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ollieofthebeholder · 25 days

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfiction

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Chapter 107: January 1993

It’s cold and gloomy and it’s been raining off and on most of the day—most of the week really—so for a bit, Martin wasn’t sure this would actually happen. But Papa’s home and he promised they would do this when he got home, and Papa never, ever, ever breaks his promises, so they got up very early and went to the train station and bought their tickets and got on the train, and Papa even let Martin give their tickets to the conductor, and now here they are.

Martin has never been so far away from home before. Granddad takes him on trips sometimes—last year they went all the way to Norfolk to see the Queen, and Martin honestly doesn’t think he’ll ever see anything better than that—but this is a long, long way away. He didn’t actually press his hands and face against the glass of the train window because that sort of thing makes Mummy upset, and when she gets upset she gets one of her “bad spells”, and when she has a bad spell Martin has to be very, very quiet and take care of her, but he gripped the edge of the window sill excitedly and stared out the window at the ever-shifting scenery for the whole way down here. Papa sat beside him and pointed out all kinds of things to him, and Mummy napped, so maybe it would have been okay if he put his face against the window, but he didn’t. It’s the first time he’s ever seen London, too, even if they didn’t get out of the train there, and Papa says they’ll take a trip there the next time he’s home for Martin’s birthday, so that will be fun. He even answered all of Martin’s questions about why they didn’t have a steam train, and what the difference between steam and diesel is, and what parts of the books he likes so much are based in truth and what parts were just made up to tell a good story.

Papa never minds when Martin asks questions. And he never tells Martin to stop asking questions just because he doesn’t know the answers. He always says something like I don’t know, son, but we’ll find out together, eh? Granddad is like that, too, sort of, but sometimes when Martin asks questions Granddad says things like that’s a question for when you’re older, you young rip, and Martin doesn’t understand why, because if he’s old enough to know to ask a question, isn’t he old enough to know the answer? At least part of it? Still, inside his own mind at least, he can admit that they’re both better than Mummy, who either tells him to be quiet or pretends she doesn’t hear him. He’s learned not to ask more than once.

Mummy and Papa are fighting right now, going back and forth about the room—Mummy wants to know why they didn’t get a suite, why it isn’t on the bottom floor, why it’s facing the direction it’s facing, and why there’s only one bed, and Papa is snapping about space and money and convenience and something called a rollaway cot—but Martin is doing his level best not to listen too hard or ask what they’re talking about. Mummy gets mad when he interferes in adult conversations. Martin’s not entirely sure what interfere means, but he thinks it’s when he tries to say he’s sorry or fix the problem when Mummy and Papa are fighting, or when Mummy and Granddad are fighting, or when Mummy and Mrs. Jones are being very polite to one another. So Martin sits on the big, wide windowsill, looking out at the grey sky and the grey street and the grey grass that ends very suddenly just on the other side of the street.

He realizes he’s humming under his breath and tries to stop himself, pressing his hand over his mouth to make him swallow the sound like Mummy always does. Humming or singing to himself while he’s walking around the house or doing his chores is another thing Mummy is always telling him to stop doing, along with biting his lip, sucking his thumb, pulling his hair, and picking the skin around his nails. She’s a little nicer about it when Papa is home, but still, he doesn’t want to make her more upset than she already is. He doesn’t want her to have one of her bad spells while they’re on their vacation.

He’s being very, very good and very, very patient, because he’s supposed to be, but inside he is practically bursting with excitement and anticipation. It’s not like he’s never seen the water before, but this is a different water and a different kind of beach, and he wants to see what might be there after all the rain. Okay, it is kind of raining right now, so maybe not just this second, but still, he wants to go out and look.

It doesn’t sound like he’s going to get to any time soon, though. Mummy’s voice is getting sharp and Papa’s voice is doing that thing it does when he’s trying not to start shouting, and they’re not just talking about the room anymore. Usually that means Papa goes out and won’t take Martin and won’t be back until late, and Mummy goes up to her room and doesn’t come out. But it’s all one room, so she can’t do that, so Martin wonders what’s going to happen if things get louder.

“I’m going to go find out about renting a car for the week,” Papa says finally, his voice tight with anger but still not at the shouty point. “Shouldn’t be too long. Get some rest.” He stomps out the door. Martin braces himself for the door to slam—that’s another thing Mummy hates—but lucky for both of them, Papa shuts it quietly.

Mummy makes a hmmphing noise that usually means she’s about to tell Martin to go make her a cup of tea, and he presses his lips together and tries not to panic. There’s no stove in here, and no kettle, and he doesn’t know if Mummy and Papa packed the tea—Martin always thinks of it as the Bad Tea, not because it tastes bad but because Mummy only tells him to make it when he’s been bad, but it’s actually called oolong—and if he asks her about it, she’s going to be even madder, and aren’t they supposed to have fun?

How old are you? a voice whispers in the back of his mind, a voice he doesn’t recognize but that sounds an awful lot like a grown-up, and Martin clenches his fists and mentally berates himself. He’s four years old—four and a half—he’s not a baby anymore, and he’s too big to whine about being asked to help out, especially when Mummy has one of her spells.

No, that’s not what I—Jesus, the voice hisses, and Martin beats himself up a little more because he isn’t supposed to say things like that, so he probably shouldn’t think them either. The voice whispers it’s okay, you’re okay, then falls silent, so he reckons he’s calmed himself down like he’s supposed to.

He gives a longing look towards the beach again. The rain looks like it’s letting up a little bit, and this would be the perfect time to head out and walk along the shore, but he knows better than to ask Mummy. If she’s having one of her bad spells, she can’t walk except on hard ground, and not very far even then, and she doesn’t like the beach much anyway. He’s going to have to wait for Papa to come back, but it’s going to be hard.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, making Martin jump. Surprisingly, Mummy doesn’t ignore it or order Martin to get it. Instead, she stands up, crosses over to the door, and opens it herself. Martin can’t see who’s there, but Mummy says in her the sign on the door says “No Soliciting” voice, “May I help you?”

