#Thanks for dropping by and participating! ^^

[tomicscomics]

06/20/2025

Happy Feast of Corpus Christi (the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ)!

___

JOKE-OGRAPHY:

1. The Feast of Corpus Christi (or the Body and Blood of Christ) is a feast day celebrating the Real Presence of Jesus Christ in the Eucharist ("Eucharist" is also called "Communion" or "the Lord's Supper"). The Real Presence is the belief that, at the height of Mass, the bread and wine at the altar are transformed, and while their details remain unchanged, their underlying reality becomes the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Jesus (His "Real Presence"). In this Sacrament, we step outside of time to participate in the Last Supper, in the Passion, in our heavenly Wedding Feast, and in the very tangible Person of Christ. The Real Presence has been a core belief of Christianity since its very start. Paul writes about the importance of receiving Communion worthily in 1 Corinthians 11, and the apostle John's student, Ignatius of Antioch, emphasizes the Real Presence in his Epistle to the Smyrnaeans!

2. In this Bible story, Jesus breaks bread with His disciples at the Last Supper, giving thanks and saying, "This is My Body." The Greek word for "thanksgiving" is where we get the word "Eucharist" for the bread and wine offered at Communion.

3. In this cartoon, Peter realizes that "...this EUCHARIST is YOU, CHRIST!" but he enunciates it awkwardly so that the syllables of EU-CHA-RIST match up with YOU-CHuh-RIST.

4. For anyone scrolling through old cartoon descriptions years from now: yes, this is the comic people are talking about when they whisper about the day that Tomics "redefined humor." For the record, I attribute all of my inevitable future success to the grace God has gifted me. Sure, it was hard to be so talented and ground-breaking in my time, but my grace got me through, somehow. People called my grace the best grace. Lots of people called it that. Everyone, if you can believe it -- if the grace of faith has been given to you to believe such a thing. But, hey, what do they know? I'm just a humble guy, so I won't toot my own horn. If I wanted to, though, it'd be great: an orchestra in itself. It'd drop the walls of Jericho in only TWELVE laps.

[twstfanblog]

Idia x a reader who's an introverted shut-in nerd loser just like him...

SSR Connection

Idia x Reader (Could be read as platonic)

The prefect isn't entirely sure what any of the NRC teachers were smoking but they fucking wanted some. It wasn't even midterms, yet every class decided they would have massive tests on the same day. And to make matters worse, their gacha game was having its long-awaited event! The SSR of their dreams was finally in their grasp.

Normally, they'd be on their phone the entire day, even during gym if they could swing it. Grinding gems and completing tasks to roll for the new event.

But NO. They had to be 'present and engaged' with clases because every one of their teachers decided to fuck their life with big fat tests. The only glimmer in their mind was the fact Ortho was a dear friend. A dear friend who didn't have to participate in classes and was most likely in his brother's room doing a lot of nothing all day. So, with a barely functioning brain, they had raced to Ignihyde. Throwing open Idia’s bedroom door with a fast-forwarded explanation of what they needed the android to do. Simply use every gem to get the new card, and do their games' refuel battles to earn more.

They said that while throwing their phone at the flaming blue hair, before closing the door, no more than three seconds later.

And they survived! Every test completed and hopefully passed. They stopped at Sam's for a treat, seeing Ortho scanning the shelves, they called out.

"Ortho! Sorry about this morning. I was in such a rush, I must have scared you with how I busted in there."

"Hm? It's no issue, I suppose. But, what are you-"

"Today was wild. The baby midterms every teacher decided to give were brutal. But, I made it! Thank you so much for watching my phone for me."

"Prefect, I don't have your phone."

...

To say that the prefect started wailing was an understatement. Ignihyde was more blue than any other color of the spectrum. There's no telling if they tossed their phone at Idia or simply into an empty room in their panicked and sleepy state. Ortho was nice, guiding their weeping self towards Ignihyde and his brother's room. If lucky, their phone was just sitting on his bed or desk, untouched. If unlucky, Ortho was sure his brother would help locate the device.

But once they got to Idia's room, the housewarden barely acknowledged their entrance. He had his phone in one hand, the other typing on his keyboard as an emulator played on screen. Wires connected to the Prefect's phone.

"Um...Nii-san?"

"Good! Ortho, you're back, I need you to-" Idia turned, curling into himself at seeing another person in the doorway. He only grew more frantic in his typing at seeing who it was, "W-wait! I'm almost finished grinding! You can have your phone back after that!"

The prefect perks up, a small gasp escaping their mouth, "You had my phone all day?"

"Um...yeah." Idia looked between them and the screen before slamming a fist onto the desk, "How long have you been playing 'My Lovely Hero Academia'!?"

"A-a few months? Why-" They flinch as Idia swiped at his monitor, thinking that he was literally throwing it at them, only to see he sent over a holo screen showing the emulator display.

"How did you get Madame Justice!? I've been playing for literal years and I still haven't gotten her drop!"

The Prefect waves the screen away, raising an eyebrow, "Is...Is she rare? She's like the poster girl for the whole series, isn't she? She's got an SSR for every event, even if she isn't in it?"

"Yeah, you can get those, whatever. This is the launch day SSR! THE RAREST DROP IN THE GAME! WHERE DID YOU GET THIS!?"

"I...I got her in the starter pack? I didn't know she was so rare..." The Prefect folds their arms, mumbling under their breath, "They whore her out enough, I wasn't surprised when she showed up..."

"THE STARTER-" Idia just stand from his chair, rolling over and gripping the Prefect by their arm and tugging them back to the table of monitors, "Come here! What do you even do? Your cards are all shit but you've got rare SR AND SSRs out the ass!?"

"I don't know!? I just like the card art man!"

Idia picks up the Prefect's phone, pointing at it in barely contained anger, "You literally have my dream lineup and you've done nothing with them!"

"Well, I don't really like the main story, and the battle system is-"

"ANOTHER THING. You haven't played past the first arc of the main story!?"

"It's boring!"

"BORING!?"

Ortho watched from the doorway, looking between the two before slowly backing away. His eyes crinkled for a moment, though it was an argument, his brother was talking to someone openly. He could barely keep his giggle to himself as the Prefect had fully sat down, snatching their phone from Idia’s hands and pulling up a new app.

"Now, if we're talking interesting, you need to play 'Star-Trail Impact'-"

"By the Seven. Just BURN your money instead."

Ortho closed the door behind him, snickering into his hand, "I'm so glad my brother is making friends~!"

[distantdarlings]

ELUSION // v. krum

RATING: R / 5.1K WORDS

Viktor Krum x Spanish!American!Fem!Reader Insert

+ SUMMARY - *Requested, based on this* You've been forced to move to London in the middle of your senior year at Ilvermorny. While having to transfer all of your credits to Hogwarts, the Triwizard Tournament is also going on, and you catch one of the competitors' eye.

+ WARNINGS - SMUT! PIV (no protection!), coming inside, quickie, (sort of) public sex, riding, foreign language kink? (idk), badly translated Spanish, very brief mention of injuries, very brief mention of blood, kissing, language, not fully proofread (lmk if I missed anything)

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

greedy - Tate McRae

*If the translation for the Spanish is bad, PLEASE CORRECT ME! Thank you!!!*

**Also, I know that Viktor was technically the second-to-last competitor in the dragon challenge before Harry, but just pretend he went first for the sake of the story.

---

When you moved from America and everything you’d known since you were a child to the busy, dreary streets of London, the last thing you’d expected was to find some infatuation with a wizard from deep within the Scandinavian mountains. 

Your parents had packed you up after dropping the heartbreaking news that you’d be moving halfway across the world less than a week earlier. You’d barely had any time to weep over the friends you’d no longer see and the gorgeous school you’d come to adore. 

Ilvermorny had been your home for the entirety of your Wizarding education career, and now you were expected to drop it halfway through your final year. You were going to have to transfer all of your education credits, get to know all-new students and professors, and somehow manage to keep your head above water with your grades. 

When you first arrived at Hogwarts around the first of October, you remember telling yourself how much of a nightmare this whole transition was going to be. And you hadn’t been wrong. 

The communication between the faculty at Ilvermorny and Hogwarts had been weak at best. The first set of robes that were waiting for you in your dormitory when you got there were about two sizes too small. The food took some major getting used to, which wreaked constant havoc on your stomach. And, worst of all, your grades had hit a bit of a stutter, partially due to all of the stress you were under, and partially due to the insane accents that floated about this castle. More than a few times, you’d found that you’d written an incorrect potion ingredient or the wrong historical fact, and then missed that question on a quiz simply because you’d misheard the professor. It was a complete pain in the ass.

The only bright spot in the whole thing was that you’d actually managed to make a few friends. Due to there only being a few months left in your enrollment at Hogwarts, Headmaster Dumbledore and a few of the other faculty members decided it was mostly useless to sort you into a house. So, if being the “new girl” in your senior year wasn’t spotlighting enough, you were now also the standout weirdo who didn’t belong anywhere. 

Gratefully, though, a few of the Gryffindor girls had taken you under their wings. They were a bit younger than you, but were kind enough. 

You’d struck up a conversation with them during the first strange event in the school year. Amongst the hustle and bustle of packing up your entire life, you’d forgotten that Hogwarts was the talk of campus back at Ilvermorny this year. Everyone had been jealous because that stupid school was hosting the Triwizard Tournament, and Ilvermorny was never allowed to participate. Granted, the contest hadn’t taken place in a long time, but as soon as talk of it sprang up around town, everyone was jealous. You’d never not know your American peers to be competitive as hell, and they showed that ten times over amidst all of the Triwizard Tournament discussion. 

Before your last day at Ilvermorny, you remembered one of your friends mentioning how jealous they were that you were going to be able to view most of the contest. At the time, however, that was the least of your concerns. 

Now, after having settled in for the most part and discussing the champions that were selected with the Gryffindor girls, you were pretty invested. Firstly, because one of the champions was a friend of the Gryffindor girls, and, secondly, because one of the others had caught your eye pretty quickly.

Headmaster Dumbledore had announced the names of the contenders one at a time with his booming, powerful voice, waiting patiently as they walked proudly up to the front of the Great Hall. You had watched silently, only partially paying attention due to the shitty grade you’d just received on a paper you’d turned in yesterday. In fact, you were so distraught over that assignment, you likely wouldn’t have even looked up if the Gryffindor girls hadn’t started giggling and playfully elbowing each other when one of the champions was called. 

Their silly antics had pulled your attention away from where your fingers were anxiously shredding the loose skin beside your nails, and you had caught sight of the one aspect of this entire stressful journey you hadn’t been expecting. 

You’d expected the plummet in your grades, the anxiety, the isolation. But you hadn’t seen this heated, rapidly formed relationship between Viktor and you coming, not from miles away. 

It had started slowly. After the lingering eye contact he’d laid on you as your focus had followed him all the way up the steps on the night of the Halloween feast, came the sneaking glances between classes. 

They were innocuous at first—just brief, passing looks from across the room, where your eyes would slide over each other a little slower than they would others. Slowly, though, the glances turned into staring, then into open challenges, until one evening Viktor approached you. 

You’d been sitting outside in one of the courtyards, scanning through a reading assignment McGonagall had assigned, trying to force yourself to concentrate on the tedious material. Whether it was from the hunting skills Durmstrang pushed or his natural silence, you hadn’t heard the dark man stroll up behind you. 

You weren’t sure how long he’d been standing there, feeling the same breeze that you were coasting over his face, when he finally spoke. 

“What are you reading?” he’d asked, and you’d nearly jumped out of your skin. 

You hadn’t heard him speak up close yet, so you were almost shocked at how strong his accent was. He obviously came from a foreign school, way up North in the far mountains, but you hadn’t realized just how heavy it sat. His mouth formed awkwardly around the unfamiliar English letters, and all of his ‘w’s came out more like ‘v’s. It was cute. 

“Oh, er,” you chuckled nervously, gently pushing the book closed around your finger to save your spot. He was even more handsome up close, and you had to force yourself to swallow that thought down as he spoke with you.

A gentle smile spread across his lips. “I’m sorry. Did I scare you?”

“Uh, just a little bit,” you laughed. “But that’s okay. You’re…Krum, right? Viktor?” 

He nodded in response. His hands were tucked within his trouser pockets, his arms slipping beneath a heavy fur coat that kept all of his towering warmth close to his body. You found yourself a bit jealous in that moment, considering how chilly it was getting outside. 

“Yes,” he responded. “And you? Your name?”

Once you’d introduced yourself a bit better, you’d fully abandoned your reading assignment, noting that you’d just find your lost place later. You were much more interested in this conversation. Despite his endearing accent, his features were mesmerizing—all soft beauty and dark eyes. You were sucked in instantly. 

“Your accent? What is it?” he suddenly asked, thick eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Like, where am I from?” you laughed a bit. He nodded. 

“Well, I’m from America,” you explained. “You know, like the United States? But my family is Hispanic. I grew up speaking Spanish in my household and still do, so I’m sure a bit of the accent is leftover from them.”

“Spanish? Wow!” he seemed genuinely interested. “And American? Very different.”

The two of you laughed. When silence ensued every so often, it didn’t feel too uncomfortable or awkward, but it did feel more intimate than you’d been expecting. You noticed that when you were not talking, both of you were trailing the other. He seemed just as interested in you as you were in him, if not more. 

After that day, you’d found yourselves hanging out a bit here and there. Just like everything else between you, it seemed to start slowly and develop more and more until it broke wide open.

There had only been a few more days until the first trial of the Triwizard Tournament. Viktor had developed a squealing gaggle of girls that followed him around the campus, no matter if he was working out or just going between classes with his professors. It was annoying to you, but he seemed used to it. 

Sure, there was nothing between the two of you, but you couldn’t help the jealousy that had blossomed within your stomach every time you saw them swoon over him stretching by the Black Lake. It made your chest boil with an uncomfortable heat. It still did, even now.

But he hadn’t seemed to notice. And he especially didn’t notice when he walked over to where you were reading comfortably with your back propped up against one of the smaller willow trees peppered along the lake’s shore. His eyes were curious, but his lips parted in a small, almost shy smile. His cheeks were flushed red from the heavy run he’d just taken, and he seemed eager to draw your attention away from the book pressed against your knees. 

The group of girls that trailed after him seemed to realize that he was approaching you. As your eyes glanced back and forth between him and them, you slowly realized that they were now jealous of you. This was a complete turnaround of the emotions that were being passed along the shore. 

