stoppers. You lean forward slightly and wipe through the raindrops on your lashes to get a better look at their scrawn labels. A bottle of purple sprigs reads “lavender”; another with dashes of green reads “thyme”… but the oddities grow as you peruse down the line. One vial of red liquid reads “Vampyr’s Solution,” another of yellow reads, “In Place of the Sun.” 

“What’s all this?” you inquire.

Ezra gives a sly grin as he explains, “I’m a medicine man. I travel the outskirts of the world, the parts where those privileged, techno-wizardry doctors,” he waggles his fingers mockingly, “of our modern times don’t dare to hang up their bleached coats. I provide antidotes to the pained, ailments to the healthy, and refuge to the weary.”

Sitting forward, he focuses his stare on you, waiting for you to connect your gaze with his before he speaks, “Now, if I knew any better I’d keep my mouth shut… but I think somethin’s plaguing that mind of yours, sweetheart.” 

Your nerves freeze the words in the air. Your reply starts to come out before you’ve approved it, fiending for release. “Yes, I… I’ve been feeling…”

You debate sharing your story with Ezra. He may have helped you evade the discriminatory eyes of the law, but where does it terminate? Coming across someone welcoming of “deviantes” was more rare than a feminist which, in these times, was scarce on its own. But, you don’t have to give him context. He only inquired, you just have to complete your sentence and nothing else. Plenty of circumstances are treated without probable cause. 

You wrack your brain for the right word to describe the hollow sensation you’ve been feeling. It didn’t hit right as Sadie disappeared, probably because you had faith in her to find her way back. She was — is, dear god. She is resourceful, determined, and utterly in love with you as much as you are with her. But maybe the stigma of your relationship that you’re trying to conceal now was just too much for her to bear… you would never blame her. “Disparate.”

Ezra gleans, sitting up on his thighs like you, “Well, by the looks of it the Maker has divinely orchestrated our meeting.” He closes the small gap between you two and takes your hand in his, covering it with his other. “Tell me your symptom picture. What have you been feeling lately, my child?” His tone is like that of a priest, who happens to be the last person that held your hand like this. The last time you stepped foot in a church was long before your parents thought you had stopped attending. You couldn’t find refuge in religion, not then and not now even with its doctrines overhanging your conscience. Maybe Ezra holds your salvation, or at least a temporary one. There’s no harm in trying, you think. 

You swallow thickly, your dry tongue cloying to the walls of your mouth. “I-I’m not sure how to describe it…”

Ezra’s hand gravitates toward the shelf behind him while his eyes remain on you, so well-versed in his inventory that he doesn’t have to see it to know its location. His fingertips rest on the cork of a bottle of chartreuse liquid. “Have you had any sort of cough?” When you shake your head, his fingers hover over another; this time, a lilac concoction that has been steeped with pink wilted petals and cinnamon sticks. 

“Your menses are regular? Not too painful or copious?” You silently indicate no, and he moves on again. 

“Any stomach aches?” A negative from you and his hand leaves a bottle of what looks like dandelion flowers. He sits back on his haunches with a deliberative exhale, “So it’s mostly mental.” 

Your posture stiffens with fear. Since your body is in working order, you find no reason that your mind wouldn’t also be in shape. Sure, you’re well aware of your inner turmoil, but the way society at large mentions it is as if you have an illness, some bothersome obstacle plaguing you like a virus that is incurable in its invisibility. Thoughts are just that, no?

Ezra must sense your nerves because he soothes his hand down your temple to your jaw. He gently hooks his finger underneath your chin to redirect your gaze into his own. His voice quietens to that velvety, comforting chord again, “Don’t fret, my dearest beauty. Mental distress is highly treatable.”

“It is?” you ask, hope crackling through your disbelief.

Ezra’s gaze earns a curiously dark gleam as he says, “Oh yes, the mind is very… malleable.” He asserts, “Under my supervision, I haven’t had one patient whose torment continued after I administered their treatment. We simply learn how best it is for them to… manage their woes.”