“I hope you don’t think me forward,” the person—a lady from the sound of it, with a low, cultured voice—says politely. “We saw you and your family checking in a while ago, and I heard the clerk tell your husband which room you were in, so we came up. I wonder if you’d let your son come down to the beach with us? We’ve been here three days, you see, and there are no other children staying here—my daughter would so like someone to play with.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Mummy says. Martin expects the next thing she says to be but no, thank you, I need him here, but instead she turns around without letting go of the door. “Martin.”

“Y-yes, ma’am?” Martin jumps to his feet quickly.

Mummy steps to one side. In the corridor just outside the door is a very pretty lady wearing a spotless frilled apron over a long dark skirt and a tight-fitted blouse, her hair piled up on her head kind of like Mummy does, but unlike Mummy’s fine ash blonde hair, hers is a dull, mousy brown. She looks like the illustration in the book he tried to read at the library last month, except some of the words were a little too hard for him to puzzle out and when he asked Mummy about them she said it was a book for girls and not for boys. Holding her hand is a girl who looks like she might be a little older than Martin himself is, with curly black hair and blue, blue eyes, wearing a dark wool coat that comes down to just above her smart black boots. She isn’t smiling, but she’s watching Martin with interest.

“Now, behave yourself,” Mummy scolds. “I don’t want to hear that you’ve been giving any trouble to this nice lady or her daughter who have been so kind as to let you come out with them.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Martin says, because it’s what he’s supposed to say, but he’s a little worried. Mummy hasn’t even asked the lady’s name, or her daughter’s, and he’s not usually supposed to go off with strangers. If Papa comes back soon and asks, Mummy won’t be able to tell him who Martin is with…but, he reasons, the beach is right there after all. It won’t be hard to know where to go and get him really.

So Martin puts his jacket back on—it’s a little too big for him, actually a lot too big for him, but Mummy says he’s growing too fast and she can’t be buying him a new coat every single winter—and obediently follows the lady and the girl out of the hotel.

There’s a brief lull in the rain, but Martin still wishes he had a hat of some kind as he scurries after the lady and her daughter. They’re not running or hurrying, but they move quickly, and the lady almost seems to be gliding across the ground; he nearly trips twice before they make it across the street, but he doesn’t, and then they’re there.

He wondered, from the hotel, why he couldn’t see the water, but now he realizes it’s because this is kind of a cliff and the actual beach is down below, far too big of a drop to just jump, but Martin can’t see how he’s going to get down. He almost doesn’t care, though. He can hear the waves soughing and crashing against the beach, which looks like it might be more pebbles than actual sand, and the smell is both familiar and unusual; the big smell, the salt and the wind, is the same, but the smaller, underneath smells are different and give it a whole new flavor, and it’s very exciting. There’s nobody else out there, either, which isn’t surprising for it being cold and wet and January, and it means they’ll have the beach to themselves for a bit, he guesses. It’s probably too cold to go swimming, but maybe he can take his shoes and socks off and go wading? He might have to wait for Papa, though.

There’s a soft pop noise, and when Martin looks, he sees that the lady has unfolded a dark canvas beach chair and set it right on the edge of the cliff. She settles herself in it primly and nods at her daughter. “Go ahead. I’ll watch you from here.”

The girl nods back, then beckons to Martin. He thinks, for just a moment, they really are going to just jump off the edge of the cliff, but then the girl slips between two clumps of grass and he realizes there’s a zig-zag path that leads all the way down to the beach. Happy again, he follows her as quick as he can without falling and rolling all the way to the bottom.

It’s colder on the beach than up top, and a little windier, and the persistent drizzle is pretending to start up again, but Martin ignores it. Instead, he beams up at the older girl, who’s not really that much taller than him. “I’m Martin,” he says cheerfully. “What’s your name?”

The girl looks surprised that he asked. She stares at him for a minute without blinking, then finally says, “Ann.”

“With an E?” Martin asks, because that’s what the girl said in the book Mummy wouldn’t let him read.

Ann shakes her head, but doesn’t say anything else. Still, Martin decides that until she says her last name, he’s going to call her mother Miss Cuthbert. They stand on the beach just looking at each other for a few minutes. Martin can feel the rain, but he can’t see it, not yet, so it’s not so bad that they need to worry about going back up already.

Finally, he asks, “What kind of games do you like to play?”

He expects Ann to say she wants to build a sandcastle, or hunt for rocks, or maybe race each other down the beach. Instead, she surprises him by saying, “Hide and seek.”

“Hide and seek?” Martin repeats, puzzled.

“Yes. I’m It,” Ann adds. “I’ll count to fifty, and you go find somewhere to hide, and then I go looking. And then I can hide and you can try to find me.”

“O-oh, okay.” Martin looks around uncertainly. There aren’t…exactly a lot of places to hide on an open beach, unless he ducks under the water, but it might be a bit cold for that. And won’t his footprints show up and make it easy?

He waits for Ann to give him some more rules, like that he has to stay within so many feet or that he’s not allowed to climb the cliffs again, but instead she just covers her eyes and begins counting slowly and deliberately. Martin blinks at her hard, then turns and dashes away as fast as he can.

It turns out there are a few places to hide—clumps of scrub grass clustered around the base of the cliff, a few trash cans, even the remains of an old pier. Martin studies all of them and rejects them impatiently. Mostly he’s too big to fit behind them. He doesn’t know how much time he has left, either, because he can’t hear Ann’s counting.

Then he spies it—the perfect place. A random chunk of rock, easily as big as he is—maybe bigger—all by itself in the middle of the sand. He can stand behind it, or maybe sit with his back pressed to it, and be perfectly hidden, and maybe it won’t be the first place Ann thinks to look because it’s so far away from anything else. He rushes over as fast as he can and is surprised, but pleased, to discover a kind of hollow on the back side of the rock that looks like he’ll fit under it—just. Which is good, because it means he can keep the rain off while he waits for Ann to find him.