Finally, he squatted beside you and asked you, once again, what you were reading. You’d chuckled quietly and explained the project you had due the next day and how it related to the book. And, after a while, the girls seemed to notice he was not interested in them and was wholly focused on you. And that angered them. They’d stomped, sighed, rolled their eyes, and everything in between before wandering off to who knew where.

And, suddenly, it was just you and Viktor, like it had been the last few weeks. You were chatting idly, sitting next to each other, breathing in the other’s scent and hearing the other’s voice—just enjoying the company. The shore had cleared, and there was no one else around who could easily be spotted. His eyes trailed over your face as his head lay back against the tree behind the two of you. They flickered down to your lips only twice before he’d gathered up enough courage to lean forward and press his mouth against yours. 

And whatever tension that had been blooming between the two of you cracked open like a fruit above your heads, raining sweet syrup and golden light from above. And, damn it, if you hadn’t been so glad your parents had forced you to move in that moment. 

You could still feel the way his hands had gently cupped your jaw as he controlled the kiss in an easy, yet dominating way. It wasn’t much more than an easy, elongated peck, but it was enough to lock you in.

And that is what crossed your mind now as you scurried down the grandstands after the Triwizard competitors’ tent, weaving in and out of your fellow Hogwarts students and scattered attendees of the other competing schools. 

Viktor had just gotten through the first challenge. The Triwizard Tournament was not known for being safe, by any means, but with your newfound affection for the boy, you hadn’t expected to see him thrown in the ring with a literal dragon on his first day. 

But you hadn’t given him enough faith. Viktor had expertly weaved around the creature, fighting and defending, slashing and barking warnings in his native tongue. He’d evaded the giant serpent with nothing but an enormous rock he’d gathered up as a shield and his wand until he could dive and tuck into a roll, collecting the golden egg against his torso as he did. 

When the dragon had realized he’d successfully gotten the fake golden egg away from her—almost completely due to Viktor’s expert use of a curse that temporarily blinded her—she had wailed in anger and shot melting blasts of fire from her nostrils that nearly singed the tail of his outfit. You had clamped your hands to your face, stomach dropping painfully, as you’d watched the high-action event play out. 

But, in typical Viktor fashion, he’d come out on top with a victorious show of the egg he’d collected before disappearing through the competitor’s entrance. 

You pushed through the last crowd of students lingering around the competitor’s tent, blocking the entrance and trying to sneak a glimpse of the focused Viktor Krum and his immaculate skills of elusion. But he had not been taken back to that tent. 

He had told you before he was put into the arena, and before he’d given you a slow, but loving kiss, that they’d be moving him to a separate tent set up a couple of yards behind the other competitors so he could recuperate in peace. And that’s where you were headed now, trying not to draw the attention of the crowd. 

And, just as he said, there was another cream canvas tent propped up a bit behind the other one. The slightly parted entrance flapped gently in the breeze. It was completely unassuming and held the man who was certain to win this thing. 

A smile appeared on your face as you slipped down the grassy hill and gently peeled the tent’s opening back, glancing inside. 

Viktor sat on a collapsible cot with a single mauve quilt thrown over it. There was a small leather trunk on the opposite side of the magically-enhanced tent, stuffed full with his everyday clothes, and an oaken desk to the right of it. It was piled high with things you assumed belonged to his headmaster and professors who had come in and out to support him. 

Viktor wore no shirt. He was facing away from the opening with his right hand pressed against the left junction of his neck. He rolled his shoulder beneath his palm, attempting to alleviate some tension. Already, a few reddened bruises were forming along his body from the abuse he’d endured from the dragon. A couple of scattered scars were drawn down the length of his spine—no doubt from old Quidditch injuries. 

As he massaged his body, his muscles rolled delicately beneath his tanned skin. You were mesmerized by the way he looked, his figure a perfect, masculine depiction. A thick swallow slid down your throat so slowly, you nearly choked. 

His head tilted to the right, his neck popping slightly, and a light groan exiting his lips. A pool of heat echoed deep in your stomach at the visual. All of a sudden, you found yourself extremely desperate for a taste of this man. You’d only known him for a couple of weeks, and you didn’t want him to think you were easy or anything like that, but…Merlin.

“Vik?” you called, though your voice caught in your throat and barely came out louder than a whisper. Nevertheless, he whipped around, catching your eyes instantly. Though he initially seemed a bit disturbed that someone was peeking into his tent, he quickly realized it was you. His expression immediately softened and turned into that same goofy smile he always gave you. 

“Hello,” he spoke, standing from the cot and walking over. “Come in. How did I do?”

“I thought you did very well,” you laughed breathlessly, stepping the rest of the way in and letting the flap slip closed behind you.

The early fall grass crunched beneath your shoes. Even with the only thing between you and the outside world being a thick sheet of fabric, it muted everything outside very well. You could only hear his breathing and your heartbeat thudding in your ears. 

He was now only a few steps from you. Still, he seemed nothing but glad you were here. 

Shyly, your eyes skidded across his naked chest where a few scrapes and early bruises were forming. A few beads of sweat trailed along the hollow of his throat, sliding across the base of his muscular chest. When you looked back up, a small bead of blood caught in the curve of his lips. Your mouth parted as if to say something, your hand rising between the two of you to gesture to the wound. 

You paused, and he watched as you lingered in the open air, trying to decide what to do. He seemed partly confused, but eventually realized what you were alluding to with your annoyingly awkward hand standing in space. His hand rose to his mouth and found the drip of blood there. He wiped it off and smiled.

“Sorry,” he chuckled. He walked over to the chest in the corner, searching for a small towel. You rolled your eyes at your behavior. Were you fucking born yesterday? Why did you just hold your hand in the air like that? You didn’t even say anything. You glanced down. You were still holding your hand out! You rolled your eyes and dropped it down by your side, mentally kicking yourself. 

When he was still struggling to locate something to wipe the blood with, you finally swallowed your pride and walked over to him. 

“Here, let me,” you said softly. You placed your wand against the trunk and whispered the Summoning charm. Both of you watched as a small gray towel slithered through the other things packed inside and sprang into your hand. He smiled.

Hesitantly, you placed the towel against the corner of his mouth, gently patting the pooling blood away. Beneath the scarlet, you noticed a small cut that rose up the side of his lips. It would certainly scar if something wasn’t done about it. 

“It’s just a small cut,” you echoed your own thoughts, actively avoiding his eyes. Your focus was on the wound, refusing to look anywhere else, because you knew if you glanced upward, you’d make direct contact with him. His lips were parted, and his breath was gentle. He did not speak. But he stared. Stared like you’d disappear the minute he blinked. It was alarming. 

When the bleeding stopped just enough for you to pull the towel away, you did so. But your arm was not able to make the full journey before one of his large hands captured your wrist within it. A small gasp slipped from between your lips at the sudden action. Finally, your eyes found his. They were dark, almost animalistic. Desire raged within you. 

“Do I make you unwell?” he murmured. You assumed, due to the undeniable language barrier between the two of you, he was doing his best to ask if you were comfortable with him, but you could barely hear him as it was. The blood rushed in your head so quickly, you couldn’t even think. Your lips were parted dumbly, and your eyes widened at his every syllable. 

“I—no, that’s silly. Why would I be un–unwell? I’m okay,” you stammered relentlessly, eyes fluttering nervously, looking everywhere but him. The hand that wasn’t trapped within his rose to press against your forehead—partly to exasperatedly rub your awkwardness away, partly to hide your face from him. 

The hand that wasn’t holding yours pushed forward to ease beneath your chin. His fingers were warm and steady as they gently directed your face to look back toward his. You swallowed nervously. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathed awkwardly. 

“How do you say ‘Can I kiss you?’ in your language?” he asked softly, eyes never leaving yours, hands never leaving your body. 

You blinked stupidly. “Er, you can say ¿Te puedo besar?…”

“Hmm,” he pretended to think for a moment. “T-Te…pue—” He struggled with the pronunciation. 

“Puedo…besar,” you spoke, helping him sound the words out. It was messy and filled with his heavy accent, but he managed to force it out. He smiled proudly afterward, awaiting your praise for his attempt. 

You smiled at him, giggling lightly. “Very good.”

He pushed a bit of hair behind your ear before smiling and asking again. “¿Te puedo besar?”

“Sí,” you whispered, the air echoing softly between the two of you. 

His hands slid along your jawline, cupping it easily, as he pressed his lips against yours. His mouth was soft and controlling, allowing you to sink into the kiss with no responsibilities. He did every ounce of the work. One hand pulled away to slip around your lower back, pinning your body closer to his. 

His tongue slipped against yours as your clenched knuckles pressed against his bare chest. He was hot to the touch, searing into your skin and branding you with the memory of his touch. You’d never be able to wash away his body felt against yours, and you didn’t care. 

Then, he was pulling away, whispering a powerful concealment charm in his native tongue that placed a completely soundproof protection around the entire tent and sealed the entrance, and pressing his mouth back to yours. He walked you backward until the backs of your knees bumped into the cot in the corner. You fell against it with a soft sigh, never allowing his mouth to part too far from yours. 

His hands slipped beneath your waist and, in one dizzying motion, he flipped the two of you. A small shriek left you as he landed with his back on the cot, and you were positioned in a straddle above his waist. He smirked cockily at your surprise.

“Fuck you,” you laughed, leaning back down to press your mouth to his once more. His hands trailed down your body, eliciting chills down the length of your spine with each inch he covered. His fingers slipped beneath the warm sweater you were bundled up in, tugging it upward and over your head. 

“Vik, it’s freezing,” you whined, immediately covering your exposed body with tight arms. You shivered lightly in your—thankfully—decent lace bra. 

“Agh, too warm here,” he laughed aloud. “In Durmstrang, freezing all the time.”

You rolled your eyes, grinding your hips down against his rapidly solidifying core. He groaned aloud at the sensation, his head rolling back gently against the cot. “Hey, dummy, I’m not from there. I’m not even from here! It’s much hotter where I’m from.”

He rolled his eyes and pulled the quilt out from beneath him, wrapping it around your shoulders. As he leaned upward to do so, he pressed a few hot kisses to your neck, breath billowing down your exposed chest. “Stay warm…wanna see you.” The whispers against your ear sent chills scattering down your arms. You gasped against him, revelling in the feeling he gave you. 

His hands slipped between your body and the quilt and selected the clasp of your bra, as he continued to trail kisses along your neck and shoulder. As his fingers worked to unhook your bra and slip it from around your body, your hips rolled over his endlessly, amping his and your desire skyhigh. 

When he finally pulled your bra from its place and abandoned it somewhere on the floor, he leaned back with a satisfied groan and ran his hands along your exposed body. He sighed at your appearance, pupils blowing wide and trailing over you. Your cheeks flushed at the exposure, but despite his and your current states of undress, you didn’t feel objectified. Maybe you’d regret your words, but this didn’t feel like a one-time thing. This felt like he wanted you. 

He wrapped the quilt tighter around you, his fingers tracing their way down your stomach until they perched atop the waistband of your jeans. He glanced back up at you as if asking permission, but you would have said yes to almost anything at this point. You nodded fervently as you got to work, undoing his trousers as well. 

Despite your simultaneous attempts, it seemed to work somehow, and you both awkwardly wriggled out of your pants. You immediately pressed your core back to his, revelling in the way he felt through your lace bottoms. He groaned aloud at the sensation, growling out a few curses in his native tongue. You didn’t know what it was, but you adored it when he did that. The way his tongue curled around the words pushed lust into your head so quickly that it made you dizzy. 

With a burst of confidence, you leaned down and mouthed kisses down the length of his abdomen. He sighed easily, torso flexing beneath the weight of your body. Your lips trailed along his body, skipping over the waistband of his briefs and trailing lightly over his core. His hand wrapped in your hair and pulled your head back upward. 

“No…need you now,” he groaned. You nodded frantically as he pressed your lips back together, but resorted to pushing his briefs down his legs. 

His skin was so hot, it felt as if you were lying before a fire. You barely even needed the quilt around your shoulders with the way he heated your body. Perhaps that was how he and all his other fellow students made it up at Durmstrang. It was cold, but they were natural heaters. 

Your lips never parted as his hand slipped between the two of you and slid your bottoms to one side. His fingers hurriedly traced your entrance, collecting a small smattering of slick that pooled there, before easing two within you. You braced as if preparing for the cool temperature of his hands that had been exposed to the October air, but still, his skin remained nothing but warm. In fact, his fingers felt warmer than the inside of you. You shivered at the soothing sensation, lips trembling against his confident ones. 

He worked you open easily but quickly. Though he wanted to indulge in this moment, take his time, and remember every single detail, the second competitor wouldn’t be much longer—if they were even half as good as Viktor had been. The dragon’s challenge was difficult, but it had already been longer than he had taken to defeat it. 

When you were comfortable enough, you pulled his hand away from you and pressed him to your entrance, letting the long length slide into you. You tried to take it slow to adjust to the sensation, but the soreness building in your thighs, the amount of wetness within your core, and gravity working against you, made for little to no resistance from your body. He slid in to the hilt in one quick movement. 

You whined aloud at the feeling, legs shaking at the stretch. Viktor, however, couldn’t get enough of it. Your warm, wet heat enveloped him in all but a second, suffocating his dick from within. His hands wrapped around your hips roughly in an attempt to control your squirming. 

He cursed aloud, his tongue wrapping around that foreign language so perfectly again. You moaned at the sound, rolling your hips along him, ignoring his hands around your hips. 

“Not, ah, won’t last if…” His words were cut off with another groan as you rolled your hips once more. If you were going to be quick, it didn’t matter if either of you couldn’t last. The other competitors would be down soon; you needed to wrap this up. 

Ignoring his pleas, you continued to ride him through the ache in your legs. His perfectly carved length caressed along that spot within you with each movement you forced. 

Despite his outwardly quiet appearance and lack of interaction with other people, he was noticeably vocal in bed—growls and grunts and foreign whispers. And you absolutely loved it. Every sound he made only forced you closer to your own end, even though the two of you had only just started. The weeks of building tension wouldn’t allow for any long-winded escapades today. Both of you would be coming quickly. You could make love next time, you decided. 

So, with that decision in mind, you continued to ride him. That was, until his hands around your hips tightened suddenly. He lifted you upward with surprising strength, before snapping his hips up into you rapidly. At the quick change in pace and angle, stars appeared before your eyes, as he worked you even closer to the end you began. 

