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accoochtrement · 21 hours ago

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WOOF WOOD WOOF WOOF AHGDJHGFHCHXHCUCVJVJV 🎀🎀🎀🎀💖💖💖💖💕💕💕💕❤️❤️❤️❤️

Broooooooo. I'm obsessed.

Could you do Patrick being obsessed with his chubby s/o?

Do I Wanna Know?

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Patrick Bateman x Chubby!Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: At first, it wasn't even an obsession. Patrick always told himself that you weren't his type, but at some point, everything went so wrong. Now, only the taste of forbidden fruit can satisfy his hunger.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, mutual pining, obsession, body worship, oral sex (69), unprotected p in v sex (reversed cowgirl), creampie, hair pulling, choking, spanking, mild degradation kink, dirty talk, swearing, pet names, Patrick is literally an awkward demon, implied murder, dark themes, implied masturbation and stalking.

𝐀/𝐍: Finally, I was in the mood to write after a long time, so I hope you like it. Thank you so much for sending me your request! I was inspired by this edit made by amazing @patrickbatemanstradwife, this song got stuck in my head. Crawlin' back to youuuu!🫠

Please follow my writing community or my side-blog to know when I update!💕

This was all so wrong.

Everything about you was wrong, but he couldn't help it. Every time he saw you in the office, he was ready to gnaw off his own hand. Maybe he was actually doing it just to stifle a low, throaty groan because you were giving him a boner just by walking around here in something tight.

And it was over for him.

Patrick could imagine these curvy hips and the arch of your ass. He dreamed about how it would feel to be inside you while you moaned loudly and miserably as he pounded into you with no mercy. It was just pure filth, pure madness. No shame, no bluff. He fully accepted the fact that he craved your thickness. If he could, he'd walk up to you in the narrow hallway leading to his office, bend you over a desk, and ignore the shocked stares of onlookers. He couldn't care less. He was about to lose his mind if he didn't sink his white teeth into your soft ass, hips, or torso, where he could imagine ribs ticking beneath his bite.

Jesus Christ.

Bateman could barely breathe standing next to the printing machine, pretending to wait for the document to print. In reality, he was watching—literally stalking—you as you strolled around, being nice and friendly as usual.

Holy fuck!

He probably should have locked himself in the nearest bathroom and jerked off. That might have saved him. But then Patrick remembered that he had already masturbated twice that morning, and his dick was still aching. His hand wasn't enough anymore. Actually, it never was, but now it was an entirely different tragedy.

"Good morning, Mr. Bateman," you popped up right next to him, like a rabbit from a hat. "How are you doing today?"

Oh, no, fuck no. It was the way you leaned on your clasped hands, making your breasts look delicious, and the V-cut of your blouse didn't seem to hide anything—the view was absolutely breathtaking. Patrick began to pray for salvation, even though he was an atheist.

The man gave you an awkward smile and nervously adjusted his tie. "I'm—ah—I'm great," he replied nonchalantly, as if he didn't want to say, "I want your tits in my mouth."

"How is your new workplace? I heard you got promoted." Patrick actually giggled. The red hue spreading across his face gave him an innocent look, like a little deer who wanted to be petted.

"It's nice, really nice," you grinned, bending a bit lower. You didn't realize your breasts were pressed together provocatively, and Bateman was about to cry and run away, thinking you were doing it on purpose to torture him. "Uh, maybe we can drink coffee sometime?"

Oh, God.

Did you really ask him out like that? So blatantly? Did he not mishear?

Your audacity always sent his ego through the roof because he couldn't understand how you could be that confident and brazen naturally. He was sure you weren't doing it on purpose; this was simply the way you had always been. He hated it so much, practically frying himself from jealousy.

"That's a really sweet offer, but I don't think I can find time off work." Bateman tapped the desk next to him. The printing machine had already spat out several forgotten documents next to it. Who would care about some pages when such a gorgeous woman was standing there? He was so close; he'd actually bury his face right between those big, luscious breasts. "Maybe next time."

The man almost choked on his tongue when he said it, but he didn't backtrack or try to look like he could change his mind, even when he noticed the way your face dropped a bit.

"Well," you replied, straightening up and casting a slightly disappointed glance at him. "Next time, I hope I'll be luckier. Have a nice day, Mr. Bateman."

You turned on your heels and strode away. He could have sworn his eyes were glued to the sway of your hips in those tight pants. Where did you buy them? At some local store for nerds?

Annoyed as hell, Bateman wanted nothing more than to flip the desk next to him and throw it across the room. He should have said yes. But that nudging sensation, probably a mix of fear and embarrassment, messed everything up again. However, he was so hard that he was sure it would hurt to walk like this if he didn't solve this problem.

Cursing under his breath, Patrick suddenly rushed around the desk and followed you down the hallway. He caught up with you at the elevators and slid inside one of them at the last second. He startled everyone inside, but he didn't care.