Martin drops to his knees and crawls under the rock. The cold of the sand seems to seep into his knees, and he really hopes he isn’t getting his trousers wet and dirty, Mummy will be furious. He curls himself into a ball, hugs his legs to his chest, and waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

He strains his ears to listen. Surely he should be able to hear footsteps crunching on the sand, even over the gentle soughing of the waves. But he can barely hear the ocean from here, and he definitely can’t hear the sounds of anyone poking around the beach looking for him. It’s possible Ann is just walking carefully so as not to startle him, or that she’s too far away to hear yet, but…but how long has he been hiding now? Isn’t there a rule about calling for someone if you can’t find them? Martin doesn’t play hide and seek very often. Actually, he doesn’t play a lot of games very often, not with other children. He doesn’t go to school yet, and there aren’t a lot of other children in his neighborhood, so he only really sees them when he goes to the local parks. And Mummy isn’t usually up for taking him. He spends a lot of time with Granddad, really, and that’s…fine, it’s fine, but it means he spends more time playing backgammon and checkers and learning to read in three languages than he does running around. He can climb trees like a monkey, so Granddad says—and Papa too, he says Martin would make a fine deckhand—and he runs and swims well enough, but most of the time if he’s not doing grown-up things, he’s playing by himself.

There’s something you’re supposed to say when you can’t find people, Martin remembers, but he can’t remember what it is, just that it’s the phrase that means the game is over, come out, but it’s also the phrase that means I give up, which is probably why Ann hasn’t yelled it yet. She must be very determined. Martin can’t blame her. He’s usually so easy to find, anyway, on the rare occasions he plays, he’s usually the first one found, so it can’t be hard for Ann, especially when it’s just him. He just has to be patient for a little while longer.

He hopes she finds him soon, though. It’s getting cold. It looks like the rain is getting heavier, too. It doesn’t sound like it’s raining very hard, but the damp is getting into his hiding space and when he looks at the entrance, he can’t see very far. The salt smell is stronger, and it almost sounds like the waves are getting…quieter? Maybe the tide is going out. That means the ocean is getting farther away…right?

He waits some more, and listens hard again, but there’s no footsteps and no voices and almost no wave. And now he’s getting worried about the rock. When water gets into sand, it shifts its position, he knows that from a nature documentary, and if the rain makes the sand too wet and the rock shifts its weight, it might fall over on top of him, and even if he doesn’t get killed by the rock hitting his head or breaking his neck or something like that, he’ll be trapped and won’t be able to get out and maybe he’ll not be able to breathe and…he’s starting to panic a little bit.

Suddenly, he decides he doesn’t care if he loses the game. It’s not fun anymore, and he’s scared. He’ll come out and find—and find—he’ll come out and announce he’s giving up and ask if they can go back up to the top of the cliff and, and he doesn’t want to play anymore. He uncurls himself and half crawls, half falls out onto the sand, scrambles out, and pulls himself to his feet using the rock. The rock doesn’t budge. That’s good. Maybe.

It’s hard to see, though. The rain—is it rain? It’s not a hard rain if it is—makes everything hard to make out. He’s vaguely aware that the sea is off to one side and the cliffs are off to another, but all he can see are shadows. He can’t really see anything clearly but the rock right in front of him.

He can’t see any shapes that look like people.

“Hello?” he calls. His voice sounds small and quiet. He clears his throat and calls again, trying to sound louder, but it doesn’t really come out any louder.

Maybe it’s his ears? He can’t hear the waves anymore really either. When he takes an experimental step, there’s no crunch of sand or stone beneath his feet. And it’s getting even colder. He shivers and tugs at his jacket. It doesn’t do a lot of good. He can still feel the rain—no, not rain, he thinks. It’s fog, and it’s seeping into his bones. It feels like it’s seeping into his brain, too. It’s not just hard to see, it’s hard to think. He shakes his head to clear it.

Where’s—where’s—wasn’t there someone he was playing with? He bites his lip and tries to think. He wasn’t playing by himself, was he? Well, he usually does, so maybe…but no, he’s, there was…a girl? She’s, she’s looking for him, she must be…she said she would look for him. He presses his hands to the sides of his head and tries hard, so very hard, to just…think.

I go looking. And then I can hide and you can try to find me. He remembers now. She never said she would find him, but she said he had to find her and…and he doesn’t know where to start looking. Everything looks the same, and…he can’t even see the rock anymore, he—was there a rock there? Which way is the ocean? He stands in one spot, terrified to move, afraid that if he runs the wrong way he’ll fall in the water and drown, and why is there so much fog?

“Hello?” he cries out. “I—I’m lost! Help!” He starts to call out to the girl, but—what was her name? She told him her name, what’s her name, why can’t he remember her name—

“I don’t want to play anymore!” he cries, but the words get lost in the fog. “Hello? H-hello? I—” Tears spring to his eyes, and he dashes at them angrily. “I w-want—”

He wants—what does he want? Who does he want? There’s, there’s someone, someone waiting for him, someone who—or, or is he just making that up? Is it just a pretend friend, someone to make him feel better when he’s all alone? Isn’t he always alone really?

Is there even anybody else on the beach?

Is there anybody else in the whole world?

Is there anything out there at all other than him, and the fog, the fog that won’t go away, the fog that—

Olly-olly-oxen-free. The words slam into his head and he remembers, he remembers that’s what you say to make the people who are hiding come out, but—but he’s the one hiding, isn’t he? No. No, he’s doing the looking, which means he can say the words and then, and then he’ll lose, but the game will be over and he can go.

“Ol—olly-olly-oxen-free?” He cups his hands around his mouth and tries to shout, but the words don’t go very far from him. Maybe because he’s the only person to hear them.

No! No, that’s not—that isn’t right, it can’t be right, there was—there’s somebody, he knows somebody is there, Mummy sent him to the beach with—Mummy. He has a mummy, she sent him to the beach with a lady because—because Papa went to get a car.

Papa.

He has a mummy, he has a papa, he has—he has a name, what’s his name? They call him something, don’t they? He tries to remember, tries to hear their voices, but…b-but he can’t think, it’s too foggy, it’s too cold, it’s too lonely, and he wants, he wants, he wants, he wants to go home.

“Hello? Hello!” he cries again, and he’s really crying now, because he’s scared and he’s lonely and he doesn’t know where he is or anyone else is and he just wants to be found. He starts running, no longer caring if there’s, if there’s something he might, something bad that might happen, because anything is better than here and nothing and—

There’s a sound, a new sound he can’t quite make out, and he stops and spins all around him, breathing hard and fast and trying so hard to listen, but it’s so hard to hear and…and it sounds so familiar, it’s, it’s deep and resonant and it’s safe, it’s a sound that doesn’t belong in the fog and…

“…see o’er the foaming billows fair haven’s land…”

He knows that song, he knows it, and—he turns around, and there’s a shape in the fog, it’s moving, it’s making the sound, it’s, it’s—he starts humming along. He’s, he’s, something tells him he’s not supposed to hum, not supposed to sing, but the song makes him feel better and he remembers it, so he hums it very loudly as he runs towards the shape, and then he starts singing, his voice trembling and cracking as he tries to match the volume, but he’s not sure if the sound is making it through the fog or not.