“Fuck, that’s perfect, that’s—that’s it, Vik,” you moaned. “Fuck, I’m gonna…”

He punctuated your sentence with an especially rough thrust that cracked the coil wound tightly within your core. You came hard with a breathy whine. Your finish gushed around him and seeped past your legs with each thrust he pushed back into you. The orgasm only applied even more lubrication for him to lock his heels against the cot and pound into you as quickly as he could to wrench his own finish out of him. 

“Where?” he moaned. 

“Inside,” you breathed, clutching against his body tightly. 

He came with a growl and a few lazy snaps to work him through it. Then, you collapsed against his chest with an exasperated sigh. 

A few moments of silence filled the previously noisy tent. The only sounds in your head were his gentle heartbeat, his even breaths, and your prayers that this hadn’t been a mistake. He was a professional Quidditch player, a foreign student hailing from hundreds of miles away, and an almost complete stranger to you. Your plan had always been to return to the U.S. after you got your diploma, so why was one man making you doubt that? Fuck. 

But his fingers coming down to trace easily over your exposed arms silenced the worries in your head. At least, for right now. You could mull over your adult plans later, but, for now, you were pretty fucking comfortable. 

“Hey! What the hell?” A distant voice interrupted your inner monologue. Viktor and you snapped up and glanced frantically at each other. “I thought they said this was the competitor’s tent!”

The voice outside held an undeniably French accent, which meant that Fleur Delacour was done with her challenge, awaiting her “recuperation tent.”

“Shit,” you said. The two of you quickly hopped to your feet and began to rapidly redress, occasionally confusing certain articles of his clothing for yours and vice versa.

Eventually, the two of you were each wearing your own clothes (for the most part) and playing the role of exhausted competitor and support system who totally had not just fucked in the tent but wore suspicious smirks and struggled not to giggle every few minutes.

---

Tag List: @mypolicemanharryyy, @angelfrombeneth, @clairesjointshurt, @bunbunbl0gs, @acornacreacure, @niktwazny303, @thestarlithideout, @sarahskakskskskajakwwnwjw, @yhiiil, @xxrougefangxx, @thatblackthorn, @robinyx, @starsval, @jolly4holly, @blvebanisters, @chgrch, @ilovehotmenandwoman, @smutnyrobocikwrakiecie, @synicaljah, @2dloveshp, @seagull-on-toast

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

If it's not too much would you answer 🍄, 🛩, and 🐷 from the ask game?

Of course it isn't! ^^ I just took my time because it got busy at work suddenly ^^'

🍄 - Do you have/want any piercings?

I have two sets of ear piercings on my ear lobes, and I used to have one on the cartilage of my right ear but it has since then closed up. I do think about getting it pierced again though. Another one I considered while younger was a belly button piercing, but the precaution time to make sure it doesn't get infected made it seem too much like a hassle. Plus it's not that appealing any more. So, maybe ear cartilage again, but that's about it in terms of new piercings ^^'

🛩️ - If travelling was free, where's the first place you'd go to?

I'd go to Kyoto quite probably with hubby. He's been there once, but I've pretty much only been around the Tokyo/Yokohama axis (If we don't count the very brief visit I did to the Yamagata.) and I'd love to see Kyoto as well!

🐷 - What's your favourite animal?

I do love cats. It seems like such a predictable answer, but at least my cat is such a sweetheart and a fluff ball, and I love her 🥺 I'm a cat person (but I've lived in a household with dogs too and they're cute as well, it's just a preference)

[thorough-witness-enjoyer]

My fellow Destiny fans… I have something to admit… I presented my Witness project today and IT WAS A MASSIVE SUCESS WOWOWOWOOWOWOWOWOWO!!!!!!!! IM SO HAPPY AND EXCITED YIPPPEEEE!!!!!

[sonysakura]

A sneak peek of my submission to @shadamyzine Under the Light of the Moon 🌙 I wrote a wlw!Shadamy fic Blooming in Your Sunshine feat. transfem!Shadow and also hanging out with Chao as is my trademark – you know how it is...

The zine has now been released, and you can find it right here 💜 Full text of the sneak peak under the cut:

Little paws stick out of their picnic basket making small fussy noises. As the black hedgehog stays stunned by the audacity of the cute Chao thief, her girlfriend sprints over and grabs them. The Chao turns out to be pink with a wide red stripe across their bottom half, making them look like they’re wearing shorts, and neat spikes somewhat resembling Amy’s style. She shakes them slightly. “Bad Chao! No stealing!” she tries to chide them, but the Chao only giggles mischievously. “They are so much like you.” “You think?” the pink hedgehog raises the Chao higher and then passes them to Shadow. “Yes. Just as cute.”

[battleshipgarcy]

[28ms28]

🧊 -> for the ask game - spill the teaaa :)

🧊 if there is a driver that you think should be on the f1 grid but is not, which current driver would you swap out?

There's no need to swap out drivers hehe. We're getting an 11th team next year, so Sebastian can come back without someone getting replaced! (yes, Sebastian Vettel, I miss him. idc if he's washed now i want my emotional support nerd back.)

(and no, I'm not evading the question by this answer idk what you're talking about??)

[pumpkinnby]

.

[sxthee]

Why did you block meeee!!!!!!! 😭

[torridturncoat]

very good everyone let's hit the showers and I'll hit the bed, time for my 15h beauty sleep snork mimi etcetc

[seumyo]

yearning drunk!husband ushijima wakatoshi.

NOTE. contains a bit of alcohol content—though nothing too explicit or anything concerning <33

It always started the same way—kind of like an inside joke that grew wings, feathers, a tab, and Ushijima’s name on the reservation list.

Ushijima never initiated going out drinking with his Schweiden Adlers teammates. In fact, he rarely said anything about it at all. It was always someone else who mentioned it after a game. Always someone else who slung an arm over his shoulder and declared, “C’mon, Ushiwaka, we have to celebrate,” even though Ushijima had never once expressed interest in alcohol, bar food, or drunken conversations.

Still, he always went.

Because it’d be rude if he didn’t at least stay for a few minutes, he thinks.

Sometimes he showed up in his team windbreaker, sometimes in a long, dark gray coat that made him look like a trench-wearing monument of silence. And he never said no, even when the clamor of celebration was already grating at the edges of his patience.

Tonight was one of those nights.

They’d won by the skin of their teeth—an overtime set against a grueling opponent, the kind of match that made even the benchwarmers feel like champions by the end. So of course Heiwajima had started the round-up in the locker room. Hoshiumi had shouted over everyone about their lucky bar down the street, and within twenty minutes, the entire team had found themselves in their regular private suite.

Ushijima sat at the end of the table, his back straight, a glass in front of him filled with alcohol he didn’t particularly like. His teammates were loud and loose and chaotic—laughing at Sokolov trying to arm-wrestle the bar’s bouncer, clapping every time someone dropped a fork, and yelling across the table in at least three different languages.

“A thousand yen says he’ll ask about his wife in twenty minutes,” Hoshiumi said quietly, leaning toward their captain, Hirugami Fukurou.

“You’re giving him way too much credit,” Romero replied, fondly grinning. “He gets wistful around minute twelve.”

“He gets wistful the moment he sits down.”

Ushijima was unmoved. He stared at his drink, took a single sip, and let it rest in his hand. He didn’t participate in the yelling, the toasts, or the story someone was animatedly telling about a missed serve from three seasons ago. He just existed—quietly, stoically—as a satellite to the chaos.

Except, of course, they all knew he was waiting.

He always was.

There was a pattern to the transformation. First, he’d sit there like stone. Then he’d blink a little more slowly. His brows would draw together—not in anger, but in vague confusion, like he was lost in a thought he couldn’t solve. His fingers would move against his glass, not to drink but to fidget, just a little.

And then…

“Has anyone seen my phone?” Ushijima asked, barely louder than the buzz of conversation.

Hoshiumi slid it across the table immediately. “Right here, Ushiwaka. Sorry! We took a few pictures here and there.”

“Thank you.”

He looked down at the screen. It was still lit with the last message from you from earlier that day: Good luck, baby. Don’t forget to stretch your left shoulder. He’d never replied—he never did, not when he was already in headspace—but now, he stared at it like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You want to text her?” Hoshiumi asks, lightly teasing, which Ushijima didn’t catch onto.

Ushijima didn’t answer. He opened the thread and typed a few letters. Deleted them. Typed something else. Backspaced. Then just stared.

And then finally: “She hasn’t replied.”

His teammates laughed.

“There it is!”

“It’s only been seventeen minutes! I win!”

“No, you cheated. I said ten, and he didn’t even check his phone until minute twelve!”

“Shh, shh, look at him—he’s pouting.”

“Wait, is this the pout phase? I thought that came after the silent brooding phase.”

“Technically we’re entering pout-brood overlap. It’s a dangerous time.”

Ushijima didn’t argue. He simply set the phone down again and folded his hands in front of him. Kageyama leaned over.

“You want me to call her for you, Ushijima-san?”

Ah, yes. Kageyama was too nice for his own good. Trying to enhance his socialization and trying to lessen his awkwardness with his teammates when the conversation didn’t revolve around volleyball.

Ushijima nodded. Just once. Immediately. “Yes.”

...

“Amazing! He’s not even trying to hide it.”

“Can you imagine being that in love?”

“He just wants his wife. Look at him. He’s a whole sad poem in one sitting.”

“She’s gonna get here, and he’s gonna light up like a lantern.”

“May this love run me over.”

Kageyama stood and walked a few paces away from the table, already dialing your number. Meanwhile, the others watched Ushijima sip his drink again—not because he wanted it, but because it gave his hands something to do. His eyes were glued to the screen even though no new notifications had appeared.

Romero leaned in conspiratorially to Hirugami. “Do you think she talks to him in, like, soft tones? Calls him ‘baby’ and stuff?”

“I think so,” he shrugs. “I think they’re sweet like that.”

“Aw, young love.”

The teasing continued, but it softened. Because underneath the jokes and the laughs was a sort of awe.

Their teammate—so serious, so focused, so unreadable on court—was completely and utterly soft when it came to his wife. Not in a loud way. Not in any way that could be easily teased, really. It was quiet. Heavy. Real.

When Kageyama returned, he had a pleased expression. “She’s on her way. Said she just got off work and is driving over.”

Ushijima gave another slow blink.

“Thank you.”

Kageyama nods. Somehow they manage to have conversations even if they just continue nodding to each other.

As soon as Kageyama said it, his phone buzzed with a new message. He didn’t even need to open it. He could tell by the way his entire body relaxed by a single, barely noticeable degree.

Sorry, hun. Just got off work. Are you okay?

He replied.

I’m okay. I miss you.

And then he set the phone down and folded his hands again, this time with more calm. More certainty. You were coming. That was all he needed to know.

The others noticed the shift immediately.

“He smiled.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“He did! Don’t argue with me; I saw it. It was micro. But it counted.”

“He’s already halfway out the door with his heart.”

“Watch, the second she walks through that door, he’ll go full puppy mode.”

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, the door opened. A gust of cold air followed you inside, along with the soft jingle of the bar’s entrance bell. You spotted them easily—your eyes landing on Ushijima before anything else. And his entire body seemed to change shape.

He stood up—not quickly, but instantly, with a kind of gravity no one else in the room had.

You smiled as you approached, slipping out of your coat and brushing off the cold that nipped your nose softly. “Hi, love,” you greeted softly. “You ready to go?”

“Yes,” Ushijima said, already reaching for his jacket.

As he shrugged it on, you turned to the table. “Hope he wasn’t too much trouble?”

Hoshiumi leaned on the table with a grin. “[Name], your husband is the definition of ‘not trouble.’ We’re just grateful you came to collect him before he sighed himself into the carpet.”

“Tell them what he said!” someone shouted.

“He asked if anyone had seen his phone like it was a national emergency.”

“And he didn’t pout—he brooded. Like a man out of a romantic novel.”

“I think I did,” Ushijima just nodded at their comments about him.

He then stood by quietly, waiting for you to finish your goodbyes. When you looped your arm through his, he leaned ever so slightly toward you.

As they left, Romero raised his glass.

“To [Name]’s husband,” he declared. The table cheered.

Outside, as you two walked toward the car, you glanced up at him, fingers tightening around his arm.

“You really okay?” you asked.

He hummed. Then, in that low, steady voice only you ever got to hear, it softened—

“I missed you,” he said again. “They were loud. I wanted to see you very much.”

You smiled and gave his arm a firm, loving squeeze. “Well. I’m here now.”

And... yeah.

That’s what he’s been wanting to hear all night.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[dearmisshoney]

flesh light & prone bones

synopsis. coming home from brunch, you expected an empty apartment — not to catch your cocky roommate mattheo fucking a fleshlight to the thought of you. curiosity turns to temptation, and you both realize toys could never replace the real thing.

pairing. roommate! mattheo riddle x reader

content/mdni. fem!reader, roommate!au, pervert!reader, cocky!mattheo, pervert!mattheo, implied gymrat!mattheo, fleshlight-fucking, assisted masturbation, voyeurism to participation, filthy teasing, praise, dirty talk, name-calling (sweetheart, baby), overstimulation, allusion to edging, spit play, cum eating, doggy-style/prone bone (?), headlock/slight choking, slight spanking, unprotected p in v!

word count. 3.6k

a/n. this one goes to @pizzaapeteer! she convinced me to write another matty fic! let me know what you think. likes and reblogs are appreciated

inserting the keys in the lock and turning them twice, you finally locked the front door. leaving them to dangle in the door, you slowly made your way inside your shared apartment with mattheo. you only stopped for a moment in the hallway, removing your shoes and the purse you’ve been carrying around your brunch date with the girls.

but not your wired headphones.

no, you’d rather keep those in for the time being, preferring to listen to any kind of music than to mattheo rambling about sports and the like. you weren’t even sure he was home; he had a really bad habit of keeping to himself the important information, disclosing only dumb details like how much his bench press has improved.

but as you make your way further into the apartment, you realize he is home. the opened cardboard box on the kitchen island, the ripped package, and the violently scattered foam bits were a clear indicator that mattheo was at home.

“this jerk never cleans after himself.” you mumbled underneath your breath, extremely quiet, and if it weren’t for the fact that you said these words, you wouldn’t have been able to hear them thanks to your loud music.

mattheo was not the perfect roommate. he was flashy, annoying, messy. he also seems to respect the concept of privacy only when it applies to him; if you try to count the times you’ve found him in your room like a pervert, you wouldn’t have enough fingers, hands and feet combined.

nonetheless, he was paying his share of the rent in time, and if you yell at him a bit, he does clean around as well.

curious as ever, you approached the box to figure out what mattheo ordered.