"Sorry, sorry," he muttered, moving through the crowd of irritated office workers until he found you standing next to the elevator wall. Your eyes wandered over the shining ceiling, and your face looked so sad that, for a second, he hated—really hated—himself for being such a jerk and upsetting you. "Hey."

You looked at him with wide eyes, blinking and processing the situation. "Hey," you repeated after him, totally confused. "Something's wrong?"

"Yes! Oh—I mean—no," Patrick chuckled as he finally pressed the button on the control panel, hoping the people around him would stop staring as if he were standing naked in the middle of the elevator. "Jean told me that one of my meetings got canceled, so I thought—" He paused and stood next to you, towering over you, but not staring down your neckline. "A cup of coffee would be nice."

"Really?"

"Yep," he replied smoothly, without arrogance or sass. "Actually, I know one really good place with the best coffee in the Upper West Side."

Later that day, the two of you ended up in his bedroom.

Just like that.

You hated yourself for letting this man win you over, but you couldn't resist him—his charm, his sweet voice, his enchanting manners. Everything about him screamed danger, but you also wanted to unravel and drown in his mystery. His skin was so soft and smooth that you thought you’d never tire of touching it, no matter how many years passed. You would still choose to be in his arms, kissing him as passionately as he was kissing you.

Breathless. Sloppy. Mouth open. Teeth clashing.

The king-sized bed suddenly started to feel small as Patrick was all over you, touching, squeezing, and teasing. He could never get enough; if he let you go, even for a second, you would slip through his fingers like sand. He’d never let that happen, so he held you tight, pressing you down with his heavy muscles. You could barely breathe. Your hands roamed along his broad back while he showered every inch of your body with feverish kisses. Your neck was covered in hickeys, your collarbone had visible bite marks, and your nipples were sore from being in his mouth for so long. In one swift motion, Bateman switched positions, putting you on top of him. He looked a bit embarrassed and lost when you drew near his lips to peck them, one by one, and then his protruding cheekbone.

After a short, shaky exhale, Patrick suddenly blurted out, "I want you to sit on my face—"

"What?" You retorted, genuinely surprised.

"Hold on, let me finish," he smirked, bouncing you slightly on his hips. The mere contact of his hard bulge beneath his white silk boxers against your laced, soaked panties caused you both to freeze for a moment. "I want you to sit on my face while I feed you my cock."

There was a short but awkward pause.

You barely held back your loud laughter, which you directed right at his flustered face. "What a creative way to suggest trying 69."

"We're not 'trying it,' sweetheart, " he crooned, tilting his head up to pull your lower lip with a loud, wet pop. "I'm going to eat your pussy until you gush all over my mouth, and I'm fucking sure you won't last long."

"Your arrogance will be your downfall one day."

Squinting his hazel eyes, Patrick slid both hands along your hips, rubbing the soft mounds and tracing invisible semi-circles on your skin. "Maybe."

Just one word—one simple word—that caused the fall.

You didn’t even notice how easily he repositioned you above his face, giving you access to his throbbing cock. It was already on fire, and the second you touched it, his hot flesh pushed up, risking tearing the fabric of his underwear apart. Meanwhile, Patrick placed his hands on your hips, holding you open and giving your pussy a brief, testing lick through your panties.

"Oh—fuck," you sighed, biting your lower lip with your eyes closed. His cock radiated so much heat that it could burn your hand at any second. "You're—uh—impressive..."

"Get yourself to work," he rasped, kneading your ass up to your hip bones. His mouth was already drooling and heating up at your sopping wet cunt. "While your mouth still functions."

What an asshole.

But you didn't say that out loud.

At one point, you wanted him to suffer and beg you to give him what he wanted, but your own lust overpowered you. It felt like smoldering lava coursing through your veins. His body reacted to every invisible line you drew across his hard length, just across the ridge.

Bateman moaned loudly and unashamedly. The echo vibrated against your taut clit, and you jolted your hips back to grind on his face. You tried to focus on removing his briefs, and when you finally did, his thick dick sprang free. It stood so fucking proud, begging for attention.

"Mmm—leaking already," you murmured before tasting him, catching the creamy drop and wrapping your hand around the base. Bateman groaned gutturally against your folds. His tongue toyed with your bud with illegal precision. You were barely holding back from falling apart. "Oh—God—yes," you gasped. Your hips bucked backward, provoking him. He spanked your ass, trying to tame your bratty behavior. "Hey!"

Smirking with your pussy juices covering his face, he spread your lower lips, catching your clit with his warm mouth for a brief moment. You quivered once again as his large palm landed on your burning ass cheek.

"Don't stray," the man hissed, sucking your clit in one more time. "Or I'll stop."

Nuh-uh.

Such silly things would never work on you. Did that foolish man really think he could blackmail you?