You nod, opening up to this prognosis, and gaze at the wall of medicine. If Ezra has all of these solutions, he’s bound to have one for your predicament. He recalls your attention as he asks, “Tell me, do you experience nervousness?” You nod.

“Are you fraught by it?” You think for a moment, then shake your head.

“Depression?”

From what you’ve heard, depression does sound like a fitting label for what you’ve been suffering lately. Feelings of emptiness, hopelessness… bouts of torrential tears equally twined with episodes of numbness that last for days… 

“Moments of it, yes…”

“But not fraught?”

Pondering, you face the blackened mirror in your mind. Sadie…

“...Yes. Yes, fraught.”

“Have you suffered the ramifications of…” Ezra’s brow quirks and his eyes lift up, as if he’s trying to search for the right word in the wood grain of the ceiling. The corner of his mouth raises just slightly in a peculiar grin as he utters, “female hysteria?”

You were familiar with the term, but only as a dark inkling on the edges of your mind. The sound of it made you tense up again as horror stories flooded your conscience of women who were sent away to mental asylums, forever shackled to routine doctor visits; or even more fearsome, their condition worsened and registered them in the eyes of the public as something worse than a deviante, a satanic pariah that was studied by religious officials like a zoo animal in the hopes of finding a method for salvation. 

Your mind conjures up the running tally of moments you sought company with your own hands for lack of physical intimacy with Sadie both before and after her disappearance. Touching yourself, your love for Sadie, the burlesque visits… sin after sin after sin. Guilt floods your veins like molten iron and poisons your windpipe as you can hardly squeak out a shameful, “Yes.”

Ezra puts his hands together quietly in prayer. “I shall keep your symptom picture confidential, my darling, and I shall craft you an elixir.” He takes a deep, steadying breath with his eyes closed, meditating… before he opens them and starts taking bottles off the shelves with a fluidity that he must have visualized. He clutches the ensemble to his chest and opens a loose floorboard with his free hand, fishing out two glasses. 

With rampant curiosity, you crawl over to him to take a seat by his side. He looks on your position disapprovingly before he grunts, “Come, watch me concoct your personalized antidote.” He parts his legs on the floor, making room for you to sit between them. You eye the space with hesitancy, but his smile welcomes you in. You crawl over his leg and sit between his thighs. 

Ezra looms over your back, his arms reaching around you and his chin hovering above your shoulder, as he ladles warm whispers into your ear.

“With a dash of this,” he tilts a green liquid into the glass, “and a sprig of that,” he takes out a pod of purple flower and crumples it in his palm before he forms his hand into a siphon and lets the pieces drain into the glass.

“And a few drops of this,” he takes out a bottle dropper and adds ten drops of a clear liquid, “...with a few extra for your added hysteria.”: three additional drops. He picks up the glass by its base and swirls the ingredients inside until they combine to form a dark purple slurry. “This elixir promises to relax you, satiate your desires, and, in the morning, you will forget that you ever felt so poorly. No hangover. No more pain, no more suffering.”

“There has to be a catch.” You implore, eyeing the concoction with hopeful caution. 

Ezra huffs out a soft laugh and purrs, “Smart girl.” He reaches behind him and reveals a bottle of whiskey. “The taste,” he says with a grimace, scrunching his nose with unfeeling eyes, “is near unbearable.” Ezra uncaps the bottle and pours one part whiskey for one part concoction into the glass. He puts the whiskey down and swirls the drink again, mixing the two. “The elixir acts on its best behavior when mixed with liquor. It makes it easier to drink, too.” Ezra offers you the glass and you take it, too enthralled in the swirling shimmers inside to notice his hands settling light as feathers on your waist. 

You glance over your shoulder at him and ask with quiet caution, “I drink all of it?”

He nods. In this close proximity, you try not to focus too much on the way his soft lips dance alongside his bristly mustache as he speaks. He tries to not let you know he’s taken notice of your staring.