“…leave that poor old stranded wreck and pull for the shore…”

The shape is fading in and out, and he can’t find it, he can’t see it anymore, and he’s scared, he’s so scared, he tries to find the voice, but it’s not singing now, and he stretches out his arms and cries out desperately and—

—and something is grabbing him, something is holding him, and it’s a shock because he was alone just a second ago and now he’s not and something is holding him and he can’t, he can’t, he needs to get away, he has to fight back, he—

“Martin! Martin, it’s me. It’s me.” The voice is familiar, so familiar, and it’s right in front of him, and there’s a shape, and—and now there are two hands on his shoulders, holding him still. “Look at me, Martin. Tell me what you see.”

“I see…” Martin. His name is Martin. That’s who he is, he’s Martin, he…he looks up and the fog clears, and he sees a face, round and white and with a scratchy stubble and curly copper-colored hair and worried apple green eyes, and he knows it, and he takes his first full, deep breath in what feels like forever. “I see you, Papa. I see you.”

Papa pulls Martin into a tight hug, and Martin clings to his shirt and cries, not sure how he has any tears left, and Mummy’s going to be upset with him because you’re too big to cry, Martin, you know better, but he has to, because…

“I’m sorry, Martin,” Papa says, his voice choked like maybe he’s crying too. “I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have let you go if I’d known.”

“I, I couldn’t find her,” Martin wails. “There was a girl and—and w-we were playing hide and seek and—and I c-couldn’t find her, I was looking and—and there wasn’t anybody at all…”

“I know. I know.” Papa rubs Martin’s back. “They were part of something called the Lonely. I’ll tell you more about it when you’re older, but for now, just know they were just making you think like that. It wasn’t real, son.”

“I-it felt real.” Martin looks up at Papa, but he’s got tears in his eyes and he can’t see well. “I, I was all alone.”

“Not anymore.” Papa kisses him on the forehead and stands up, hefting Martin up in his arms and settling him on his hip even though he’s really too big for that, and Martin clings to his neck and rests his head on his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go get ice cream.”

He carries Martin up the zig-zag path and doesn’t complain once about Martin being too heavy to carry, or too big to be carried, and he doesn’t put him down when they get to the street either, just walks with him towards the shops. He keeps talking as they walk, soft but steady, telling him about the things they’re going to do and places they’ll see and telling him, again and again, that he won’t ever have to be alone again.

Martin almost believes him.

When they get to the ice cream shop, Papa finally lets Martin down, but he doesn’t let go of Martin’s hand as they walk into the shop. It’s very, very tiny, but it smells good, and Papa takes him up to the counter and asks for two dishes of strawberry ice cream from the man behind the counter. Martin is glad there’s another person really there.

He looks around the shop without letting go of Papa’s hand and sees another boy, too, who looks about his age. He’s small and skinny and resting his chin on his arm, which is resting on the table, and he’s poking at a dish of ice cream listlessly. He looks about as upset as Martin feels, and there’s a little bit of Martin that’s glad he’s not the only one having a bad day.

“Jonathan, stop playing with your food,” the old woman, probably his grandmother, sitting across from him says in a weary kind of voice, and Jonathan—Martin guesses that’s the boy’s name—puts down his spoon and pushes the dish away from him. The old woman sighs, but doesn’t say anything else.

Martin almost wants to go say something to the boy, but he’s afraid to talk to anyone else right now in case they disappear too, so he cuts his eyes away and clings to Papa’s hand as they make their way over to a table in the corner and sit across from each other with their ice cream. Papa picks up his spoon and takes a bite, but Martin just stares at his, wondering if he’ll even be able to taste it. Everything just feels so…so far away.

“Martin,” Papa says quietly, and he reaches over and takes Martin’s hand. Martin looks up at Papa to see him looking at him with a very, very kind look on his face. “You won’t ever have to feel that alone again. I promise. I won’t ever let you be alone like that again.”

Martin bites his lips hard. “What about when you go out to sea with Uncle Kay again?”

“You still won’t be alone.” Papa takes off his cap, flicks it once to get the dust and hair off, and then leans across the table and puts it on Martin’s head. It slips down over his eyes for a moment, but Martin pushes it up and looks up at Papa, who smiles, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. “I’ll always be with you, one way or another, as long as I’m able to draw breath. I promise on my very soul. I love you and I won’t ever let the Lonely have you. Ever.”

Martin looks at Papa for a long moment, then smiles back. Something warm settles in his chest, and he knows Papa is right. He won’t ever have to go through something like that again, and he’ll never be alone again, because Papa promised he wouldn’t.

And Papa never, ever, ever breaks his promises.

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#martin blackwood #verbal/mental/emotional abuse of a child #arguments #anxiety #panic #isolation #abandonment #memory loss #extremely unfair use of canon lines #thank you guys for putting up with my brief hiatus #it's been An Week™#check the notes on AO3 for details but yeah #ETA: FUCK I forgot the readmore #sorry about that y'all #fixed now

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seagull-scribbles · 1 year

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That’s what they don’t see

#sing #sing rosita #idk what else to tag this #the kids in my class really like sing so I finally watched the two of them #I’d seen lots of clips so I kind of knew all the raved about bits #but I hadn’t seen much of Rosita so I enjoyed her the most when I got around to it #they’re not the best kids films on the market but they’re fun #and as long as somethings entertaining then I think they’re good regardless so I think sing was pretty good I’d watch em again #I mean I actually came out of my art hiatus for this quick thing sooooo yeah #the kids in my class love ash but they all thought she was a hedgehog they’d never heard of porcupines #so we researched and learnt about porcupines it was fun using kids films to like facilitate curiosity and learning experiences #unis been v stressful so idk when I’m going out of my hiatus properly #I have a week off over Christmas but I’ll have assignments to do and theirs the new sonic series and game so I’d]#I’d probably enjoy something like that where I don’t need to hold a pen I guess #sorry guys I’ll re download the app soon ish I miss talking to you all #tried to make this look traditional what do we think?