Without saying anything, you slowly reached for his tense balls and gave them a teasing squeeze. Oh well, that had an even greater effect than you intended. Bateman jerked his hips up a bit, literally trying to fuck your hand. The tip was red, swollen, and drenched in pre-cum.

He was far beyond playing such childish games. And he knew it. He was just trying to hide his weak position and how pathetically bad he wanted you, how badly he wanted this, how badly he wanted his cock to hit your fucking throat and have you dump your flavor on his face.

Not to mention that thicc ass of yours.

Holy fuck!

Patrick was addicted. He lost in his own game because he thought you accepted the rules, but you didn't.

The lewd, depraved sounds of your wet lips slipping up and down his cock and his strong tongue flickering around your clit filled his bedroom. Neither of you could hold back anymore. There was no dignity, no self-control, and no pangs of conscience.

Bateman shoved his finger inside you. His free hand settled on your hip, keeping you open. You didn't fall back, taking his dick deeper into your mouth. You helped with your hands, which were locked around it. You jacked him off rhythmically. You whimpered and cried from his girth. Your vision was blurred, but you wanted him to surrender first. You needed that like air. It would be his punishment for being so stubborn and arrogant and making stupid excuses about not having lunch or dinner with you.

Patrick’s lips, tongue, and fingers worked like an unstoppable force, one that would burst every piece of your body.

"Ah—shit," you cursed under your breath, biting your sticky lips. The half-transparent string of saliva mixed with his cum was hovering on your chin. "I'm think...I'm gonna cum!"

Your breathless, whiny sounds fueled his determination to discover how your clenching pussy would feel around his fingers. The second you let go, Bateman continued slurping at your cunt. Your wetness gushed around his face, but he kept eating you out and drinking every drop. The orgasm hit you so hard that you thought you’d choke on his dick, so you let go of it and clung to his muscular calves. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Patrick stopped only when you were completely spent—lumpy, lightheaded, and wrecked. "Jesus," he trailed off, tipping his head back onto the big white pillow. "You're a sweet one. I knew it. I fucking knew it."

You could barely think or talk, panting, as you were mere inches away from lying against his pulled-up legs. His dick was still rigid and throbbing with each hot breath you exhaled. You couldn't see his face, but he must have looked smug and proud—like he was thinking, "Look at me. I just made this bitch explode on my tongue." You wanted to say something to bring him back down to Earth, but...

To hell with talking.

Right now, you didn't want instructions, praise, or sweet nonsense. You just wanted his dick deep inside you until he spilled inside you. Yeah, you'd like that. The thought of being so full of his cum could make you climax again.

Just the thought.

You carefully got on your knees, still with your ass to his face and your legs open on either side of him. Driven by the lingering hunger inside your core that seemed like an endless, consuming black hole, you raised up a bit and positioned his cockhead right between your legs. You rubbed it barely sensibly over your slick pussy lips.

"Dirty girl," he rasped. His cheeks, neck, shoulders, and chest were red. He was a mess, but he didn't try to hide it. "You think you can handle it?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

Patrick squinted, ducking his head down to watch you bend over and give him the most delicious, mouth-watering view: your ass, your plump thighs, and your sore, puffy cunt, swollen from his oral assault. It actually deserved to be taped and added to his porn collection.

But damn, the moment you aligned his dick with your soaked hole and began to guide it inside, you both stopped breathing. This man could probably be arrogant, since his dick—that beefy, hot flesh stretching you out and shuffling everything in your guts—was about to send you somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere you'd never come back from.

"Tight—ugh—fuck," Bateman said. His hands instantly found their way up to your thighs, squeezing and petting them to encourage you to ride him faster. "Tight like a fucking glove."

"Shut up," you snapped back, annoyed but excited. Your next orgasm was already there, in your lower region, where the tension seemed to never leave. "Do you think having a big dick makes you a likeable person?"

You turned around, bouncing on his hips. His shaft slid in and out of you smoothly. His balls were covered in a wicked cocktail of your liquids, and your audacity was the perfect addition to this debauchery.

"That’s right, honey," he replied in a low, ragged voice, an eloquent sign that he was close. "You like my cock—uhhh—you like me."

Then, he suddenly sat up and tugged on your hair, forcing you to arch toward his chest and change the angle of penetration, making it even deeper. It was more brutal, more demanding, and less human.

"Patrick, slow down," you said, though you hadn't expected to. Your pussy was literally on fire from the hard strokes he was giving you, even though you were on top. "Mmhm—you're gonna break me in half!"

But the man didn’t slow down. On the contrary, he sped up, yanking your head back even more and slapping your ass several times before resting one of his hands around your throat, choking you and squeezing the oxygen out of your aching lungs. Your eyes saw nothing but a blurry image of the white walls. The sound of your bodies slapping mixed with the squelching of your pussy around his cock each time he forced you down on it. Bateman wanted to engrave all of it in his mind.

He wanted to reminisce about it after murdering you one day.