“Yes. If you drink too little, your body will grow a tolerance and it won’t fight off your ailment properly. Tuberculosis isn’t cured by a minute’s worth of fresh air.”

His logic impresses upon you. You glance at the shelves again, thinking about how he knew the exact ingredients to procure after listening to your symptoms like it was fluent to him. You agree with him, too, that modern doctors tend to fall to the wayside when it comes to the populations that can’t provide with coin, or the legitimate ailments that are left unseen by the naked eye. You know if you sought professional help, they would immediately turn you away; god forbid you tell them the honest reasons behind your distress and they would report you to the authorities before taking their pick of shipping you off to a sanitarium or a prison. A life for queer, mentally distressed women in the South is a life in solitary apprehension. Though Ezra doesn’t know the full extent of your story, he has taken on your case with exceptional acceptance. 

You swallow your pride and worry with a sharp breath as you lift the glass to your lips, tilting your head back. The immediate reaction is that Ezra was right: the taste is remarkably foul. An unexpected salt creeps up your nose and sparks like bang snaps. You splutter but he rests his hands on your shaking shoulders, murmuring soft encouragement, “Good girl. Don’t let one drop go to waste.” 

You chug the four swallows it takes to empty the glass and set it down before launching into a coughing fit. Ezra rubs up and down your arm and turns you into his chest, soothing, “Good girl, good girl… that’s it, just breathe, honey.” He presses a kiss to your temple, resting his lips against your hair and… his inhale is soft but it lasts, almost like he’s trying to flood his brain with your scent. 

Your senses are already muddled by the adrenaline rush of the whole ordeal. The anticipation inside you builds as you know that there’s no turning back now: it’s only a matter of time before the elixir seeps into your bloodstream and starts to affect you. 

Ezra lays you down on the blanket behind the driver’s box he was sitting on earlier, presumably his makeshift bed for long hauls across the country. He winds a shirt around his fist into a bunch to act as a pillow that he puts underneath your head. You have started to feel something because you don’t know how it got there — you don’t remember him lifting your neck, asking you to turn over, or anything, it’s just here now…

His voice is a clear contrast to your vision that sees the wood grain of the ceiling errantly swimming like fish, “You shall rest right here, under my care, through the night. I’ll watch over you and treat any abnormalities that may arise, though highly unlikely.” 

He pets your hair and your head lolls towards his hand, hungry for touch and unyielding to any opposing thought. 

Your lips part around your heavy tongue that has begun to feel dry and thick, and your eyes glaze over as you focus in the distance on nothing in particular. 

“Think soft thoughts. The elixir can penetrate more easily when your mind is soft and pliant.” Ezra.

In your mind you nod, but your body doesn’t express it as it solidifies into the bed. The last thing you settle on is Ezra’s thick, scarred fingers before your eyes shutter closed and you succumb to the effects.

You don’t realize until you come to that you had drifted off into blackness for some time, you aren’t sure how long — it could’ve been hours, minutes, or seconds. Your eyes feel like they can barely open but when they do, they’re dizzy and blurred around the edges. You’re in the carriage still, but the size of things and your depth perception are all wrong and distorted to unreal proportions — you must be dreaming.

You roll your head about face and Ezra is above. He’s straddling you, but below his hips blurs to an infinity you can’t decipher. What you can see and feel like weights are his hands around your waist, gripping your flesh squarely. The slope of your body fits so perfectly in the curve of his palms, like a lock and key…

Somewhere, Ezra’s disembodied voice speaks, “Are you starting to feel the effects?” Above you, in your dream, his lips remain sealed.

“Uh-huh,” you hum, suddenly self-conscious of what your body might be doing outside of your delusion. Your ability to use your voice is a surprise and you flinch back from the sound like a frightened animal. An invisible weight, presumably Ezra’s hands, settles on yours and brings them down to your chest again. 

Ezra quietens you, “Shh, think soft thoughts. Soft thoughts.”