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bullsandthebones · 2 years

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also, I'm not doin good folks

I didn't think my concussion could get worse but here we are. On top of the fact that I can feel my eyeballs moving which grosses me out, the input in my brain that tells me I'm hungry has practically been shut off so I just haven't been eating.

I feel like I'm dying 24/7 and the only thing I can really do is lay down in the dark and absorb unhealthy amounts of ibuprofen into my body.

#tw medication #tw eyeballs #tw eating issues #everything is being put on a massive hiatus #im really sorry about that guys #i dont want to be one of those authors #i want to be able to put stuff out for you guys #I'll try and start back up as soon as possible

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hyliascommonwealth · 1 year

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((YOU'RE BACK?! I thought you were gone! For a while I couldn't see your blog!-Mun Fweebie))

//ah yea! I do live! Once or twice a year i go on a hiatus and private my blog mostly for mental health reasons. But i am back! This the season to have some fun! Am i right? I’m sorry to have caused any worry or disappointment! My disappearances are a bit long but not usually permanent :D -munkel

#ooc #i am truly sorry about the inconsistency of this blog though #i love you guys but unfortunately when i need to go on hiatus i just disappear

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wormdevourer · 14 hours

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hey everyone!! sorry for the brief hiatus, I’ve just been busy recently and haven’t had much time to post … but I should be back posting around friday :)

sorry for any inconvenience, see everyone soon :)

#sorry about that #hiatus #hi again #hi guys #back again #i’m back #sort of

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katiexpunk · 2 months

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Desert Dust | Pairing Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're a small-town waitress in a highway town in Arizona with a standard, safe life. You never really thought you needed more -- until you met Joel Miller. Warnings: Joel is a consent king in this one. No age gap mentioned (make it your own). Self-deprecation. Toxic coworkers. Attempted assault (not by Joel)/nothing too graphic (please be responsible about what you consume). Joel beats up a bad guy. References to blood and first aid. Alcohol. Pet names. Flirting/slow burn. Objectification of Joel by readers coworker. Inexperienced reader. Body hair. References to taste of vagina. Smoking/cigarettes (it's bad, don't do it). References to shitty past hookups. Oral (f receiving). Praise kink. Size kink. Rough sex. Sex on a desk. Just a really passionate, filthy fuck. Creampie (shocker, I know). No use of Y/N, no use of daddy. TLOU au. Reader has no physical descriptions apart from female anatomy. W/C: ~8K. Sorrrrrrry, not sorry? A/N: Hi, hello. It's been a hot minute since I've been here! I took a hiatus for the past few months because life was, well, life and I was busy getting married. Happy to be back. This one was inspired by a drive through the Arizona desert. Special thanks to @syd-djarin for being a slut with me on this one. Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Notifications | Read Joel's POV

Humans rely on cooperation, communication, and mutual aid for survival and well-being. Without that, it’s like being cast adrift in a hostile sea without the safety net of community and companionship.

You know this.

And so that’s why you stay, that’s why you’ve always stayed.

Even if most of your days feel lonely, at least you have the comfort of predictability.

++++

"I’m goin' on my break, Tracy," you call out, tossing the words casually over your shoulder as you grab your hoodie and a pack of American Spirit cigarettes from behind the counter. Sometimes you think the only reason you still have the damn vice is for the excuse to step out of the suffocating walls of the grease-drenched building they call a restaurant.

Tracy responds with a touch too much of feigned enthusiasm, pouring a steady stream of black liquid into the mug of the customer sitting in the booth before her.

With a nod of acknowledgment, you slip out the restaurant's back door, the hinges creaking softly in protest as you step into the crisp Arizona air. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty ground as you light up your cigarette, the flame dancing in the breeze.

As you inhale deeply, the familiar taste of tobacco fills your lungs, calming your nerves and grounding you in the present moment. Leaning against the weathered brick wall, your thoughts drift as wisps of smoke curl lazily into the sky.

In the distance, you can hear the faint sound of laughter and chatter drifting from inside, a comforting reminder of the community that surrounds you. Here, amidst the tumbleweeds and endless blue skies, is a place you’ve called home since you ran away from yours at sixteen. It’s not much, but it’s something. Something is always better than nothing, right? People know you by name when you go to the grocery store, and know your order at the only coffee shop in town – big-city girls don’t get that.

As you take one last drag from your cigarette, you try to summon feelings of gratitude for what you do have, but as the smoke dissipates into the desert air, a lingering sense of restlessness gnaws at the edges of your mind.

It's only when you stamp out the cigarette in the dirt below, watching the embers fade into darkness, that you dare to entertain the notion that perhaps you could have more.

++++

You step back into the restaurant, and your eyes adjust to the fluorescent lights above, a stark contrast from the natural light of the sun. Carefully tucking your hoodie away and readjusting your apron strings, you prepare to dive back into work.

As you glance around, you notice Tracy frantically pacing back and forth behind the bar, her demeanor tinged with a hint of frazzled energy. It's not the busiest you've ever been, but for her, every customer that walks through the door feels like a tidal wave of chaos – especially when it’s just you two on the floor.

With a sympathetic smile, you nod in understanding as she thrusts a stack of menus into your hands, followed by a piping hot coffee pot. "Be a doll and go take table three’s order, will ya?" she says, her voice tinged with urgency. Before you can even acknowledge her request, she’s off, stacking her forearms with plates, yelling that she’ll be right there honey to the patrons by the door.

You make your way over to the table, weaving through the maze of booths and tables with practiced ease. As you approach, you notice a lone figure sitting hunched over in a worn leather jacket, eyes fixed on the menu in front of him. He sits up to full height and adjusts himself in the booth, eyes still on the sticky plastic in front of him, giving you a full view of his side profile.

Fuck – he’s gorgeous. Handsome in a way that unmoors you.

Rugged, weathered charm exudes from him. He turns to look at you and oh. His salt-and-pepper curls frame a face weathered by sun and wind, a beard streaked with grey adding an air of distinguished maturity. His eyes are soft and brown, enveloped by small creases in the corners.