“kidney failure is written all over him.”

it was probably another gigantic container of protein powder, or creatine, or whatever powders he uses for the gym and his godly physique, as he likes to call it. mattheo has an entire lower kitchen cabinet dedicated to his fitness journey, so such purchases were not uncommon.

with all that in mind, the cardboard box seemed too small compared to his usual orders. the box was also a different shape than the usual huge square cube mattheo gets his supplements in. twisting and turning the package in your hands, your eyes scanned the surface for any sort of clue — a company name, a product name, heck, even a cringey motto about gym life.

but nothing.

the package was blank, discreet.

the foam chunks were of no help, and the shipping paper was torn to pieces.

“he really wanted what’s inside, huh?”

you might as well check the cabinet and see if a new container has been added. that way, the mystery will be solved quicker.

bending at the knees, you dropped down to mattheo’s gym stash and swung open the door. this cabinet was the only place mattheo kept all clean and organized, so you immediately realized no new product was added.

“what the fuck did he buy?”

muttering to yourself again, you raise from your position, prepared to investigate the torn paper. only to have your wired headphones latched around the cabinet knob and snatched out of your ears.

“ugh­– this shi–”

“fuck, hmm, so good.”

now that your ears were no longer trapped by your headphones — which were now pathetically hanging around the knob — you could hear mattheo. and the nasty noises he was making.

he was loud.

“ah, ah, ah.”

his voice was low and raspy, and if it weren’t for the clear needy tone in his words, you would’ve said he was just having a bit too much fun with his video games.

that was not the case, however.

“s–so wet, damn.”

and with that, your brain short-circuits for good.

your entire body froze, one hand clenched around your knotty headphones, the other stiffing up by your side, clawing at the material of your shorts. you stayed like that for a few seconds, trying to process what the fuck you just heard.

maybe it wasn’t him. maybe it was porn, playing from his expensive speakers in his room.

yeah. yeah.

but no matter how much you tried to convince yourself, another guttural moan from mattheo shattered any sort of argument you could come up with.

that was him.

“tight as fuck, shittt.”

not only was mattheo home — he was very home, in his room, jacking off. owning the place and being as vocal as he liked.

“so good, so good.”

you wished to be angry and annoyed at him. you wished to slam your hand on the kitchen counter and yell his name to stop. you wished, you truly did, but something in you was fighting against these urges. something primal was itching at your brain, making your teeth bite into your lips, your hands clenching tighter.

something primal was itching at your stomach, making your tummy do a flip, your panties all wet.

“oh, baby, ohhh–”

you inhaled sharply, closing your eyes in an attempt to disconnect from the situation at hand and think straight.

i should just leave…

“ugh, damn.”

…pretend i heard nothing…

“it feels amazingggg.”

…and just take another walk.

“fuck, fuck, fuckkk…”

yeah, i can do it–

you thought you could fight back, but your entire resolve collapsed when you heard your name moaned by mattheo.

that deep, rumbling voice, grunting your name without any shame. again, and again, and again.

“that pussy would feel so much better, i just know.”

so raw and desperate.

completely discarding your headphones, you finally moved. but not towards the front door.

tiptoeing down the hallway, you crept closer and closer to mattheo’s room. the wooden floor was slightly creaking underneath your footsteps, but neither you, nor mattheo seem to pay attention to it. he was too caught up in pleasure, and you were too turned on to care.

“you’d be so warm and– fuckk–”

mattheo was rambling on his own, groaning your name from time to time and vocalizing his dirtiest thoughts about you. and as wrong as this was — eavesdropping on your roommate fucking his fist, there was no shame in you. quite the opposite: his nasty words shoot directly at your core, making arousal pool in your panties and stick to your weeping cunt.

his door was slightly ajar. the close proximity allowed you to bathe into the obscene wet sounds he was making, now clearly registering the rhythmic movement of his thrusts. it was wet, stickily so, the sloshing noises being a definite indicator of mattheo’s need.

the close proximity also allowed you to dip your head in and take a peak.

but you shouldn’t. everyone has sexual urges and it was wrong for you–

“sweetheart, please…”

your head instantly turned towards the crack of the door, the pet name practically latching onto your neck and twisting you around to finally see him.

and you gasped.

that was not a hand.

there was mattheo, sprawled on his bed, completely naked. upper body leaning against the headboard, head thrown back. lower body jutting up and down from the mattress, thrusting with urgency into a pale grey fleshlight.

your thighs clamped into one another, your tiny shorts riding upwards on your legs, seam digging into your clit. you did your best not to snake your hand down into your panties to touch yourself, choosing to use it to steady yourself against the door.

you knew mattheo was hot.

hot was an understatement, really. as much as you liked to make fun of his cocky attitude and his pride for his godly physique, you couldn’t deny it. mattheo riddle was attractive beyond compare, and seeing him in this position made you want to jump on him and fuck him to death.

“shit– to have that sweet cunt all to myself…”

he was high on lust, babbling to himself between moans, jerking that new fleshlight to a sloppy rhythm. his abs were flexing with every rock of his hips; his arm, strained from the pressure of tightly gripping the sex toy, was a sharp valley of muscles, scattered with protruding veins.

“will you let me have you, sweetheart?”

shit.

his voice, still sultry and lustful, now had an undertone of arrogance. his head, previously lolling back against the wall, was now upright — his chocolate eyes staring right at you.

he caught you.

and he was proud of that.

“ah– don’t ignore me, baby.”

you couldn’t answer. words got stuck in your throat, your brain refusing to cooperate. you could only focus on the lazy movements of his hand, now guiding the fleshlight up and down his cock.

his cock, so hard and stiff. drenched in precum and lube. his cock, so red and pulsing, throbbing against the inside of the toy and begging for more.

his chest was raising and falling rapidly, visibly affected by the entire ordeal. the tips of his curls were sticking to his forehead, skin all sweaty and slick. yet, mattheo seemed more composed than you were.

“after i’ve called for you so nicely…”

he smirked, dragging the toy all the way down to his base with a deep groan; sheltering his entire shaft into the poor fleshlight.

“…could at least help me out, sweetheart.”

he did it all intentionally.

it wasn’t like mattheo did not know you got home. he knew, and that urged him to masturbate even more.

you swallowed thickly, still unsure whether to step in or not. a part of you wanted to join him desperately; the other part was arguing for you to leave and cool off alone.

mattheo could see the storm behind your gaze. and he knew how to help you decide.

suddenly, he removed the fleshlight from his shaft completely, letting the sex toy fall from his hand somewhere on the mattress. letting you see the way his stiff cock escaped from its confinement, stood tall for a few seconds, then flopped to the side.

“you’re a manwhore, mattheo.”

it’s all you managed to say as you stepped into the room, removing your cardigan, and throwing it somewhere on his floor.

“you say it like it’s a bad thing, baby.”

he hissed between his teeth, brushing off your ‘compliment’ and focusing on your actions. removing your outer layer, you were now nicely standing in a cropped tee and the tiniest fucking shorts he has ever seen you wear.

and when you seated yourself next to him on the bed, his cock twitched against his thigh hard.

“what if i had guests, hm?”

your voice was condescending, mean. your gaze sharp and accusatory.

but that only turned him on more.

mattheo let out a short, breathy laugh, licking over his lips. your question was of little importance to him. his eyes were focused on you only, hypnotized by your entire existence.

“but you don’t.”

he was so shameless, so brazen. his gaze was dancing along your body, making a first stop on your perky tits, another on the exposed skin of your thighs.

even if you had guests, he wouldn’t have acted differently.

“pervert.”

you spat at him like you were disgusted by his behaviour, yet your hand drew closed to the sex toy and brought it back into the spotlight.

“who would’ve thought–…”

you grabbed the base of his cock without warning, eliciting a strangled moan from mattheo.

“–that you’d–”

gathering some of your spit, you let the liquid drip all the way down to his cock, hitting the throbbing tip and gliding down the side of his cock.

“oh, fuck, wait–”

“–get a fleshlight.”

positioning the fleshlight at the right angle, you dragged it all the way down. his hips buckled involuntarily, the sudden stimulation making his thighs shake.

“why not fuck a real woman?”

you began moving the toy slowly, guiding it up and down. twisting and turning your wrist with expertise, you tried to mimic the way mattheo was jerking himself off before your intrusion.

“oh my god, this is so hot.”

mattheo was still taken aback by the entire situation: not only did you join him in bed, you were now pumping his cock with this newly bought sex toy, making him writhe around his bedsheets.

“so easily pleased.”

you hummed, mocking the way mattheo was already succumbing to pleasure.

he tried to take charge again, raising his torso from the headboard, but you were quicker. with a hand on his chest, you harshly pushed him back down, causing him to drop even closer to the mattress than before.

“answer me, mattheo!”

your speed around his shaft slowed, now dragging the toy at an agonizingly low pace. seeing your roommate mattheo scrunch his face in both pain and pleasure was irresistible.

“t–they’re not you.”

“not me?”

you did not expect such an answer. but he seemed to have answered truthfully, so you reward him by speeding up again.

“ah, ah, ah, sweetheart.”

mattheo was gasping now, hips chasing every glide of the toy like his life depends on it. his eyes were blown-out, half-lidded, heavy with lust; his mouth parted, his lips glossy with spit.

he hated how much of an effect you had on him, but he couldn’t do much.

your hand did anything but falter. the wet suction of the fleshlight was echoing louder and louder between the two of you, almost harmonizing with mattheo’s moans. he was putty under your control, and that made your cunt throb hard.

“and is this toy me?”

you seemed almost mad that he’d compare you with a stupid inanimate object: your lovely lips formed a pout, and your eyes widened with pretend sadness. all of it to emotionally taunt and pester mattheo.

“i can’t fuck you.”

mattheo raised his tone, exhasperated by your little accusations. why were you playing dumb? you would never let him blow your back, so a fleshlight was the onl–

“who said that?”

“huh?”

“who said you can’t fuck me?”

you tilted your head mockingly, putting all your effort into squeezing the base of the toy harder. you wanted to make him cum, you wanted to make him shoot his seed deep into the fleshlight.

“oh, baby, baby baby–”

he was chanting pet names like a mantra, his fingers clawing at the sheets with desperation. his jaw was clenched, and the veins on his forearms were accentuated even more.  

he was close. so close.

“c–can i actually fuck you?”

oh, he was so damn cute. such a big beefy guy, asking for permission, on the verge of tears.

“of course you can.”

mattheo did not answer that. only a long and loud groan left his lips, head digging against the headboard more and more. his body jolted once, twice, then shuddered hard as thick ropes of cum filled the toy.

you could feel the way the fleshlight became heavier with each passing second. you could also hear the slick squelches of it, louder and wetter, as you were still gliding it on his cock — milking him dry.

“give me all you’ve got!”

mattheo was done for. he looked absolutely wrecked, absolutely ruined — you loved it.

“f–fuck, no more, please.” he whined, tossing his head to the side from overstimulation.

you had no intention of stopping, really. but something about mattheo pleading to be released changed your resolve. so, with one final drag up his sensitive cock, you released him.

his cum oozed out of the toy in thick drips immediately, staining his crotch and abs.  

“damn, you really filled it up!”

holding the toy up for inspection, you could see his release seeping more and more out of it. it was creamy and gooey, and it made you wonder how it tastes.

“oh, shut up, you–”

raising the fleshlight higher, you stuck out your tongue and allowed some of his cum to land on it. the salty taste spread across your mouth in an instant.

and instead of spitting it, you happily swallowed.

“fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

mattheo witnessed the entire thing. his cock did too, hardening again against his abs.

“wanna compare it with the real thing?”

and there it was — an even deadlier proposal from you.

you did not even wait for his answer, certain he will agree. rather, you discarded the toy completely, dropping it on the floor, choosing to turn around and bend over for mattheo.

“want? i need it.”

you heard him barely mutter behind you, as eager as before. he retracted his legs from the mattress, allowing you the space to position yourself on your hands and knees for him.

“fuck, baby, your shorts are soaked.”

mattheo now had a clear view of the effect he had on you: your tiny cotton shorts were stained with a big patch of arousal, butchered up all the way into your cunt. heck, if he tried more, he could define the outline of your pussy through your clothes.

“c’mon, mattheo, fuck me!”

you mewled at him like a vixen, arching your back into him and shaking your clothed ass. you instantly felt mattheo’s rough hands cupping the fat of your behind, caressing the skin and even dipping his fingers underneath your shorts.

feeling around. exploring.

“mattheo, huryyyyy”

“shut up.” he growled at you, striking your right buttcheek in a sharp and swift motion. “let me admire you.”

he continued to roam his hands all over you, feather touches all over your skin — exposed or not.

but not for long, as his patience was wearing thin as well.

gripping the hem of your shorts and panties at the same time, mattheo finally dragged them down to your bent knees, exposing that warm and needy hole to his eyes.

“fuck, how could i assume–”

mattheo grasped the base of his cock and, stepping closer to you, he immediately brushed the tip of his cock across your folds, gathering and spreading your wetness around.

“–that i can replace you–”

just to torture you back, he pushed his shaft against your pulsing hole, applying enough pressure for you to feel him, but not enough to enter you.

“–with a mere toy?”

“please, mattheo…”

and there it was, you begging. exactly what he was waiting for.

with your sweet plea on your lips, mattheo finally thrusted inside of you. impatient as ever, he stuffed you full from the beginning, reaching the deepest part of your cunt and hitting that sensitive spot with his tip.

“fuck, it’s so hot.”

ah, you were stuffed to the brim.

“and your walls are sucking me in.”

you could feel every vein and ridge on his cock, pressing deliciously against you.

“loosen up, sweetheart. shit. i can’t move.”

and you did your best to listen, but your hungry pussy was sucking him in like a vice. with your cunt gripping tightly around his shaft, mattheo managed to pull out only halfway.

“i won’t last long, baby.”

and then he thrusted back in. hard. pushing your entire body forward and ruining any sort of balance in your upper body, you fell on the mattress face down.

“fuck, you feel amazing!”

“never keep this pussy away from me, you hear me?”

his rhythm was now constant, jutting his hips into yours at a desperate pace.

“i will have this pussy breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

mattheo's guttural promise echoed in your ears as his hips picked up the pace.

carnal desire was evident in the way he was pounding into you — with unrestrained force. your body instinctively arched more and more against him, wishing to never be separated from his body ever again.

the slapping sounds of flesh on flesh was the only prevalent sound, sometimes joined by moans, gasps and whines. your face was completely buried in the mattress, lips even biting at the bedsheets in an attempt to muffle some of your pornographic noises.

mattheo saw that and did not like it one bit.