"You want my cum? You want all of it, like a fucking slut?"

Your neck hurt from being in such an awkward position, but you were bold enough to gaze into his dark, crazy eyes. "Yes—ahhh—yessss," you gasped. His hand flew up to your face, and he put his thumb in your mouth. "Drown me in it!"

Bateman couldn’t help but chuckle darkly. "Filthy," he mumbled as he drove himself as deep as he could. His cockhead brushed against your cervix, and you clawed at his hand, leaving red marks on his perfectly tanned skin. "You fuck like a whore. Did you know that?"

His movements became more sloppy and frantic. His dick pulsed inside your overstimulated pussy. His breath was labored and uneven, just like yours. He came hard, but silently, as if he didn’t want even the walls of his bedroom to know how badly he wanted you. He was with a woman he never even supposed to fantasize about because she was not his type, yet here he was, shooting hot ropes of seed into your core until it streamed onto his pristine sheets.

Your next orgasms set in, and you thought you’d pass out. Maybe you really passed out because you were exhausted and overfucked. You blacked out right when Patrick put you on the bed and pressed you against his wet chest. You couldn't move your limbs, as if someone had pressed a button and shut you down. You could have sworn. It was the best sleep of your life because you had never been more satisfied.

You were the first one to wake up in the morning. You took some time just sitting there and admiring the view. Patrick looked so peaceful in his sleep, almost angelic. You had to make a conscious effort not to touch him or brush back the messy locks of his brown hair sparkling in the sunlight. You wished you could stay there forever, but...

There was always a "but" that would bring you back to reality like a bucket of cold water.

Sneakily and almost silently, you got up to find your clothes scattered around the room like junk. Piece by piece, you collected your outfit. A semblance of shame crept up inside your chest. Where would all of this lead you? Patrick was a vice president, and you hoped he wouldn't brag about having sex with you in his bedroom the next day.

Lost in disturbing thoughts, you didn't notice how you ended up in his kitchen. Everything looked sterile and cold. There was something eerie about the atmosphere, but you couldn't comprehend it. No matter how hungry or thirsty you were, you didn't dare touch anything. Instead, you got dressed and put your watch on your wrist, checking your reflection in its glimmering dial.

Meanwhile, Bateman was already awake. Frankly, he hadn’t been sleeping for very long—he pretended to be asleep even when he felt your piercing gaze examining his "sleepy" features. He knew you were in his living room, maybe even in his kitchen, and wondered if you would overstep the boundaries.

Would your curiosity be your demise?

With one practiced motion, Patrick pushed the blanket to the side, causing his briefs to fall to the floor. He stared at them for a while, but then decided to wrap himself in a sheet instead of putting on the used underwear.

Still, no sounds came from the kitchen, which intrigued him.

Bateman strolled out of the bedroom, not like a creep trying to startle you, but subtly approaching you until he finally saw you and what you were about to do. Unaware of his presence, your hand was already on the refrigerator door, ready to open it, when you suddenly heard his somewhat menacing voice.

"Don't," he warned, standing inches away from you. "Don't open it."

You gulped and locked eyes with him. "I... I just wanted some water."

"There was an issue with the electricity." The man paused and moved closer. His looming figure made you feel small, so you instinctively stepped back. "So, probably, all the food spoiled. I don't want the smell everywhere. I have some bottles of Evian in my bathroom, though.”

"Uh, since you mentioned the bathroom," you muttered, fiddling with your fingers awkwardly. You weren't sure why it was suddenly so difficult to look him in the eyes. "Can I use it?"

"Sure."

That was all he said before you headed towards the bathroom without hesitation. Only after hearing the door click shut did the man open the fridge to check on the decapitated head of some random blonde model. He couldn't remember her name, even though her head was sitting on one of the shelves in the fridge, next to food products, as if that were normal.

With an ugly grin, Bateman pressed a finger to his lips, kissing it lightly before placing it on the dead girl’s frozen, rotten mouth. "Sleep well, darling."

With that, he closed the fridge and whistled. His mind raced with ideas of what he could do to you in the bathroom right now. A shiny, big kitchen knife caught his attention, sending a jolt of electricity down his spine and through his groin. His cock was already getting hard.

Although the sex with you was good—the most delicious appetizer—now it was time for the main course, and Patrick knew he would enjoy it.

Every fucking second of it.