Your thighs come flesh with the edge of the table, and with the coffee pot in hand, you can't help but feel a flutter of anticipation in the pit of your stomach, settling there like a stack of pancakes eaten way too fast.

Clearing your throat, you offer him a tentative smile. Get a grip – he’s just another customer, you silently plead with yourself.

"Hi," you say, your voice a little softer than usual. "Can I get you something to drink?"

As his eyes meet yours, a brief but intense connection crackles between you. There's something in his gaze, a depth that you can't quite decipher, leaving his thoughts shrouded in mystery. His face remains stony, and unreadable, like the weathered cliffs that dot the desert landscape.

Your breath hitches in your throat as you follow his eyes drifting down your chest, lingering for a moment on the nametag pinned to the worn cotton of your uniform. Heat rises to your cheeks under his scrutiny. You wish you would have opted for your cleaner uniform this morning. You’ve never been one to care too much about your looks, mostly because nobody looks at you, not really. All catcalls from drunk men in bars and the occasional flirty customer. But you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the attention he’s giving.

His eyes finally settle on the coffee pot in your hand, a subtle shift in focus that breaks the spell of tension between you. "Just coffee, darlin'," he says, his voice honey-thick, low, and raspy like the rumble of distant thunder.

You nod silently, the words caught in your throat as you turn to pour him a steaming cup of coffee.

“You let me know if I can get you anything else,” you whisper, letting the corners of your lips turn up into a small, cordial, smile.

“Just coffee for me today, sweetheart, thank you.”

Walking away, you can’t help but notice the feeling of the weight of his gaze lingering on you long after you do.

He sits in silence, nursing his coffee with a quiet intensity that commands attention. His presence seems to cast a shadow over the room, drawing the gaze of both patrons and staff alike. You steal glances at him between customers and try not to read into the fact that his eyes are usually on you by the time you find him. He’s not staring – he couldn’t be – why would he be? You shove the thought down and focus on your tasks at hand, him calling you sweetheart playing like a broken record in your mind, over and over.

Tracy, usually bustling about with the frenetic energy of a hummingbird, is unusually attentive to him. She stops by his table more often than necessary, refilling his cup with a gentle touch and addressing him with a warmth you've rarely seen her reserve for anyone else. You swear you even saw her push her tits up behind the wall before going out to him – but you can’t blame her, you’d probably do the same if you had as much to work with as she does.

As you work behind the bar counter, wiping down tables and clearing plates, Tracy tries to engage you in conversation about the mysterious stranger. "Been a long time since we've had a man like that in here," she says, a hint of gossip in her voice, wrapped pretty in a bow of objectification. She reminds you of a praying mantis, attempting to draw in her prey before she eats him.

"Yeah," you murmur, not quite wanting to talk about him, especially not with her.

Excusing yourself, you slip into the bathroom, the wooden door offering a momentary respite. Leaning against the slightly sticky surface, you close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of composure. But despite your efforts, you can't shake the feeling that something has shifted. Looking at the reflection in the mirror, you can’t help but feel the twisty weird tug that pools in your lower belly, and the uptick in your heart rate. You attempt to fix your hair and pinch your cheeks to add some volume to your face. You slip on a touch of chapstick and assess yourself. This is so fucking stupid. He’s a customer. Just a customer. You’re just bored, horny, and alone.

But maybe he is, too?

No. Stop.

After a moment, you emerge from the bathroom, only to find his table empty, a worn $20 bill – more than enough to cover his check – left behind as a silent farewell. Your heart sinks at the realization that he's gone, slipping away like a ghost in the night. Shit.

You didn't even catch his name, and now he's just another fleeting memory, a stranger passing through your life like a whisper in the wind. And though you try to convince yourself that it doesn't matter, that you'll forget about him by morning.

But when dawn breaks the next day, he’s the first thought that crosses your mind.

++++

The days turn into weeks, each blending seamlessly into the next in the endless cycle of small-town life. But amidst the monotony of routine, there's a flicker of anticipation that ignites in your chest every time you step foot into the restaurant – the hope that he might, too.

Stupid, silly little small-town girl.

You’re in the middle of bussing a rather messy table, throwing empty plates and glasses into a bucket after the lunch rush when the sound of bells above the door and heavy boot steps echoes through the restaurant. Not looking up from the table, you yell out take a seat wherever you want, throwing the final pieces of flatware into the bin. Raising it to your hip, your attention finally snaps to the customer and fuck –

You freeze there.

His hand lifts in a simple greeting.

His presence is a magnetic force that shifts the air in the room. Clad in the same worn leather jacket and a dark tee, he exudes a silent, sturdy confidence. You know nothing about him, but you feel like you’d trust him with your life.

“Oh, hi. Um, go ahead and take a seat, I’ll be with you in just a second, just gonna drop this in the back,” you say, trying to hide your smile, your excitement.

He’s a customer. Not a bored and horny customer. Just a customer.

As he settles into the booth next to the window, you can't help but feel a rush of excitement coursing through your veins. You greet him again with a smile, your voice warm with genuine affection, and he nods in return, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary.

But before you can exchange more than a few words, Tracy swoops in like a hawk, eager to monopolize his attention. She's quick to bring him a menu, bring him a coffee, and offer him a selection of homemade pies, her enthusiasm bordering on overwhelming.

You watch from afar, a pang of frustration chewing at the edges of your composure like a moth to cloth in an old closet. It's as if Tracy has staked her claim on him, leaving little room for anyone else to form a connection. And yet, despite her best efforts, you can still feel the weight of his attention on you, a silent reassurance that you're not alone in this silent dance of whatever the fuck this is.

You think that maybe it’s all in your head – maybe he is into Tracy, and you’re confusing his affection for something it’s not. It wouldn’t be the first time. Lord knows you’re no stranger to having one too many vodka sodas and pining after the affection of the first person who looks at you, crying in the passenger seat of a truck of some guy who gave you attention hours before.

Lord know how many nights you check your phone every three seconds just to be disappointed. Too busy begging for the love of someone who doesn’t want you, and never will. Yet you’re just so hopeful. Hopeful that one day it might not feel this way, hopeful that someone will want you back.

You wonder if you want so desperately to be seen, that you’d twisted every lingering glance, smile, and hello, for something it’s not.