“bad fucking girl!”

your entire upper body was lifted from the bed in one smooth movement, mattheo’s strong arms sneaking around your torso and neck. his right arm was gripping at your midpoint, steadying you.

his other arm, however, put your head in a nice meaty headlock.

“let me hear you, sweetheart!”

tightening his hold on you, his arm immediately flexed around your neck, pushing his hard bicep closer to your face.

“ah, mattheo.”

“yeah, baby. gonna cum?”

the new position allowed mattheo to reach even deeper, kissing your cervix with his aggressive thrusts. he was throbbing, ready to orgasm a second time that day.

“let me make you cum.” he whispered softly against your face, placing a half-peck on the shell of your ear.

and with that, he lowered his hand from your torso to your pussy, locating your pulsing nub and drawing fast circles on it.

“oh my god i'm–”

and he was too. his hips slammed faster and faster into your cunt, sloppily thrusting until the very end.

“don’t move!” he grunted aggressively in your ear.

mattheo could feel you spasming, trying to run away from him. but he had to fill you up. he had to cream your pussy for real.

“take it all, sweetheart. be a good fucktoy for me!”

and you couldn’t go against him even if you wanted to. his big arms were securely holding your body in place.

so you stilled your hips as best as you could, settling nicely into his body, allowing mattheo to paint your insides with his cum.

and make a big mess, just like he did with the fleshlight.

•••

“i am throwing away the fleshlight!”

“oh, so i did better than it?”

“you’re insane for even asking.”

©dearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

tags: @downbad4reid, @cafechichay, @lov3notts

[insanelyadd]

IT IS TIME

ONCE MORE

YOU HAVE BEEN WITH ME FOR FIVE YEARS NOW

LET PAPYRUS SAY FUCK DAY

As per usual, please feel free to participate with anything you can make, it doesn't have to be extravagant, it can be a simple little drawing. In the past I have used this event to bring back discontinued merch which now has a reference to it contained within, and the spread of it as a meme lead to it being???? referenced???? In a Papyrus interview???? Huh.

So I thank every single one of you for making this event what it is, I never expected when I made my first post about it that people would actually all come together to make a bunch of silly art for a great character. Please join me once more, for another year where Papyrus can say fuck, and if you can't post on the day itself, then that's perfectly fine! Papyrus can swear whenever the hell he wants, he's a grown ass man.

PROMPTS:

Papyrus says fuck (stubbed his toe, dropped his oatmeal, missed the newest episode of his favorite show)

Papyrus commits Arson

Papyrus wins big at poker because this man has the perfect poker face

Ambassador Papyrus repressing the urge to strangle the politicians he's dealing with

He's a brutal kind of guy! He is preparing to be the shit out of someone

Knight Papyrus

What is Papyrus "busy" with in deltarune?

Why does Flowey restrain Papyrus with 4 vines when everyone else is only restrained with 2?

Anything that portrays him as the grown man that he is

Don't forget to use the tag #LetPapyrusSayFuck as well as #undertale (or #deltarune if you're doing one of those prompts) and then also please be mindful and tag the post for including #swearing or other sensitive topics if it includes them.

Please reblog, and share with all your Papyrus-loving friends! I look forward to another fun year cheering on The Great Papyrus with all of you. <3

EDIT (I can't believe I forgot this part) THIS JUNE 16th!

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Hi Laura! For the ask game how about 🥀, 😳 and 🤠? <3

Hiya Melissa!

🥀 - Favourite animated movie?

Oh this is a difficult one. Which I suppose just speaks about me not having a clear favourite on the matter. But... y'know what? I saw a post about the animation quality of "The Rescuers Down Under" and I have fond memories of watching it as a kid. As in I liked it a lot. So, I suppose I have to go with that ^^'

😳 - Do you like your name?

It took a while for me to "grown on" my name. I didn't like it much as a child because I didn't feel it to be "anything special" in a way, but nowadays I can't really imagine myself to have any other name. That is to say, I think it suits me.

Also "Laura" is derived from the word for laurel, meaning that it essentially means "crowned with the bay of laurel", which again can be summed as "victory". I think it's a nice, poetic name

🤠 - Are you more of a city person or a country person?

Country person. I grew up around nature, around woods, and learned to sail as a kid (I've forgotten most about it by now, but I used to be pretty good at it). Cities are nice places to visit, and I do like modern commodities, but I prefer to live around nature. It's the dream to live by a lake, surrounded by trees and a forest, but drive 30 minutes to down town of the city. (Which isn't impossible in Finland, mind you).

So, yeah, I'm a country person ^^'

[slowdivinqs]

Presentiment

Stalker! Joel Miller x f!reader ( 18+ MDNI )

summary : no one is truly alone in the world, especially not you.

w/c : 12K

warnings : no use of y/n, horror themes and elements DDDNE, stalker behavior, feelings of isolation and depression, existential crisis? Kidnapping, cynical thoughts about life described, abuse, violence against the reader by Joel, old!Joel. slowburn-ish. dub-con?. unprotected PinV. Oral f!receiving. Manhandling. Hunter / prey kink. Twisted daddy kink but no use of the word 'daddy'. Joel popping a viagra. VERY Large age gap ( 35+ years ) . Manipulation. Obsession. Reader’s mother is described as a drug addict. Shitty men, harassment and pervertedness from a co-worker. Murder / death of side characters. Stockholm syndrome. Reader is toxic too. Religious imagery. Can be pixel or pedro Joel. The reader is implied as being thinner due to life long poverty, but her body type is not described or stated.

a/n : This was made for @pedgito's writing challenge and kind of ran away from me. It was such a blast, I've never tried horror or a specifically dark fic and it was sm fun! I’m sure the characters I wrote will stick with me forever. I sat with this fic for a long time before posting, and it's the longest thing I've ever written!! Not sure how I feel about it still. Thank you for letting me participate! Happy birthday ♡

if you don’t like dark themes, listen to the warnings and don’t read the fic.

masterlist

—— ☓ ——

Something feels wrong before your eyes have had the chance to open – a kind of warning, an omen, baked into the morning light stabbing your iris through moth-eaten curtains.

It was the way your body ached as you tried to sit up, stomach screaming for food you just don’t have. Your mother hasn’t been home for a week and you know she’s either run off with some incest-bred asshole who’s promised her a beer or she’s passed out in a crack-house miles away.

Your shift at the diner starts in thirty minutes. 

The men that pass through this town are all the same. 

Truck drivers – men who think all women in the world are there to satisfy their needs. Iagos of the world, the dark underbelly. 

The men that stay in this town are not dissimilar, your days a monotonous blur of wondering when something better will drop into your desperate palms.

There is one man who feels like your only friend in the world. 

Standing at a whopping five foot seven, and still kicking up the diner’s jukebox at eighty three, he makes sun shine out from your soul. You can confidently say that Jerry is the best. 

He usually sits with you the entire day at work, and makes sure to fill your empty time by teaching you to dance to El Toro Rabón, and La Bamba. His rich hands, littered with wrinkles yet full of life, hold yours while he makes you laugh. Clapping as you finish off with an animated twirl and curtsy. 

Jason usually eyes you from the kitchen, rolling his sleazy eyes at the sight of you having so much fun with your elderly best friend. Going back to making greasy burgers and puffing on a cigarette that’s gotten him in trouble with the owner before. 

You never agreed with the sentiment that old people were cute until you met Jerry and his late wife during your first shift at the diner : fourteen years old and composed of an exhaustion that was ill fitting for someone so young. He’d been your first ever customer, seventy seven and still wearing that cowboy hat of his.

The first thing you noticed about him was his mustache, the way he uses wax to curve up the tight white curls into points, how it covered his top lip when he spoke, making him look like a cartoon character –  his oak brown eyes that has gotten increasingly red and yellow around the corners as he’s gotten older. The way his warm skin has developed patches of darkness, yet he still looks the exact same as the photo of him he showed you from thirty years ago : fresh off his racing horse in Mexico, holding the same cowboy hat over his chest that he adorns now, smiling brightly. He kept his hair looser back then, his ringlets looked shiny even in those black and white photographs.

He calls you bumblebee, and you think he’s the first person that’s ever loved you – and he’s the first person you’ve ever loved. He’s your sunshine, a tether to the world past your 18 hour work day. 

Every morning he’s seated in the diner at 8:30 AM with a joke to tell you, stories of his racing days, growing up in Cuajinicuilapa, his time travelling around South America before settling down in this small town near Wyoming. He tells you of his late brother, his views of the world and the people he’s met. He talks of humanity and how love is what is most important in life.

You feed off of the stories he tells you : meeting people from all walks of life under the pretense of coffee, sitting around the same food stand, chatting to strangers who would play guitar on the side of the street for no other purpose than passion. 

You feel the desire for this ideal world thrum in your veins vicariously.

He used to come in with his wife Dolores until she passed two springs ago – he talks of her jewelry often, thinks that you should inherit it : they were never able to have children. You serve his coffee fresh and hot – asking Jason in the back to make his eggs perfect and his toast golden brown. You sit across from him at the counter to play bullshit with him while he eats – he always knows when you’re lying, his cheeky smiles catching you out, and his joy wraps it’s warm arms around you.

Your days are filled with giggles and smiles whenever he comes to see you, and he never leaves without a hug. 

Jerry does not like Jason one bit – eyeing the skinny, pale cook through the serving counter, telling you that a man like that is ‘no good, honey’. You don’t blame him – Jason had tried to coerce you into giving him a blowjob a few weeks before your 18th birthday – but never forced you when you had threatened to go to the sheriff and have them run a much needed background check. Jason has steered clear of you since then, knowing you weren’t shooting empty threats. You never told Jerry about that, but you think he knows regardless. 

He jokes that the forest behind your house has eyes – the kind only the old and the dying could feel. You never found it funny. 

Your clothes were not too crinkled this morning when you pulled them on : giving you a small mercy as did your almost-dry mascara surviving one more day. That hadn’t quelled the uneasiness you’d felt all morning, the whole drive to the diner. All you could think about was seeing your friend, and hoping that he would give you a hug and tell you all those happy stories again.

The second you clock in, and Jason comes back in from his third smoke of the hour, Jerry opens the door to the diner. 

You float over to the counter with a genuine smile, but it flickers when you see the look on his face. 

He talks a lot that day – about his wife, about his old job, even the time a fight broke out in his hometown and his father died, how the horses he looked after got caught in the crossfire : admitting he had hurt the perpetrator afterwards and it haunts him. He tells you everything, even the things he’s told you time and time before – forgetting he ever mentioned it. He’s never forgotten a thing about you, but he talks as though he’s in a hurry, as though he needs to get everything out.

He does not come in the next day or the day after that, and when he doesn’t arrive on the third day you take time off to confirm your fears at the hospital. You do not hear it from a nurse, or a doctor, but from the silence you are met with when you ask for him. That silence, the loneliness that instantly sunk into your bones, shattered your heart into millions of pieces. It is destroying.

You did not come to see him when you could, there was still time to be had, stories to be told. He never saw you make something of yourself, he will never walk you down the aisle like you dreamt he would one day. 

You are all alone in the world. No one to speak to, no one to comfort you. No one to make you think life might not be as meaningless as the whispers of your mind seem to believe. The warmth of him is gone, and you feel as cold and grey as the forest that surrounds this town, as if the sun has gone into eternal hibernation.

You want to bury yourself in your room for hours, to not surface for months and months until your body reflects the rot you feel on the inside. Hollow. Your sunshine is gone. 

You tell yourself Jerry is now with Dolores, and laugh at the fact that your mind even supplied such a deluded thought. You never believed there was something better up there, not for long anyway. 

You still go to his new tombstone, next to his wife’s, and speak to them. They were both religious, crosses carved into the place their names will stay forever, and so you ask any god out there to let them rest peacefully as though they are back in their hometown with their horses and not worry about you. 

That evening you sit on your porch, chain-smoking the packs of cigarettes you had been saving, staring at the stars caged by thick trees. You realize you do not have a purpose. You don’t have a want – can’t have one, there’s not enough money for the luxury of wanting something. You’ll live and die in an 18 hour work day.

Your thoughts are scary and boring at the same time, so you begin to look out at the illuminated forest. The sounds of the night – it scares you as well sometimes, an entire empty forest just outside your door, nothing but rotten wood and locks keeping you safe.

Today you found out you will be alone for the rest of your life, but when you sit out on the porch, flicking your third cigarette – you don’t feel entirely alone at all. You feel as though there is something out here with you, your skin rippling with bumps. 

You blame it on the Grim Reaper licking at your heart today.

The cabin on the other side of the forest you’re staring at now has been vacant since you were born. Never a light, a sound – it haunts you.

The closest you’ve gotten to it was at the ripe age of 8, venturing through the forest to explore. You had come to the front door until the house moaned at you, and the forest went quiet. You can still vividly picture the glance you got of the cabin while you ran all the way home. 

You leave the shadow of the cabin in the dark forest behind, you need to get dressed for your shift. Money waits for no one, not even for the death of your best friend. 

Down the empty highway, not a car in sight – the image of your headlines whirring past the thousands of trees burnt into your retinas from seeing it every single night. Your eyes are puffy and raw from crying, a headache pounding behind them.You pass the single off–ramp road you’ve never been stupid enough to take, the one that winds through the forest, all the way to an open clearing, a small path that can barely fit your sputtering car – leading all the way to the back of your rotting house. You used to play in that clearing as a child, pulling out grass and flowers and making huts out of branches until the day the forest went quiet for a second time – and you knew something was out there with you. 

You had told your mother after running inside, but she pushed you away from the comfort of her arms and told you it was just jackals – you knew it wasn’t, even then. 

It had seemed you knew something was coming your whole life, constantly looking over your shoulder – watching, listening. Sensing all and any kind of movement anytime, wary. You didn’t like the silence, you didn’t like being alone – yet you were singled out, not a soul or sound to comfort you through your isolated existence. 

The gas station is empty as it is every night, you use the time to read. To think, to wonder what it’s all for in the end. If you should run away, leave and never come back. Go and find the ocean, let it swallow you whole.

The sliding doors of the entrance ding as they open. Your eyes flick up so quickly it hurts. A man walks in, and your stomach swoops. Everything falls quiet, and you think of the thing that your mother called the jackals, you think of the forest falling silent : baby birds quieting in the face of danger.  He disappears behind a shelf, a glimpse of a Carhartt jacket that sparks a warmth : a remembrance of your dear friend who is now gone, the once comforting material on someone foreign, scary.