Thank you for the reading!🖤 [MAIN M-LIST]🪓[SHORT REQUESTS M-LIST]🪓[KO-FI]

#patrick bateman x reader #patrick bateman imagine #slasher x reader #slasher fanfiction #slashers x reader #slasher fandom #american psycho

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frog-cultist · 5 months ago

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I was supposed to finish this back in October💀

#fan art #billy lenz fanart #billy lenz black christmas #billy lenz 1974 #billy lenz #billy lenz black christmas 1974 #billy lenz fan art #black christmas fan art #black christmas fanart #black christmas 1974 #slasher #slasher fanart #slasher fandom #slashers

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happy74827 · 10 months ago

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Oh the Deadpool tag is trending? I wonder why—

… oh

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gremlintaro · 4 months ago

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love is in the air ??? WRONG !!!!! gas leak

nah !!!! forgot to post this here again but it's a redraw of last year's valentine art cuz it was straight up ass !!! that one was rushed and last minute..,

if i knew what i was doing, i'd actually like to turn this into a print :3

#slashers #slasher fanart #slasher films #slasher fandom #my bloody valentine 1981 #harry warden #valentines day #happy valentines #redraw #remake #GTaro art

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slashthrashandcrash · 11 months ago

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PSA to please be mindful of your screen size when you're watching cursed Japanese videos!!

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multific · 9 days ago

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The Mask and the Mirror

Jason Voorhees x Reader

Summary: Jason thought it would be best if his daughter never saw his face. Too afraid to scare the child. But of course, she had other ideas.

It was a quiet morning, the kind where the trees stood still, and even the lake seemed to hold its breath.

You were in the kitchen washing herbs, your daughter babbling to herself in the other room.

Jason had left his machete leaning against the wall, his boots muddy by the door.

You figured he was fixing something outside, the porch steps maybe, or the fence.

Always building. Always providing. Always caring

You didn’t hear the mask fall.

But you did hear the giggle.

Your stomach dropped as you wiped your hands and stepped into the living room, just in time to see her.

Your daughter.

Barely steady on her feet, dragging Jason’s cracked hockey mask in both hands.

Jason, kneeling in front of her, was utterly still.

And your baby girl? Giggling.

Giggling as she reached up, pressed both hands to his bare, scarred face and kissed his cheek.

It was clumsy, wet, and joyful.

And she beamed afterwards like she’d just performed a miracle.

Jason didn’t move for a long moment.

You could see it in him, the tremble in his shoulders, the locked grip of fear that had held him for years.

And then something changed.

He reached out, not to stop her, not to pull away, but to touch her tiny fingers, as if trying to understand how such purity could reach him.

You didn’t say a word.

You just watched.

And that night, long after she was asleep, you found him sitting by the fire.

The mask was on the floor beside him, untouched.

He didn’t turn when you approached, but he didn’t flinch either when you sat beside him.

When you gently turned his face toward you. When your hand cupped his cheek.

He held perfectly still.

You stroked the ridges and valleys of his skin, not with pity, but reverence.

His scars told a story. And you had loved him through every page.

He watched you with wide eyes, like someone witnessing a sunrise they never thought they’d see.

And when you kissed him soft and slow, pressing your lips just above his jaw, he breathed out like it was the first time in years that breath didn’t hurt.

He didn’t wear the mask to bed that night.

Instead, he pulled you close. And let himself be held.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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glittercorpsps · 9 months ago

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Jason wishes you a TERRIFIC friday!

#art #drawing #fanart #slasher art #slasher fandom #slasher movies #jason voorhees #friday the 13th #horror #slashers #artists on tumblr

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psychotic-star-girl · 10 months ago

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peppersmert · 2 months ago

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Hooray for Tommy! I love this guy, but sometimes I need a break from all this horror, you know?

#the texas chainsaw massacre #leatherface #thomas hewitt #slashers #art #fanart #slasher fandom #digital art #horror #tcm 2006

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black-brained · 11 months ago

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Me: I watch house of wax for the plot!

The plot:

#slashers #slasher fandom #slasher #slasher x reader #horror films #80s horror #slasher memes #bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #slashers x reader #house of wax x reader #house of wax #vincent sinclair fanart #vincent sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair

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cece693 · 3 months ago

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Touch Starved

pairing: brahms heelshire x gender neutral reader tags: touch starved Brahms, you're a nanny, not movie compliant, just you delivering kindness to a man who's living in the walls, cute but also concerning, cause who wants a stinky, murderous man

You hadn’t planned on taking care of anyone but yourself for a while, least of all a man hidden away behind old walls and silent halls. But fate has a funny way of leading you to the places—and people—you didn’t know you needed.

The moment you stepped through the heavy wooden doors of the Heelshire estate, a sense of quiet trepidation mingled with an unexpected tingle of warmth. You were met by the echoes of distant footsteps (or so you thought) and the slow creaking of doors that seemed to open by themselves. There was supposed to be a doll, you’d been told. Brahms, a porcelain boy that you were to care for as though he were a real child. But as the days passed, you quickly realized you were not alone. You could feel it—a presence just out of reach. A low scuff against the floorboards when you turned your head, the flicker of a shadow across a mirror.

Every now and then, you caught sight of a shape in the doorway: tall and still, eyes peering through a masked face. Brahms. Not the porcelain doll, but a flesh-and-blood man, heartbreakingly silent and desperately lonely.