When you enter the dining room, your heart once again sinks when you notice him rising from his booth, getting ready to leave. His eyes catch yours and you give him a small wave goodbye. He holds yours while he tucks something under his coffee cup, giving you a nod, letting you know that he wants you to pick it up. His face is unreadable when he eventually walks out.

Walking over to the table, you notice cash tucked neatly under an empty coffee mug. But you notice something else, too. A worn business card for Joel Miller, CEO of Miller Brothers Contracting. It’s a simple card, just his name and an email on the front. But when you turn it over, you’re surprised to find a phone number scribbled on the back.

Maybe it’s not all in your head. ++++

Later that night, standing in the dark alley of the restaurant, the cement damp from the afternoon rain, Tracy's words hang heavy in the air like a dense cloud of cigarette smoke. You listen in silence as she talks about him, her tone laced with a confidence that borders on arrogance.

"I think I'm gonna ask him to get a drink," she says, her voice carrying a hint of excitement. "I think he's into me. I mean, come on, who else stops in and only orders coffee, and leaves a tip like he does? Even caught him looking at my ass once."

Her words cut through the stillness of the desert night, harsh and abrasive in contrast to the quiet solitude that surrounds you. Tracy has always been one to flaunt her looks, to revel in the attention of men like Joel who pass through the diner's doors. There aren’t many.

But as you listen to her speak, a knot forms in the pit of your stomach, a silent warning that this pursuit of Joel may lead to heartbreak for one or both of you. You've seen the way he looks at you, the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks no one else is watching. You slip your hand into the apron and thumb over the paper of his business card.

You want to warn her, to tell her to tread carefully, but the words catch in your throat like smoke caught in a breeze. Instead, you offer her a weak smile, masking the turmoil brewing beneath the surface.

"Yeah, Tracy," you say, your voice tinged with forced enthusiasm. "Go for it. You deserve someone who appreciates you."

But as she stubs out her cigarette and heads back into the restaurant you can't help but smirk knowing he gave his card to you.

It’s finally your turn to be wanted.

But you don’t call, or text him. You want to, you do, but you don’t know what to say, or where to begin. You’re so out of practice when it’s something that matters. It’s easier to pretend he still wants you if you don’t break the illusion—or that’s the lie you tell yourself, anyway.

++++

Some weeks later, you find yourself alone in the empty restaurant – Tracy having called out for the night. It’s slow. Way too slow. The late hour weighs heavy on your shoulders. George, the cook, went home almost an hour ago. You work to check off the tasks on your list before you leave for the night, and eventually accomplish everything except filling the salt shakers.

You could have sworn you turned off the neon open sign and locked the doors until the familiar sound of bells chimes through the empty restaurant.

“We’re closed,” you yell out, twisting the final cap on the last salt shaker.

Your eyes flicker up to find a large man stumbling through the door, his presence heavy with the unmistakable scent of whiskey and cigarettes. He doesn’t look so good, his skin is pale and damp, eyes glassed over.

You rise from your booth, a sense of unease prickling at the back of your mind as you approach him. Despite your better judgment, you tell him to take in any booth of his choice, while you head behind the bar to grab him a glass of water. When you set it down in front of him, he bristles at your gesture, his words slurred and tinged with aggression at the fact that you brought him fucking water. Your patience wears thin as he rebuffs your offer, his tone sharp and abrasive.

"Just trying to help you out here" you snap, a hint of irritation creeping into your voice. You’re not sure where the irritation is coming from, but it feels right – natural – a built-in defense mechanism. But instead of backing down, he responds with a menacing snarl, his hand shooting out to grip your wrist in a bruising hold. Panic surges through you as you try to pull away, his grip tightening with each futile attempt.

"Let me go," you plead, the fear evident in your voice as he rises from the booth and crowds you against a nearby table, condiments spilling over the edge of the table. His hands move to grip your upper arms with a forceful intensity. You stumble slightly, the weight of his presence pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket, your head turned to the side to avoid having to look at him. “I’ll tell you what, you little bitch –”

You feel the rapid beat of your pulse, the thrum of blood in your veins. You struggle against the man. Your inner voice screams danger, but just as you feel the panic rising in your chest, the familiar sound of chimes rings through your ears. Within seconds, a new figure looms into view, his broad frame casting a shadow over the scene unfolding before you – to you. With a swift movement, he pulls the man off of you, his voice a growl of warning as he asserts his dominance.

“I’d think twice if I were you before you try and win this one,” Joel says, voice low and threatening.

It's him.

Relief floods through you at the sight of him, a silent thank you echoing in your mind as he stands between you and the aggressor. And as he faces off with the man, his protective stance speaks volumes. Your mind goes a little fuzzy from the adrenaline as you watch the man struggle in his grasp, followed by a slur of cuss words, ultimately ending in Joel punching him in the face, the harsh sound of bone to face.

It shouldn’t turn you on, the violence of it all, but it sort of does. The outward display in your defense appeals to the primitive, underived part of your brain, the way a knight would defend a maiden’s honor.

He drags the man out of the establishment, and you hear him tell him to get the fuck out and never come back.

He locks the door and turns to face you. Your arms come up to grab yourself in an instinctual hug, your body is a little shaky from the interaction. Without saying anything, he walks over to you, bringing both of his hands to the sides of your arms – the same place where the man had grabbed you – but his touch feels different. Gentle, reassuring, safe.

“You alright?” he says, a deep crease between his brow as he looks down at you, his eyes filled with concern.

“I’m alright – tha,” your words break a little, and you start to feel hot tears cling to your lashline, “thank you,” you manage to blurt out, avoiding looking at him in the eyes, not wanting him to see yours all teary.

He brings a hand up to cup your cheek and uses the edge of his thumb to tilt you up to look at him. You bring your hand to meet his on your cheek and notice a sticky sensation under your palm. You grab his hand and bring it down to your eye level, noticing the blood on it, a giant split down the middle of one of his knuckles. Jesus, if his hand looks like this, what must that guy’s face look like?

"You're hurt," you say, the tears in your eyes now replaced with genuine concern. "It's okay, don't worry about it, doesn't hurt," he reassures, but you can tell he's probably lying.

"We've got a first aid kit in the back. Let me clean you up," you insist, nodding towards the rear of the room.