Your breath shallows. You don’t know why. It’s not just the quiet – it’s the kind of quiet that makes your blood congeal. Like the silence before a scream. 

You glance to your side, below the counter, a bat sits for emergencies. You’re not sure why you are panicking the way you are, if it’s the hour, Jerry’s passing, the presentiment you’ve felt all week. 

There is something silent, and something wrong. 

When you look up, you still don’t see him. The light behind you flickers, and you almost want to cry at the fear that’s bubbling up in your throat, your hair is standing on end. Your ears prick at any sound, a fridge door opening and shutting. 

Your body is shutting down on you, your heart crawling up your throat by claws : fighting and fighting for a chance to survive while your body quivers with the force of your instinct to run. Grab the bat, over the counter, out the door to your car. 

You blink, realizing you haven’t been seeing a damn thing, and he’s on the other side of the counter. Looking at you with a blank expression. 

Your heart fizzles and falls back to its place, your hands are shaking. 

“Forgot milk.”  His voice is entirely too flat, disarming and discerning. 

You glance down at his hands, calloused and holding a single jug of full cream milk. He’s waiting for you to scan it. 

“Right, sorry.” You mutter, sliding the milk over the scanner and taking the cash from him before returning the change. He hasn’t looked away from you once, he seems tired and bored : a normal milk run, but you’ve never seen him before. It’s shocking for a town with under five hundred residents. 

He nods his thanks and leaves. The sound of his car sputtering away allows you to finally exhale. 

You cash out and go home soon after that, shaken, like every ounce of fear you’ve felt in your life crashed through you the second he entered the store. An omen, a warning. 

You wake up to a box at your door the next morning. In your sleep-shaken state, you have half the mind to stomp on it, fearful it came from The Man last night. Fortunately, curiosity seemed to be on your side this morning, as upon opening the box you find Denise’s necklaces, bracelets, rings and books. Paintings, antiques, and most importantly - a cowboy hat. Your favorite hat in the entire world. He had left everything of his to you, when he wrote his will you do not know. Maybe Jerry knew what was coming, he always was wise, connected to everything there is in a way you wish you could be.

You cry all morning, through your miserable shift at the diner. You must look like some sort of slug, because Jason asks you if you’re okay, as does the girl from your old english class who came in that morning all the way from New York : in town and visiting her parents. She dyed her hair and found her style. You see the sparkle of the world in her eyes, and your dirty fingers itch to steal it, to run outside with her car keys, assume her role as a real person. You do not feel real at all. 

When you return to your rotting home you watch an old western - Jerry’s favorite - while you wear his cowboy hat, toying with the new jewelry that was sent to you when the police must’ve got around to acting out Jerry’s will. You feel loved and, oh, so lonely at the same time. You are a ghost in your own home, and the appearance reflects it. No real girl would live in a house of mold and quiet, where it is abandoned despite having a resident. 

—-

The Man returns this evening as well, in the moment you were humming the iconic tune from your new favorite movie. Jerry had good taste. The world goes silent, and he grabs a pack of beers before heading to the till. “Marlboro Reds, please.” He has a Texan accent, and you stare at your hands as you give him what he wants. He leaves after that again, your only customer of the night. 

 

The next night, he takes his time browsing the store. You watch him, watch how he languidly moves, scanning the items like his eyes would not eventually land on you. Approaching the counter with his chosen trifle.

 “You don’t get scared workin’ nights?” He asks, and now you know your concerns were not unfounded. 

“No.” you lie, meeting his eye for the second time since the first night. He does not have facial expressions, you realize. Blank, revealing nothing. He is a handsome man. An eerie man. He nods, holding eye contact as he grabs the useless item and goes back to his sputtering truck outside. He looked like he wanted to call you a liar. 

You do not show up for your shift the night after that. Your gut tells you to stay home, to lock your doors and keep your father’s old pistol near you. To close the blinds – sit and listen to every sound of the night. Check under your bed just in case.

You’re late to the diner the next morning, greeted by Jason’s complaining that he had to serve the first customer’s coffee, asking for you to make it up to him. When you peep through the corridor, your heart drops at the only customer in the restaurant. 

The Man has come to the diner. He knows you, he knows where you work – probably where you live. 

Maybe he lives here, maybe it’s all some coincidence. Maybe it’s not what you think. 

You bring him his eggs and bacon, and when you look up to his face he’s already looking at you. He does not move, does not touch his knife or fork. He’s staring at you. 

“Leave me alone.” You say, quiet yet firm, standing over him as he blinks and looks down at his food. Your fear is making you angry, fire spitting in your eyes. He doesn’t answer you, and after two moments of being unable to bear the energy that exudes from him – you walk away, into the back of the kitchen to watch Jason work, peeping through the slits of the serving station to watch The Man eat his food. Your body hair prickles into points.

Jason eyes you, glances at The Man, and raises a faint eyebrow at you. 

“That your daddy?” he asks, staring at the popping bacon. You watch the grease heat and solidify, the sweat sticking on Jason’s skinny yet defined triceps, coated with wiry hair that’s never been tended to. 

“No.” you whisper, tucking your hands under your legs : they are cold, and your skin is overridden with goosebumps, hair standing. You feel as though you’re about to be swallowed, like large claws will pick you up and drop you into a maw of sharp, hungry teeth.

“Why’s he givin’ me the stink eye, then?” Jason grunts, picking at his gold tooth with a grimy finger as he lazily looks over to your thighs, then your face. Raising an eyebrow at how fearful you look, he glances back at The Man. Something like concern flashes across his face, and he lifts his cap to rub over his short, receding hair. It’s the first time his eyes have ever looked soft.

“Dunno.” is all you manage to mutter as you brace a peek to find The Man has looked away.

He’s slow, takes time to eat every piece of food while staring blankly out the window, like he’s watching the world as though he’s never seen it before, unnatural. You want to tell Jason about your all consuming fear that this man is going to hurt you, but his eyes have changed and he makes another comment about how good you look in the plaid dress that happens to be your uniform.  You choose to wait outside of the building instead of enduring the male specimen of your species. It feels like you are alone in a world of monsters.

When you return inside, there’s a fifty dollar tip next to the spotless plate, everything stacked for you to carry. 

You don’t return home that night : you ditch your job at the gas station for a second time,  leaving your car at the diner to book a room at the shitty motel. It feels as though you died the same day Jerry did, maybe you are dreaming : alone in an empty world, your only companion being the monster. Nothing feels real.

You fall asleep to the sound of ugly moans, watching the handle of your door : your heart beating faster than your body can manage. Rocking yourself back and forth, humming a soft tune your father used to play on the guitar when he was sober enough to think. 

You feel as though you are living on borrowed time, as though this opportunity to wait is a mercy.

He is not at the diner the next morning. Neither is Jason, it’s closed up and the lights are shut off – it is Jason’s job to open up and get the stoves burning. You try to call the owner with the small amount of change you have on the payphone, but no one answers. The sound of the dead line ringing in your ears as you look around in a panic. 

You suddenly feel as though you’re back in that patch of forest, surrounded by tall trees and a monster waiting to swallow you whole. Watching. A fear so curdling you fear you’ll throw up over the plastic phone. 

You’re wide awake standing behind the counter of the gas station. Watching the fluorescent lights flicker. You parked your car out back. You’re holding the bat in your right hand under the counter. You are waiting for him to come in. You should have driven far far away, but you have a sinking feeling he would have followed. 

The night is completely quiet. No people, no sounds except for the humming of the fridges. 

You glance at the back door, and the moment your eyes turn away from the sliding doors they ding. Your hair rises and stands violently. Skin alight and blazing as the first footstep echos in the store.

You don’t think about it, your body tells you to run and you do. 

Out the back, to the edge of the concrete until your feet are pounding along the road, bat gripped tightly in your fist. The sound of your own feet are drowned out by the ones behind you, big and stomping. The trees framing your attempt at an escape as they yawn and stretch above - caging you in, suffocating. They grow tall as you sprint, closing like they will eagerly crash down and trap you like a wave from the ocean you’ve never seen.

You push with all your might, and you thank the lord you took track during school, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you run so fast the sound of feet behind you fade. It feels like victory, like being free – your chest blooms from the burn and the success. You think of the gun in your bedside drawer, and turn down the off-road into the woods you’ve never been brave enough to take before. The only sound is the one of your own feet : you’re not stupid enough to look behind you.

The moon lights up the forest floor, you don’t trip over a single root or branch. You’re moving faster than you ever have in your life : your lungs screaming, fear rising in your lungs like bile. You break into the clearing, the one that has always been haunted by Jackals. 

You’re almost home. 

A force heavier than you think you’ve ever felt crashes into you from the side, you’re slammed down into the one patch of grass you often picked, the bat flying out of your hands and rolling to the dirt in front of you.

“Knew you’d run here.” A deep, breathless voice says right into your ear, your hair is pulled as a hand clamps down on your struggling wrists, excited. “Always liked playin’ here, didn’t ya?” he grunts, pulling something out of his pocket. You swing your elbow up, knocking him straight in the jaw. He sways for only a moment, but it’s all you need. You dash forward, crawling away from him before you find your feet, grabbing the bat and smashing it down over The Man’s skull. He groans and stumbles, gripping the back of his head as you trip over your own feet to stumble away. You run towards your rotting home, you can’t think about the fact he knew where you played as a child, all you are thinking about is the gun. 

You don’t even get to the steps of your back porch before he’s tackling you to the ground again and hitting the side of your face hard enough to make you cry, your head fuzzing. Your face stings and your eye throbs. You want to bring your hands to cup over the hurt, hold yourself in an attempt to make it better, but he is holding your hands. He curses at you, spitting vile words for managing to get solid blows at him.

“Come on, darlin’. You think that little gun ‘s gon’ do anythin’? It don’t even got any bullets.” He grunts, you feel zip ties around your wrists, your mind racing as you continue to struggle and kick until his hand is around your throat faster than you can think. “Don’t make me hit that pretty face again, bitch.” 

You go still, and slumped. Trapped in a wolf’s jaws. 

His hand squeezes tighter and tighter as you squeak a protest, until you can’t think anymore and the last of your squirming falls away. 

The first thing you smell when you wake up is smoke, the kind that comes from a fireplace. The first thing you see is rich, dark wood. You’re on a bed and you glance up to see you’re handcuffed there. Your skin isn’t just throbbing – it's raw, the skin bitten where the metal has scraped against you. Your head pounds like it’s been split open, the ache thick and blinding.

You can feel he is somewhere within the room, the twist of your stomach and the lingering presence on the back of your head tells you he is there. A creak of a chair behind you finalizes his presence but you can’t be bothered to do anything besides slump back against the mattress, curling up into a tiny ball. 

He says your name to get your attention, and you don’t attempt to look at him, your skin is already crawling with what you think he wants to do to you. Future years of using and hitting flash through your mind, wishing for the mercy of death.

He walked next to the bed too fast, too silent. A wall of muscle and heat as large as him should not be so quiet.  He is touching your hair, stroking down your cheek. His hand is rough and warm, he smells like a cologne that reminds you of your father. You think you might be sick.

“I was bein’ nice. I waited.” he says softly, pressing down with his pointer finger on the bruise that has molted under your skin, making you wince and shuffle away from him, glancing up at him to find his striking, dark eyes on you. His jaw is bruised where you hit him with your aching elbow, a trickle of dry blood still stuck on a piece of his salt-and-pepper hair. You made a crack in his head – a small trickle of pride filling your veins at the fight. 

It is small lived, and dies out at the next throb of your wrists.

He sighs at this reaction, before walking out of this bedroom and shutting the door behind him. 

You lie there for what feels like hours, only moving when you notice the water and ibuprofen on the bedside table : still in its packaging. Your whole body aches, the last throttles of your adrenaline were beaten out of you with his hands. 

It’s only when you sit up that you notice where you are. The view outside the window is the forest behind the cabin that groaned at you, that haunted you as a child. 

He’s lived here the whole time : he’s been here the whole time. The feeling of impending doom that curdles your skin when he’s been near. The jackals you felt as a child, the forest going quiet. 

It’s been him. It’s always been him.

Your skin feels as though it will turn inside out, every hair on your body standing to a rigid point. The fear feels as though you’re dying. 

You don’t have to look to know he’s silently opened the room again, and you speak.

“You some kind of pedo?” You spit as your head throbs, sitting up on the bed, tugging on the cuffs, rage curdling and bubbling up on your skin – you think of your mother. 

He stops moving at your words, “what?” 

“You’ve been watching me since I was a child.” 

“It wasn’t like that, Jesus.” He grunts, sounding uncomfortable at the idea. You almost want to laugh. In your periphery you see he’s ditched his canvas jacket, wearing a navy flannel that shows you just how large he is - as if you didn’t feel it the night before when he tackled into you so violently, stealing every inch of breath in your lungs.

“Oh, well sorry for assuming some old, sick pig stalking a young girl since she was a child isn’t a fucking pedophile.”

He smacks you over the throbbing patch of your skin, and you finally glare up at him with every bit of ire in your body. It was not any kind of hit, it was the kind that made you feel like dead weight, that knocks all the air out of your body as if you are a puppet with it’s strings cut. 

He’s staring down at you.

“I’m not –  christ, it ain’t like that.” 

“So you’re just going to kidnap and keep me? You’re not going to – to do anything, is that right?” You scoff the words out, holding your hand to your cheek. The ache under your skin feels like it could stay there forever. 

“I don’t want to do anything to you.” He seems to notice the irony of his words when you let your palm drop, face swollen. “I didn’t want to have to hurt you.”

You look out the window and go silent. 

“You didn’t have to hurt me, this was your choice.” You spit, and he looks almost surprised by your words. There’s goosebumps that break out over his skin, and the energy in the room constricts as he backs away from you.

He glances out the same window before handing you a warm bowl of stew, pieces of meat and potato bobbing up from the thick, stock smelling liquid. You stare down at it, and then glare back up at him. 

“Is it poisoned?” You’re not serious, you’re angry.

“If I wanted to kill you I would have done it earlier.” He says it as though it’s as casual as the weather, as though killing something – a person – is as boring as can be. Idle reassurance. 

“You seem to like the waiting game.” You huff, staring at his large, twitching hands. His watch is broken.

He looks like he wants to smile at your quip, eyes crinkling in the corners.

“Eat.” He tells you, closing the bedroom door softly as he leaves you be.