It was late one evening when you finally found him in the living room, crouched behind an old armchair. He might have fled if not for how gently you approached—slow steps, outstretched hands, your voice calm but cautious.

You knelt down, heart pounding, meeting those wide, frightened eyes through the mask’s eyeholes. “You must be Brahms,” you whispered into the stillness. Your words lingered, soft reassurance filling the space between you.

He didn’t speak; you hadn’t expected him to. But there was a distinct tremor in his shoulders as though he was holding back a flurry of words—or maybe sobs. Even behind the mask, you could feel the intensity of his longing for contact, for acknowledgment, for someone to look at him and not run away in horror.

So you didn’t run. You didn’t even back away.

You settled into a routine with surprising ease. Brahms was silent as always, but his presence began to make itself known through little gestures: the steady pattern of footsteps behind you as you moved about the estate, the slight tug on your sleeve when it was time for dinner, or a gentle tap on your shoulder in the afternoons when the house felt too big, too empty.

In response, you offered him wordless kindness. Meals at the table, always setting two plates so he’d know there was a seat for him. A folded blanket left on the sofa, just big enough for the two of you to share when the nights got cold. A record player with music turned down low, so he could sit near you without feeling overwhelmed.

At first, he was shy about receiving affection. You’d see his shoulders tense whenever your hand hovered over his arm—but he never pulled away. Slowly, day by day, Brahms let himself draw closer to you. Where he once watched you from afar, now he’d sit at the edge of the same couch.

One evening, you found yourself in the library. The moonlight streamed in through stained-glass windows, painting the shelves in a kaleidoscope of color. You sat on the old, worn rug, a book splayed in your lap. You were reading quietly to him, your tone hushed and steady, when Brahms leaned close—closer than he ever had.

Your voice faltered for a split second, but you carried on. His breathing was unsteady. At last, carefully, you rested a hand on his knee. For an agonizing moment, you thought he might leap up and bolt into the hidden corridors. But instead, Brahms let out a sound—something between a sigh and a relief-filled moan.

He turned just enough for you to see his eyes through the mask, shadows dancing in the moonlight. Slowly, painfully shy, he laid his head against your shoulder, letting you cradle him gently. Brahms felt fragile, like an abandoned creature starved for love.

You ran your fingers through the strands of his hair that peeked out from beneath the mask’s edges. His shoulders relaxed little by little, tension melting under the warmth of your touch. If you had any doubts that your affection was what he so badly needed, they all drifted away in that moment.

Affection became your shared language. Brahms still didn’t speak; you didn’t need him to. The way he tentatively placed his hand over yours—masked fingers brushing yours—was worth more than a thousand words. When he was anxious, you felt it in the trembling press of his body against yours. When he was happy, you saw it in the more confident way he moved, as though it no longer pained him to be seen.

You took pleasure in the smallest rituals: combing through his hair by the fireplace, making him tea, encouraging him to hold your hand whenever he felt uncertain. He was ravenous for the smallest bit of kindness. Every fleeting touch on his arm or gentle brushing of your fingers along his back made him shudder in gratitude. You were more than willing to give it to him.

Eventually, one crisp morning, you convinced him to come outside with you. He hovered in the doorway, torn between the fear of the open world and the longing to stay by your side. But you simply offered your hand, palm upturned, and waited with all the patience you could muster.

He took it.

Once outside, Brahms let out a breath he’d been holding for years, it seemed. The sun’s warmth touched him through the fabric of his clothes, through the slight gap between the edge of his mask and his skin. You guided him to the garden, letting him feel the dew on his fingertips.

He never let go of your hand.

You paused by the rosebushes, a single white blossom catching your eye. You plucked it gently and offered it to him. Brahms stared at it for a long, reverent moment. Then, with trembling care, he lifted the bloom to his mask, as though inhaling a memory of a life he never quite had. Softly, you reached out, cupping his cheek over the porcelain of his mask. He leaned into your palm as though memorizing the warmth, the unmistakable proof that someone saw him, someone cared for him. In that private corner of the garden, with sunbeams turning both your breaths into pale mist in the cool air, you let him rest his masked forehead against yours.

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impeakcharacterdesign · 2 years ago

Text

Just the Tip

— Thomas Hewitt x Fem!Reader —

MDNI!!!

Summary: It’s the 1960s and Luda Mae frowns upon premarital sex like any good Christian woman. You and Tommy are young, hot, and in love but the only problem is that Tommy was raised to wait until marriage and never lets you two go any further than kissing and some groping.

But the devil lives in the hot Texan sun and even God takes a break from the summer heat.

Notes: this is super short, just pure smut, self indulgent I’m obsessed with big boy Tommy 😭😭😭 i swear I’m working on part 2 of my sister Sinclair fic but Tommy has me in a choke hold and I needed an outlet.