You nod but again, you don’t think your body received the signal from your brain to do so. 

Ezra has started to lift up your skirts, reflecting them away from your legs that part of their own accord. Your thighs fall back helpless and… wanting. 

You knew you liked both sexes in the same manner. Despite this, men always drew a specific curiosity from you. You fawned over the handsome ones in the streets, joining in on the teasing that your friends would throw back and forth about swooning crushes. But you found yourself possessing a sort of… fear of them, in a way. The men around you always seemed so tall and imposing, like you could never possibly reach their heads to hear the exact words that would come out of their mouths. Their thoughts seemed to be in an unbreachable part of the atmosphere, high above your own, and too many experiences had instilled an aversion in you that your naivety wouldn’t protect you from them abusing it. When you got to talking with one, all of them to some degree — some more than others — looked down upon you as if you were some equally unintelligible, less-than creature. Their faux awe at your femininity would quickly fade to robust aggression once they had the slightest notion that they could claim you, own you…

But Ezra is bathed in plum-hued sparkles that do more than lure; they accept and nurture. His covetousness is bound by intimacy to please you. 

You whimper in need and he looks up, his eyes dark and taken aback by your pathetic sound. He grabs the back of your neck and leans down to kiss you deeply, robbing you of air. Surprisingly, you are able to lift your arms, though they feel like they’re traveling through water, to drape around his back. You pull him closer, tongues licking into the other’s mouth, and get drunk on the hypoxia. 

Ezra unhooks the eye closures of your corset blouse. Shock riddles his expression when he sees that you have nothing underneath; you couldn’t afford the finer undergarments that the upper class women would wear to accentuate their figures. Ezra growls lowly, but the sound only draws you nearer instead of repelling you away. It’s almost like the elixir has taken your fight or flight response and flipped it on its head. 

This time, his lips match the sound that travels to your ears on a lithe crack of thunder. He utters five syllables that you can’t quite make out under his breath, you just know that he sounds hungry. 

With a reluctant expression, he sits back on his haunches, rips off his overcoat and flings his worn suspenders from his broad shoulders before he pushes his trousers down with haste. The fastened waist cuts into his thick thighs, but his strong forearms tear the obstacle away swiftly to push his underwear down too. There, settled between sturdy hips and beneath a dark thatch of hair, stands his cock. He grips it with a hold that only angers the reddened head and makes it drip something silky and clear from the tip onto your navel. Ecstasy ripples from the spot it lands, spreading all the way to your brain and slithering sensually between the folds rendered malleable from his medicine. 

Ezra goes at your underwear, nearly ripping the fabric in his attempt to get you bare. He pulls your panties all the way down your legs, lifting your feet up one by one to strategically extract them around your shoes, and tosses them carelessly behind himself. He settles one of his meaty hands beside your waist, his wrist brushing against your skin and it makes you moan breathily. 

Ezra nudges your engorged clit with the tip of his cock, drenched with his self-lubrication. You want to hiss at the sensation, but your body remains still and willing as it seethes in hot nerves. He directs a line of spit onto your puffy folds and spreads it around with his hardness. 

He notches himself at your entrance and pushes inside your cunt, slow but determined. Your moan builds as he slides inside and it breaks off in a gasp when he’s fully sheathed. His eyes flutter closed as a shiver runs up the length of his neck and makes him tremble above you, nearly shivering with carnality. Your core quivers at the intrusion; it feels like he’s tickling the bottom of your lungs. 

“Good girl,” sounds somewhere, elsewhere. 

Ezra rocks his hips just once and it’s so much. Your eyes water from the overwhelming stretch, though it isn’t painful, just so different. He retains patience, giving your tight cunt time to adjust on each in and out. When the crease between your brows starts to relax, his thrusts get harder. His groans are divine to your ears, the perfect mix of blissfully satiated and ravenous for more as he continues to fuck you. 