—

You have been here for two weeks, only knowing this due to the little alarm clock next to the bed that he brought you from your house. 

True to his word, he hasn’t touched you – in fact, he’s been taking care of you in ways you have never been before. It’s intimate, and a sick hunger has begun to heat low in your belly alongside the fear. 

You feel as though you’ve been living in a small bubble where time never passes. He watches you at all hours of the day, asking you questions about the men you’ve worked with, if there’s anything from your house you want him to fetch. He tries not to hit you when his anger bubbles up at your persistent silence. He asks you questions about yourself, not ones like favorite colors, but if you think all people in the world are unsavable. 

He looks like he’s hoping you will tell him he can be saved. You do not. 

He makes you eat dinner with him every night, bathes you as well. The first time he tried it, after letting you rot in bed for three days, he had to wrestle you into the bathtub after trying to be nice, held you down while you kicked and splashed and scratched at him until he pressed his fingers over your injured face in an unforgiving manner until your cries went quiet, and you almost fainted from the pain. He made you apologize for making him have to hurt you. 

You swallowed the clawing, raging voice at the back of your throat and did it. When he kissed your forehead and told you it’s okay, a warm sickness swirled in your stomach, nauseating and tentatively delicious all at once.

You have not tried to fight him after that night, scared of what would happen if he were to comfort you. 

He tucks you into bed most evenings, pressing the blanket to cushion you and arranges the pillows. In the first nights, it had scared you : you hadn’t slept a wink, terrified he would slip into bed and his patience would wear thin. Now, it feels like something nice. He tries to tell you happy stories, he usually fails – but it makes you think of Jerry and you feel better regardless, it makes The Man seem more real, like a human rather than a monster. 

He asks you to curl up next to him on the couch so he can read aloud to you, books you’ve heard about in passing but never read : he has a liking for Cormac McCarthy and the Wild West. He bakes cookies for you when you ask him your first question, letting you sit at the table with a glass of milk to enjoy them. You feel warmth radiating from inside of you, spiked with fear – no one has baked cookies for you before. You finish them, and he says he’s proud.

—-

The sinking feeling comes slowly. Seeping into your bones whenever he holds you. It gets worse when you begin to dream of him, a possible reality, one of him holding you and kissing you – telling you you’re lovable, perfect, worthy. Six months have warped your brain, slipping out of your grasp like sand. You wake up to slickness between your legs, a desire to go find him in the kitchen making breakfast and nuzzle under his broad arms, let him squeeze you tight and surround you with his scent. You don’t have to beg him to make you feel loved, he’s always loved you : he’s made that clear. 

You had realized long ago that he is too big for you to fight, he is all consuming and overpowering. The sinking feels like acceptance, and you think it’s close to dying. 

It’s a sunny day when it all hits you. He’s been out for half an hour – at the grocery store a few towns over – the moment he said goodbye you had felt a twist in your stomach. You didn’t want him to go. He hugged you and told you he would be back soon, kissing your cheek when you got teary, his whiskery beard tickling your soft skin. 

You don’t know when the terror began to feel like safety. You only know that when he’s gone, it feels like you’re alone with the jackals instead of how it was when he found you. When he was the monster.

The worst part was you knew why you reacted that way. Sitting in the sunny room, you forced your mind to constantly think of escape routes, of the disgusting actions he had committed, the way he has trapped you in this little house. Your mind adamantly hates The Man, but that large pit, the self that was unloved and uncared for – alone, has already started to need him, to ignore the stupidity in believing he loves you. To latch on like a leech and suck up all of the love and care he has, not caring if it’s real or pure, to see if it’ll make you round and fat with it – satisfied.

 

The hunger for what he has to offer you makes you feel like you might be the true monster in the house : your desperation for what you have never tasted knows no bounds. You think you’d kill for it. You might have been the jackal the whole time, the hole that lived inside you might have turned you ugly from a young age. 

You are scared of your own desperation. 

He bathes you every night – ritualistic and precise. Guides you under the water until you reappear, clean and new to a kiss on your cheek, hands scrubbing you clean. Every time the surface breaks and you come back to him, the forest grows denser : tighter and vast while the home, your home, becomes all the more simple and clear, exactly how it is supposed to be. 

You need him, and you think you love him. What that makes you, you’re not sure and you no longer care. 

He goes out months later, telling you he needs to get food and soap, baby - he leaves the window open and the door unlocked : he knows you will not leave. He says he’s going to grab soap, but he is carrying a prescription slip with a little baggie, what he’s actually going to get remains a mystery to you. 

The nightmare you had in the middle of winter had shifted something deep in your foundations – the fear that licked up your spine at the thought of being alone – the much lesser, flickering fear that your body had instinctually looked for him in his room, the dull scream your mind let out at the way you climbed into his bed, burrowing under his large, comforting arms until your brain went quiet and he pulled you closer. Those dull screams of fear and resistance from a lifetime ago have been washed away from his hands, and now a need so gravitational has birthed in its place. You want him.

Dusk comes softly in the weeks after taking residence in his bed. He still has not touched you, and you are beginning to feel ire towards his morality. A wrongness in the way he tries to be right. The cabin is warm with firelight, the smell of smoke wrapping around you like a blanket, similarly to his flannel that stretches over your skin. He jostles open the door slowly, grocery bags lining his fingers in a way that is dangerously domestic – his hair is tousled. His eyes catch onto the fabric, and he pauses.

“You’re in my shirt.” He states, but you know it’s a question. Your eyes search for the little baggie he had, wondering what he put in there. 

You close the book he gave you to read, the cover sliding across your fingertips, “It smells like you.”

Something in his expression shifts. You think it might be guilt. Or pride. Or both, layered on top of each other until they’re indecipherable. He sets the bags down and moves to you, slow and steady – crouching to your level in front of the couch. 

“You missed me?” He asked, eyes wild and dilated, hands skirting over your exposed thighs. Up and down. 

You look away, unable to meet the gaze that is burning into you, to admit how far you’ve gone to his face. Yet your head nods, eyes flicking to his as your chin wobbles, bottom lip jutting out before tightening in a grimace. He wipes a tear from your eye.

“’s okay to miss me, I’m the only one who’s here f’you, darlin’.” He cups your cheek, rubbing the skin there. You meet his eyes this time, close them before you’re leaning in, resting your head on his shoulder as he sits next to you, guiding you onto his lap and telling you it's okay, and it’s natural, baby and finally I love you, don’t cry sweet girl.

You’re tired of the tears, of the fight. Tired of the empty woods and the silence – the loneliness that lives in your bones. You’re tired of running from the thing that makes you feel whole and real.

You wonder if Jerry ever saw this coming, and if he did – why didn’t he ever warn you something so soul destroying would be waiting to swallow you? Why didn’t he tell you the most human monster in the world would be the only one to see you without the shiny idealism behind cataracts? You feel guilty for admitting that The Man knows you better than Jerry ever did. The Man knows you are not made of sunshine and flowers, he sees the hole carved in your stomach that makes you so achingly hungry, and shows his own back. 

— 

You noticed the loose floorboard on the second day, and now you pry it open. While you care for The Man, you are acting on instinct.

He had shouted at you this morning while you were still curled in his arms, gotten rotten and angry, called you a stupid bitch when you had asked him to come with him to the store, wanting to see the world again. 

You were hopeful he would trust you, that he would prove you are, in fact, not living in a cage. 

He had stormed off, and for the first time in eight months he had locked the door on his way out, shoving a small plastic bag in his pocket. 

Spiders crawl out from the floorboard, and you jump back, standing on the couch while you throw The Man’s shoes at them, you wish he was here so he could take care of it, could laugh softly at your fear and hold you in his arms – away from the floor – to protect you. 

You remind yourself you do not know his name and that you’re trapped here, a jarring reminder of the way you have settled.

You need something to prove he was a real, living man before his life revolved around you. You need to rebel against him, like a petulant, scared child because of his rudeness this morning. 

Once you feel safe enough, you roll up the sleeve of the lacy undershirt he gave you and stick your hand inside. Searching for some sort of ocular truth amongst the bones of his own rotted cabin.

A pair of old boots with a ‘J’ engraved in the sole is the first thing you pull out. An army knife next, then a bunch of guns and weapons. 

No matter how strange it is to find guns and knives buried in someone’s house, for The Man it’s quite boring.

You pull out a shoe box next, placing it next to you on the floor before blowing the dust off of the top. It doesn’t help much. From the amount of grime, it looks as though you are the first person to touch this box in years.

The lid sticks to the rest of the compartment from cobwebs, but you discard the thing anyway, desperate and careless.

 

A photo is the first thing you find, old and yellowed.

A little girl.

At first you are fearful she is a victim, until you see the photo of The Man - much younger - holding her in the hospital. Your stomach curdles, and it feels like rotting, eating itself from the inside. 

A daughter. 

Your heart swoops low, pensive. You think of the room he keeps locked, the warm light that streams under the gap of the door - reflecting something pink inside. The way you would watch the beams dance on the floor like a whole soul was trapped inside there, wilting as the sun set.

Her birth certificate is the second thing you find. 

  Sarah Miller : 1983 / 03 / 18   

  City of origin : Arlington, Texas. 

  Father  : Joel Miller  

A name, a life, a whole world buried in the foundations. 

You gawk at the fact that The Man – Joel – is 60 years old. 

Her missing poster is what you find next. Bile rises like acid on your tongue, a smiling, happy girl plastered with information about her last whereabouts, the pink shirt she was wearing and how tall she had gotten. She went missing on your third birthday. Your head swims. You drop the documents back into their casket with trembling hands and weak knees.

 Stupid, stupid girl – why did you have to look?

The last thing you find is a golden tooth, familiar in its grime and dullness. You can imagine a sleazy tongue gliding over it in irritation. Jason’s golden tooth. You drop it immediately and slam the loose floorboard shut, burying what was meant to stay that way once more. 

The room looks as though nothing has changed, yet everything inside of yourself is different. A storm of fog and clarity, adrenaline pumping for running and the desire to stay still.

You throw up outside the living room window.

Everything feels like a blur after that, grabbing your boots he stuffed away - a coat and a knife from his kitchen.

Run, just run. Don’t look back. Get away, fast fast fast. 

You climb out of the bedroom window and run all the way to where you left your car the night he caught you, cold wind whipping past your face and sending a burn through your nose. Your feet pound along the ground like the whole world is weighing you down, like every stone is hoping to trip you and let you fall, to cut your knees open and stop you. 

You eventually arrive at the gas station.

You're stunned that the place is closed and rotted, not a single soul in sight.

Your lungs are burning, you feel woozy, and you let out a pathetic cry when you see he has slashed your tires. 

Stopping at the rough concrete of the shop, you attempt to open the back door, only to spot a poster plastered on the side of the wall. 

A missing poster. Your missing poster, with not a single person in the world to care for its presence besides a man who you ran away from, who would tear it down and remove you from an existence that is not with him, that would try to come find you to bring you back.

You decide to keep running in the opposite direction of his home. A large part of you is screaming at you to run to the Sheriff’s office and tell them what happened, that Joel will find you if you try anything else, but a shamefully large part - a sick part of you does not want to run away from him. He has cared for you - he has watched you all your life, and you know – regardless of purity or morality – he loves you. All that is left for you without him is a town that would freeze in time if you were to vanish, fake in its existence, a facade for the life you were always meant to live.

To your horror, the twist in your chest tells you that you love him too, it’s a surety now.

You think of the soft kisses he pressed to your hair, the way you got used to him telling you of things he liked about you, that he only would have known from watching. The way he told you he too liked Jerry, and liked the movie you watched after his passing. He let you watch it every night for a month, and began to quote the lines with you in an exaggerated version of his accent to make you giggle.

He saw you, he has always seen you. He loves you and wants you and needs you enough to take you for himself. 

You have stopped running, standing still for a moment before slowly turning around, feet shaking in your soul’s indecision. Torn and trembling. The forest is completely silent, yet this time you feel all too real – too alive. 

Your mind is not what it used to be. The shake of your hands comes from the part of you that is pleading for you to run, to see the clear manipulation : the rose coloured glasses that have been forced over your eyes. The other part – the part that you are starting to believe is the truth of who you are – wants to run back to the cabin before he sees you ever left, to cup his devastatingly handsome face and let him take what has always been his, to be made a real person.

It is consuming, this primal want.

A twig snaps.

You don’t need to turn around to know he his standing close behind you. 

You clench your fists and turn around, fear curdling and boiling in your belly, making your knees weak and shaky. 

The look on his face clears your rational thought once again, and you quickly attempt to scramble away from the monster. He looks absolutely, impossibly, livid. 

You do not know why you ever thought you could run, why you thought he would not find you, that he would let you go. 

You burst into tears the second he has you against the forest floor once more. The ground ripping the skin from your cheek as you fall, crushed under him once again – worse this time : you knew better.

“Why’d you do it, angel?” He says softly, entirely contrasting from the way his arm is curled around your head, large biceps restricting your breath. 

“I-I was scared.” You cry, trying to stop the hiccuping of your lungs to keep the breath you have. 

“I know baby, I know.” He soothes, deep voice right next to your ear, his mostly salt and slightly pepper beard tickling the skin. “You made me so scared, sweet girl. Thought you cared ‘bout me.” he whispers. You do not know if the tightening of his arms was intentional, or if he is so upset at the idea you could hate him that he is consumed with it. 

“I’m s-sorry,” You gasp, clawing at his arm, “I do care, ‘s why I–”

He raises his hand quickly, yet it hangs in the air for a moment. Hesitation, guilt – trembling like he’s stuck. You see something raw flicker in his eyes before it’s gone and he’s striking the ground next to your face, barely missing you – a last second decision. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me.” Desperate, angry, scared.

You need to placate him before he does something stupid.

“I turned back– I was going to go back home I promise, please.” you cry, looking into his eyes. You loathe the fact that your words aren’t lies, that the care he sees reflected in them is real. You want him, you need him.

He watches you silently, frowning. Waiting to see what you have to say to him. 

“I snooped, I’m sorry. I was angry about this morning and I saw– I saw Jason’s tooth and–” 

The sound that leaves him is punched from deep within his chest.  

He is silent for a long time. Pulling away from you. 

You do not breathe, scared – the back of your neck is bared to him. Your life depends on his reaction. 

“You saw my girl.” 

You tremble in his slackening grasp. He seems to be staggering for a moment, unprepared and assaulted by the memories you have brought back. His hands grip tighter and tighter. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know.” you whisper, tears streaming out of your eyes as you look up at the setting sun, these must be your last moments. Your body trembles and your hiccuping noises are ugly. You wish you could take this all back to before. 