No TW that I can think of other than bad smut and maybe ??? Coercion??? Cause Tommy wants to be a good boy and stop before y’all go too far but you flash him and then he’s absolutely 100% in. A bit of religious stuff, period typical sexism but vaguely. Let me know if I should add anything else and I’ll get right on it. Reader isn’t ever referred to using “she/her” pronouns but is described as having breasts and does have female genitalia so I tagged it fem reader to be safe

Enjoy!!!

The early morning sun burned, chasing away what little cool air remained of the night before. While the barn shaded you from the unforgiving sun and hid you from disapproving eyes — or lecherous in the case of the older men of the family — it also trapped in the heat your two bodies gave off.

Thomas pressed his open mouth to your own, tongue swiping over your teeth eager to taste you. Your hands gripped his dark hair, ruining any half-effort attempt he had made earlier in the day to smooth down his unruly hair. He held you in his arms, body pressed tightly against him in an attempt to get as close as possible, his large frame hiding you even further from prying eyes than the shadowed corners of the old barn. The kiss was deep and hungry and served as a brief respite from Luda Maes ever watching eyes. While she had been fine with you living with the family before you and Tommy were married, she forbade you from sharing a room or being intimate, a rule she absolutely refused to budge on and one that Uncle Charlie took a strange glee in ribbing you about. But much like the Texan heat, the heated looks you gave each other were unavoidable and only grew hotter as the summer days went on. Luda Mae wanted to wait until the following spring to make your union official but at the rate the town was drying up, there wouldn't even be a priest to officiate the ceremony, much less any guest to attend. You highly doubted anyone outside of the family would want to witness your union anyway but still, Luda Mae didn't want the few who would to get wise and start counting months.

These stolen moments in the barn were as good as you could get — and by god were they good.

Tommy’s large hands groped at your breasts, pawing roughy at your nipples through the worn fabric of your old dress. It wasn’t long before you found yourself in the familiar position of being sprawled out on the barn floor, coarse hay a discomfort you had long learned to endure for the sake of pleasure.

You desperately thrust your sex up onto his growing bulge, whining when he groaned and pinned your hips with his own, preventing you from getting your desired stimulation. “Please Tommy,” you beg, lips separating, “We don’t have to do too much, I just wanna touch you.” You press open-mouthed kisses to his neck, pulling softly at the flesh with your teeth and tongue dragging across the bites to taste the salt on his skin. Your hands eagerly worked to untuck his faded green shirt and wrap around him, roaming the vast expanse of his back. His whole body shuddered in your arms, an attempt to hold back from eating you whole.

You know Thomas will put an end to your romp soon, the tense lines of his shoulders and the way he shuts his eyes a sign that he's reaching his limit, that if you two don't stop now you won't be able to stop — but that’s exactly what you want.

You're tired of holding back, of this constant edging you have to endure when you’re in his presence and it gets harder every day. Just yesterday afternoon, Uncle Charlie sprayed Tommy with the hose, telling him that he was filthy and needed to get out of those clothes before he went inside. Watching as he undressed by the back door so that you could put his clothes on the line to dry had nearly given you a heatstroke — and if Charlie’s leering grin was any clue, you swear he did it on purpose in an attempt to rile you up. You ran off before you sinned right there in the yard, the memory of Thomas's shirt clinging to his arms, his chest glistening with water had kept you company well into the night.

So before Tommy puts a stop to your roll in the hay you make your move. You lift your dress up past your breast and expose yourself to him, you can see his breath stutter in his chest, this was quickly becoming the farthest you two had ever gone.

“Just watch me, Tommy, watch me,” you say breathlessly.

And he does, he sits on his haunches like a predator, his engorged cock straining against his pants and imagining just a taste has your tongue darting out to wet your lips, his gaze fixated on the movement.

Sliding your panties off your legs, your fingers dip briefly into your wet hole, gathering slick to rub onto your clit. At the very first touch, you let out a shuddering breath and you watch as his shoulders heave.

You begin rubbing your clit at an intense pace already turned on from the earlier heavy petting, not once breaking eye contact with Thomas as you do. With each moan you muffle you see his eyes grow darker with desire breathing with his mouth open as though he could taste your scent in the air. When he finally lets his cock spring free you let out your loudest moan yet. It’s better than you ever thought. His cock is thick and heavy, drooping slightly under its own weight but still undeniably firm. It curves slightly and you imagine that if it was inside you it would scrape against your walls in a way you've never been able to do with just your fingers.

Thomas grips his cock firmly and gives it a few tugs, eyes alternating between hungrily drinking in the sight of your blissed-out expression and your dripping pussy. You buck your hips, desperate to press your clit against your fingers and Thomas jerks his length even faster, rubbing his tip and spreading his precum on his hand.

God, you wished it was you that was touching him.