He grips your waist and pulls your compliant body into every surge of his hips, his cock reaching further inside you each time. Sweat starts to accrue on his brow and tears start to roll quietly down your cheeks as your pleasure builds. You don’t know if it’s the catharsis from heartbreak, finally getting some respite from your repressed desire, or the strange longing for Ezra himself, but the tears fall and fall. He wraps one of his hands around the side of your face, his thumb on your cheek, as he holds you steady. 

“Let it cure you,” drifts past his lips.

Your breaths come short and sparse as the elixir’s euphoria settles heavy and festers in your veins. Your nipples peak against the cold, damp air so hard that they ache. Ezra’s hand moves from the side of your face to settle around your neck, his thumb and forefinger creating a column for your moans to escape from as tight as your pussy. 

Without warning, your orgasm steps forward from a dense mist in your mind. Your jaw drops and saliva spills out of the corner of your mouth as you try not to swallow your tongue. Moans gurgle out of you like vomit, relentless and vile. The fluttering endorphins that whirl inside you play with your eyes like puppets on strings. 

Ezra groans deeply and a warmth spurts inside you. He pulls his cock from your plush walls and you whimper instantly at the loss, reaching to put him back, but he evaporates into the darkness that swallows him from behind, leaving you alone. The sticky warmth seeps onto your inner thigh before you meet the blackness again, slowly spinning like vertigo until there’s nothing…

Ezra’s voice sounds assured but weary, “You did amazingly well. Now your mind needs to rest to reform without your depressive quarries. Sleep.”

–

In the morning, you wake from light streaming in between gaps of the wooden boards that make up the carriage walls. You’re settled on the blanket, yet Ezra is nowhere to be seen. You sit up too fast and everything spins with the force of a wheel. But, in your effort to try and locate him, you notice that one of the carriage doors is slightly ajar. 

Outside is damp, everything powdered over with pale blue fog. The puddles on the street remain unflinching in the stillness of your surroundings; no carriages, no people, nothing.

The first thing that lets you know you’re not completely alone in the world is a bird chirping as it soars in the sky overhead. You step out onto the ground to follow its path through the clouds and see that… the carriage is parked outside your house. You don’t remember making it anywhere close to home on your walk of shame after the burlesque last night…

To thank Ezra, you walk up to the driver’s box but he’s not there either. The carriage is completely devoid of his presence, save for the medicine in the back arranged like the night before and his coat neatly folded on the leather driver’s seat. You dig in your pockets for some money and, not sure how much the elixir and the ride home will cost you, you leave more than you think is necessary — after all, he gave you shelter from the rain and the thunderstorm of your mind. 

When you get inside your home, Sadie’s absence seems more poignant than usual. Though you slept the night before, your exhaustion tells differently. To bypass the impending pain of remembering her loss, you head upstairs to the bathroom to freshen yourself up before you go to sleep. 

Stripping from your dress is unusually quick, almost as if some of the fastenings weren’t done up. You had specifically tightened them to remain slender under your overcoat, hiding your form from any onlookers as you left the burlesque, but the cold sweat dappled on your chest hints that you might have unbuttoned it yourself subconsciously while you were under the influence. Ezra had said there could be some side effects, and you were so out of it that there’s no way you would remember anything you did besides… how glorious you felt. Finally at peace for the first time in weeks.

You wash up quickly and lay down in bed, attempting to regain with only the power of your mind a sense of the elixir’s potent high to lull you to sleep. Ezra had given you an experience that the more you reminisce, the more you think you’ll seek out his services again. If only it weren’t for the nagging feeling that you were doing something you weren’t supposed to… but maybe a little measured rebellion is just what you need to break free.

series masterlist | main masterlist | join my taglist!

taglist: @rav3n-pascal22 @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @recklessfangirl-blog @movievillainess721 @morpheusdrinkingaforty @onentaien-kwara @clawdee-tbr @yorksgirl

[oogaboogasphincter]

joel’s thing being horses is so endearing to me like that man had frames and portraits of horses all over in his house and carved a cowboy and horse statue out of wood