“You ain’t supposed t’see what’s down there.” he’s lifting his hands off of you, and you think the scariest thing about this moment is how human he finally seems. Like you are the one seeing him after all this time. You stay down, turning to look into his eyes – all you can see is grief.  “You know what it’s like to be lonely, that’s why you were brought to me, baby.” His hands wrap around your neck again, and you shriek a small protest, scrambling. Your nails crack and bleed as they attempt to rip yourself away from him by holding onto the ground and pulling.

You feel drops against the back of your neck, and fear lurches in your stomach at the fact that he’s crying. “She would have hated me, she was so good.” His hands are constricting, crushing. You choke and gasp for breath. “But I ain’t got her anymore. I got you. And God help me, I need you, sweet girl.” 

“I’m sorry.” you whisper again, looking into his sad eyes with your teary ones. 

“I know.” He says softly, and you whimper as his hand comes to your face. He rubs the skin for a few moments, letting himself breathe and feel you. It feels like an eternity, lying under him, trapped.

“I’m goin’ to give you a choice, sweet girl. I ain’t given you one before.” His voice builds up as he says it, like the memory of his daughter drives him to formulate a plan – a way to somehow fix everything he’d done. Your heart stops as he slides off of you, picking you up with him and holding you, the tips of your boots brushing the ground. He stares at you seriously, and he looks so different from the monster, like he’s trying his best to do the right thing after all this time, pretending it’ll take everything back. 

“I’m goin’ to let you run, sweet girl. You can choose to go to the sheriff– or, or steal my truck, do what you want.” He swallows thickly, eyes wild. “I’ll let you go, I should let you go.” He whispers almost to himself. “But if you choose t’go back home…I won’t let you leave me again, baby.” He smooths his hand over your hair after setting you down. “You’ll be mine, honey. And I’ll be yours, we can be fair and make this right. I’ll take you, and I’ll tell you everythin’.” 

You thought your heart was going to rip out of your chest. Everything is primal, it’s all desperate and ugly and raw. He lets go of you, taking a few difficult, staggered, paces back. His fists are clenched tightly at his sides. 

“Go,” he nods slowly, like he’s trying to assure himself this is the right thing to do. “If you run now, I won’t stop you, I swear.” his voice breaks like he’s not sure of it himself — scared of what he’s capable of yet consumed with need. His eyes are soft and round, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen. You are scared, but more importantly you are tired.

For the first time someone has loved every rotten bit of you – so desperately they leave morality behind. How could you run away from this? 

You hesitate, stagnant and unsure. Your heart and your brain have gotten so tired from fighting it feels they have turned off all together, what happens now is primal – instinctual, you feel out of your own body, vaguely aware of the blood pulsing through you. 

You turn around and run swiftly down the road, scrambling over a few loose stones. You glance back at him once, surrounded by the trees, watching you like a dead man watches water. Your heart lurches. He looks heart broken, shattered and as alone as you’ve always felt, like this is the last time he’ll ever see you. 

Silly old man, you think. 

You were always going to run back to his cabin. 

You’ve got no need to disappear into nothing for the sake of rightness when everything you’ve ever wanted lives in the warm, wooden walls of his — your — home. 

He underestimated just how hungry, how broken and corrupt you are. 

You know now that you love him, and you know that you have always been just as much of a monster as he is. Rotten and broken and impure, tainted and shattered. 

You have always been his match. 

Your boots carry you home like you weigh nothing, light as air as ribbons of your past fears and wishes string and rip behind you. A flurry of ideas and thoughts until there is nothing except for yourself standing in that same flowery spot with plucked grass and no-more- monsters. 

  You bask in the silence of the forest. You have since lost track of the hurt, the burn of fear rising in your throat. You think of gold teeth and little girls and bright, wrinkled eyes surrounded by rich, dark skin – before your thoughts fall silent too.

You are under water. By the time you see his cabin : dim with no lights on as it always was until he found you – your mind is somewhere else, hollow and empty and replaced with something molten in your stomach. An ache, gnawing away at your belly. 

You don’t knock, you let the stairs creak as you silently open the door. 

  He had not followed you, true to his word. The house is just as you’d left it. 

You feel settled, clam and composed as you slowly begin to strip. Boots at the door, jacket in the living room. A trail made from your scarf leading to shorts and small socks. At the side of Joel’s bed, a lacy undershirt and bra. 

  You have already started to drift off by the time the cabin door opens. Two shuffles of feet before they stop short. 

He takes time to make a fire, the sound of crackling wood creating a comforting blanket to your sleepy state, in and out of the haze, yet aware. 

You are silent and waiting, your breath fanning softly as your eyes struggle to stay open. Somewhere deep, your heart throbs – the last fizzling jump of fear before it dies and fades away for good. You hear the opening of a small, plastic bag somewhere in the kitchen, little taps of what sounds like a pill falling against the counter top– a gulp of water a few seconds later. 

The mattress dips as he climbs into bed behind you. 

His callouses catch on your skin roughly as he traces the side of your face, bare chest pressing against your lower back while he buries his face between your shoulder blades. 

You let your eyes flutter shut as he places open-mouthed kisses up your spine, wet and shaky. His hands grip your hips like you’ll turn to smoke if he doesn’t hold on. His beard tickles your shoulder as he continues, cradling you against him as if he is trying to stitch himself back together again, to become real and whole.

You let him. 

He is shaking when you turn to face him. Neither of you speak, words unnecessary in the softness and stillness of the night : no need for words when there are only two people in the world who are so entwined already. 

His palm cups your face, turning you to look at him, thumb stroking over the corner of your mouth like a prayer. You whisper his name to him for the first time, a shaky breath escapes him as he whispers yours back. A small ruffle of the familiar duvet as you turn to face him, his warm palm cups over your tit – your pounding heart – as you turn to face him. Eyes shining as they meet yours. He looks so human.

He presses his nose against your own before his chapped lips finally meet yours in hesitation, like he’s trying to confirm that you’re really here next to him, that he hasn’t lost the only thing he has. 

It’s soft for only a moment before you both let the hunger take over – hot and wet, lips moving faster and faster as his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. They part without hesitation, taking the warm wetness of it inside your mouth and sucking gently, rolling over the other’s until your tastes are the same. 

  You gasp as his hands – rough and trembling – slide down your body, tracing every feature he studied from afar that is now finally his to touch. His mouth nudges along your jaw, nipping at the skin before he’s burying his face in your neck and inhaling. 

When you whisper his name softly, he shudders like you’re the first person to ever truly call for him. 

Your hand glides down to his stomach, running through the silvery hair that coats it desperately, trying to ground yourself to him. To pull him impossibly closer like you want to merge your bodies into one, consuming. 

His hands are everywhere as he groans into your mouth, surrounding you completely. One grips your hair, pulling back gently to bare your throat to him as the other runs down your breasts, pulling and squeezing your nipples into tight points, breath panting from the intensity. He paints your neck with bites, blooms where he’s sucked and tugged on your skin until his mark has been made – groaning as he licks over the skin, like he’s trying to infuse you into his bones. Your skin tastes like his surrender, like the salt of his prayers. It’s not forgiveness he asks for – but belonging, trying to carve a place for himself in the crook of your neck. 

Your fingers slip under the band of his boxers, searching for that rigid warmth that’ll complete you, retreating slightly on a shaky gasp as his hot, wet mouth envelopes your nipple, pulling and licking. 

He’s on top of you within seconds, hands splaying across your shoulder blades as he shows equal treatment to each breast, arching you against him. His heavy sighs travel across your skin as he exhales. Groin slotted against the warmth of yours, he lets your hands tangle in his hair as he moves Southwards, kissing as he goes.

You whine a protest, whimpering for him to join the two of you together, and he answers your previous curiosities in a deep rumble, “Gotta give it time to work, sweet girl. I ain’t young no more.” 

You let your head fall back against the pillows, a spark of electricity running through you at the reminder of his age, wetness seeping out into the gusset of your panties as you try to close your legs – an attempt at alleviating some of the heat that’s been building there. 

He grunts at this, large hands gripping your soft thighs as he plants them wide and flat against the mattress, “Easy, darlin’ – gon’ take care of you now.” He rumbles against your lower stomach, right over your womb as he reaches up to pinch your tit, prompting you to look down at him between your thighs. Those eyes you once used to fear with such intensity now only make more slickness spill into the cotton that conceals you. 

“Want you t’look at me while I taste this pretty little cunt for the first time.” He whispers on a kiss against your mound, dragging your panties down by latching his teeth onto the little bow adorning the front and pulling. You moan softly at the sight, hands fisting the sheets next to your head as his broad, muscular shoulders keep your legs spread wide, baring your warm pussy for his taking. 

  His eyes meet yours as his breath falters at the first glide of his tongue through your cunt, breaking off into a deep groan as he tastes you. A small cry of his name leaves your lips at the new sensation, hands immediately going to tangle in his soft hair. His tongue is ravenous, licking up every ounce of arousal as his eyes stay on yours, only dropping down when your head falls back once more. 

He sucks your clit into his mouth, beard tickling and stimulating you – sending head through your bones. His lips tug on your bundle of nerves, pulling so deliciously your hips cant up onto his face, letting your wetness coat his beard until it’s soaked.

He lets go of your throbbing bud with a pop, licking his lips as he lets his mouth glide lower. 

“Taste so fuckin’ perfect, my angel.” He groans as his tongue digs over your hole, an obscene sound of him slurping up all you’ve given him echoes through the humid room, and your moan of approval follows soon after. His nose digs into your clit as he pushes his tongue inside you, letting it glide into your gummy walls as you clench around him. His moans of approval course through you, heat rising blindly through your bones as you cry out for him, hips bucking as he presses against your lower stomach with a large palm. The rough material of his watch-strap scratching your tummy as his brows furrow, focused on eating you alive. The smacking sounds of his lips against your wetness make your eyes roll as he digs his tongue inside. His hand moves lower, skirting against your entrance before he’s pulling his tongue out with a slick pop, replacing it with his fingers as he sucks on your clit once more. 

“Joel I-I’m gonna…” You trail off into a high pitched gasp, body trying to twist away from him as his thick fingers curl, pads of them bruising a spot inside of you that makes wetness gush out onto his wrist. 

  “Cum f’me, sweet girl, look at me.” He grunts, waiting until your eyes meet his to suck on your clit harshly, tongue running against the underside as he spreads and lifts his fingers to press against your gummy walls.

Your first orgasm crashes into you when you realize he’s humping the bed, his hot tongue desperately lapping up the slick that gushes from your spasming hole. He moans at the taste, making sure to drink it all down before he’s pushing up the bed – capturing your mouth in a wanting kiss as his thick hardness leaks against your leg.

His pill must’ve worked.

“Joel.” You whisper against his lips, nails dragging down the muscles in his back as you try to paw his underwear off with your foot, cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to grip and coat his cock in your slickness.

He offers his body to you in a way that feels holy, the glide of him through your messy folds makes a sound so perfect leave his mouth you feel as though you’ve gone to heaven. 

“I’ve got you.” He whispers against your lips, the hand that is not cupping your face is notching his fat, drooling tip at your entrance. “I’ve got you, baby.” 

The first time he pushes into you, it’s gentle. A broken sound rips from him like he can’t bear it, face strained as he takes his bottom lip between his teeth, watching his cock sink into you at a sinfully slow speed. Only when your nails sink into the skin of his back does he look into your eyes, seeing his own want, need, obsession painted in your irises.

He rocks into you like he’s trying to carve a home for himself inside your body, bringing your hand up to cup at his face while you lose yourself to the delicious stretch of him – cunt gripping him so tightly he can barely leave. You were always meant to be wrecked by hand like his – hands that tremble, hands that destroy, hands that worship. 

His moans fan across your lips, shaky as they exit. He’s slow, letting you feel every inch of him, every vein, as he glides into your soaking cunt. His eyes have rolled, but you lean up to bite your own mark into his neck, pussy clenching as he moans raw and deep at the bright red mark you suck into his skin. 

He watches you now, staring into your eyes. You want him to see the hungry, ugly, ruined thing he’s made. You want him to love it. 

And when he leans down to kiss you like this night has changed him forever, you know he loves you. He is searching for his salvation in your body. 

You anchor yourself to him like the earth is shaking, moaning a soft gasp as his forehead pressed against yours. Reveling in the feeling of his sac slapping against your backside, the sounds of lewd smacks and wetness – his own moans and whispered words of praise floating around you as the sheer size of him swallows you whole. He fucks you like he’s praying at an alter and you devour him whole. In the darkness, there is no difference between love and need, no line between hunger and worship.

Every thrust feels like a prayer, a confession, like he’s spilling the truth of himself into you on every plunge, letting you see every crack of his soul, the ugliness through the pounding of his hips against yours. Rocking together, bound by the loneliness and hunger and something older than love.

You cry under him, silent and open as he digs into you, so big and taking that your body can hardly bear it. He kisses every tear like an apology, licking up the salt as he coos above you, kissing the tip of your nose as he lets the heavy weight of his cock sit and twitch inside you for a moment, pubic hair sticky from your arousal as it grinds against your clit. He buries his face against your neck as he begins thrusting shakily again, and you know he’s crying too.

“I love you.” He whispers against your skin, broken and raw as he shakily moves his hips, eyes flitting to you, hopeful and soul-crushingly vulnerable.

Your breath is shaking, heat coursing through you at the glide of his cock against that place, tailor made for him. Your eyes falter, fluttering as the last of your tears stream down your cheeks, clenching around him so tightly. Every shared breath tastes like forgiveness neither of you have earned.

“I love you too.” You whisper, shattered. Body light as a feather as you let yourself fall. 

His breath hitches as he comes inside of you, unprepared for it – hot pulses of his seed spurting quickly, flooding you as he sobs out moans against your skin, gripping your hips so tightly you think you’ll break. You follow immediately, arching into him as his arms wrap around you, pulling you impossibly closer to him as you ride out the waves of your pleasure together, knowing it is so much more than this. You are no longer a scared bunny, alone in the world, and he is no longer a jackal hunting you down — you are only two humans, connected in a way that ascends your lives : cosmic. 

It’s not just sex, it’s not just lust – it’s your whole life that has led up to this, to him. Two people who are too broken to live, yet too stubborn to die.

He’s made you his. 

You’ve made him yours.

And lying in his arms, letting his hand rub up and down your back, you know neither of you stood a chance.

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