Thomas settles onto his knees and after a brief hesitation begins to shuffle closer to you. The sight of him crawling to you on his knees with his dripping length in hand made your pussy clench around nothing and you let out a whimper. You remove your fingers from your clit, feeling the heat radiating from his cock as he settles on top of you, legs spreading around his waist, your hips slightly raised and resting on his thighs.

The tip hesitantly pressed against your clit and your moan fills the small space before you can suppress it. This was better than you were hoping and it felt as though you were pressing against the boundaries the lord had set for you. Tommy’s eyes find yours looking for reassurance, asking without words, “Do you think this is okay?”

You find enough comprehension in your lust-addled brain to come up with a coherent answer, “It should be fine, I think,” you stammer out, “I mean, it’s not like — not like you’re putting it in so, it should be fine.”

You’re not overly familiar with the word of God outside of Sunday services and Luda Mae’s lectures, both of which you were forced to attend and spent tuning out in favor of watching the sweat build on Tommy’s brow while he worked through the window.

You think that if God could feel the weight of Thomas like you did, feel the heat like you could, you think he’d forgive the sin of your act.

It seems like that was all the reassurance that Thomas needed because no sooner than the words fumbled their way out of your mouth that he begins to drag the length of his cock against your slit.

God, if this is what hell was supposed to be like, burning and full of decadence, then perhaps you didn’t mind being a sinner.

The way he ruts against you is euphoric. Heavy breaths escape you both and you can’t help the words that spill from your lips.

“God, Tommy, I wish you would put it inside me,” you whine out “‘wanna feel your fat cock in my pussy, wanna get filled,” you might as well be begging at this point, and Tommy's increases his pace to the point that you think he wants the same thing, that he’s desperate to thrust into you rather than against you and —

And then the tip of his cock catches on your entrance and you both stop breathing.

“Maybe — Maybe it doesn’t count.” You stammer out, “It didn’t go in and it’s just the tip, and I don’t think that the tip counts” With the slightest twitch of his hips the tip of his cock has slipped inside.

"It's - it's just the tip it's fine” Your words sound empty even to you but the reassurance is all Tommy needs to push forward and let the head of his cock slide into your welcoming heat

His soul nearly leaves his body when he feels your raw pussy on the head of his cock. He jerks his length furiously and your fingers begin to move against your clit again, eager to meet your high with Thomas.

But it’s not enough. He was right there, right there just one push of his hips he’d be right where you needed him

“Please Tommy” Canting your hips slightly so the tip begins to dig deeper into you, you begin to plead once more, “wanna feel you fill me up, wanna remember the shape of your cock please”

Thomas feels years of control break at your words and with one swing of his hips, he bottoms out instantly. You feel like you've been punched in the gut as the air rushes out of you and you let out a sound like a wounded animal. Tommy stays still deep inside you, shaking and heaving, absolutely drunk on the feeling of your soaked walls clenching vigorously around his length.

You feel full in a way you've never thought possible. His length throbs, its girth stretching you in a way that burns.

When he finally starts thrusting, you’re not ready. He’s like a man possessed, solely focused on the feel of you around him, your skin pressed against his, his blood pounding in his ears.

“Wait— Tommy, ah, slow — slow down, oh god!” You can’t hold back your moans and he can’t stop, both fully engrossed in the feel of each other with no control over your own lust. Thomas crashes his lips onto yours in a halfhearted attempt to keep down your moans, it’s sloppy, clashing teeth and drooling tongues, spit escaping your lips, unlike any you’ve shared before.

This is completely different from what you’ve imagined your first time together would be like. It’s not your wedding night, you're laying on the dirty barn floor and there’s absolutely nothing gentle about the way Tommy is ravaging you. Your pussy is sopping wet and with every thrust, it lets out an embarrassing squelch, your juices and Tommy’s pre-cum leak down your ass and make a sticky mess in his dark pubes.

He doesn’t stop even as your walls spasm around him, cumming on his cock and digging your nails into his strong back. He works you through your orgasm even as your mouth clumsily forms the words to beg for him to slow down or to give you a moment. It’s too much, the sensations completely overloading your brain and all you can do is hold on tightly to him, lost in the ecstasy of your release.

Thomas lets out a deep, guttural groan as he cums, hips stuttering as he bullies his fat cock into the deepest part of your sex, filling you to the brim and your vision goes white.

Boneless, neither one of you makes a move to separate from the other, so thoroughly satisfied and content to lie where you are holding each other, Thomas’s softening cocking slipping out of you and spilling his release onto the ground.

His weight on you is comforting, you gently press kisses to his face and bask in the way his heavy breaths caress your sweaty skin.

“I love you.” You whisper into the shell of his ear and he squeezes you against him, repeating the words in his garbled voice the best he could. Your love is just for the two of you, no one else had a place in your world, no one else had the right to peak in on your affection or gawk at your differences.

This moment in time was just for the two of you.

“Thomas! Where the hell are ya, boy!”

Well, until Uncle Charlie’s voice brought you back down to reality.

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