"It’s alright sweetheart, you don't have to, really…" he protests.

"You just defended me. Bandaging your knuckles is the least I can do to thank you," you tell him firmly, leaving no room for refusal.

Interlacing your fingers with his on his left hand, you guide him through the restaurant.

Navigating through the kitchen, smelling of oil and french fries, you caution him to watch his step on the freshly mopped yet always greasy floors.

In the small office, you flick on the light switch and rummage through the cabinets until you find an old first aid kit tucked away in the back. Joel leans against the desk, quietly observing you. "Ah, got it," you say with a hint of excitement that you found the kit, a little surprised there was even one stashed away. Though most of the bandages and finger condoms are missing, there's still plenty of gauze and alcohol wipes.

He stands silently, watching as you work to open the kit, his eyes fixed on you, particularly when you rip open the alcohol wipe with your teeth. "This might sting a bit," you warn, meeting his gaze with genuine care.

“You can make it up to me later,” he whispers. His tone, the intention behind his words sends an exciting zap down your spine. There’s shared silence. As you’re patting the blood on his knuckles, that same feeling of raw want, painted with uncertainty, settles in your stomach.

“Can I ask you something,” he says, and you flick your eyes up to meet his for a moment before lowering them back down his hand. You let out a soft mhmm in response, knowing his question before he’s even asked it.

“Why didn’t you call?”

The boldness of his question stops you. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “I wanted to. I mean, I almost did – I typed out so many texts to you it’s borderline embarrassing,” you pause for a second to grab the gauze from the counter behind him. You lean in close enough to catch the scent of him – cedarwood and fresh cotton, the earthy scent of desert dust clinging to his clothes.

“I guess I’m just not used to being wanted. Don’t know how to do this kind of thing. I’ve been alone for so long, and I guess, I don’t know, Joel,” you affix a little piece of tape to the gauze, before dropping his hand, all finished.

You stand before him, looking at his chest and the bare skin on his neck that’s dotted with freckles, avoiding his eyes.

“I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Not sure why a guy like you would even want a girl like me to call him anyway…” you trail off, letting out a small cough to hide the emotion creeping up in your throat. Have you always been this self-deprecating?

His hands float up to your hips, and he tugs you in closer to him, body weight still propped up against the desk, his thick thighs bracketing yours. You still avoid his eyes, your gaze fixed on a button on his shirt in front of you.

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

The bandaged hand trails up over the side of your body, and his fingers land under your chin, his thumb tilting you up to look at him. You’re sure you must look like a mess, eyes tired from a long shift, mascara smudged from your tears. How pathetic you must look. The pad of his thumb caresses over your lips and you hold your breath.

There’s so much he could say, so much he wants to say. He wants to build you up, to tell you that you’re worthy of the whole world. That you’re beautiful and kind, and that any man would be lucky to have you. He doesn’t even have to deeply know you to know those things.

But he can tell from the look in your eyes that it’s not what you need right now. He’ll tell you someday. He’ll tell you every day if you’ll have him.

But no.

Right now you don’t need someone to tell you how gorgeous you are, you need someone to show you.

“Joel,” you say, your voice just above a whisper. His thumb is still on your lower lip.

“Ki–” Before you can continue, his hand drops, and his lips crash into yours and he groans. He wants to rip you open, eat you raw, to devour every inch of you. You’ve had plenty of kisses, but none like this – none full of such heat, a fiery intensity, a need. He wants you. Joel wants you.

He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth and you let out a little whimper. The sweet sound goes straight to his already hardening cock. He holds you tighter to his chest, thick and capable hands on your hips as he dips his mouth to your neck, kitten-kissing you as delicately as a man his size can. He skims his injured hand underneath your shirt, caressing the skin between your shoulder blades. Your breath hitches in your throat as he nips at your jaw, eliciting a soft moan from you. And oh – he likes that.

“Fuck, baby. Wanna go slow with you, take my time. Do it right,” he says, his voice a little wrecked already and he’s barely touched you.

His hand trails up and pulls the shirt of your uniform down over your breast, exposing the simple lacey bra you’ve had for far too long. You would be embarrassed about him seeing it if you weren’t so aroused, drunk on his touch. You continue to let out little moans as he kisses your neck, and thumbs at your nipple beneath the fabric.

“Wanna show you what you’re worthy of sweet girl, in all the ways,” he groans into your chest.

His words melt into you like butter, making you feel all soft and weak-limbed, fuzzy in a way that’s new to you.

“I want you to fuck me so badly,” you blurt out, lost in the delusion of arousal. The words come naturally for a girl who never really had more than a one-night stand or some shitty fuck from a guy who drank too much whiskey – his dick half-hard, promising he’ll rock your world.

That does it for him.

Joel’s cock is rock hard, with an almost painful stiffness. He wants so badly for you to just fall to your knees in this tiny little office and suck it. He wants so badly to hold the column of your throat while he shoves his thick cock into your wet and waiting mouth, feel him deep down your throat.

But as much as he needs that right now, he knows he has an obligation. To make you feel good. To make you feel good about yourself in every way.

He hopes to god that you’ll chant his name like a prayer when he unravels you like a spool of thread. He can hear it in his head now, as he licks your soft skin and holds you against him. He can’t stop thinking about how pretty you’ll sound when you come for him.

“Patience, angel baby. You’re in good hands,” he purrs. If you weren’t so hazy you might’ve made a joke about him only having one good hand at the moment. He would chuckle at that, you briefly think, before his husky voice speaks again.

“Can I undress you?” he asks. You’ve never been asked that, most of the other men we’re quick just to take your clothes off. Too sloppy, too eager – careless. You’re starting to realize how hot consent is.

You toe off your beat-up sneakers and work to take off your shirt and bra, all while Joel unbuttons your skirt. You wiggle your hips to assist him in removing the barrier. After what seems like no time at all, you’re nearly fully nude in front of him, bare save the thin cotton of your panties. As a reflex, you cross your arms over your chest in an attempt to hide your body, wishing you could blend into the wallpaper.

“God damn, sweetheart. Look at you,” Joel says, taking a small step back and admiring the view. He looks at you like you’re a masterpiece, a piece of art holding court just for him to gaze at.

He gently grabs the arm you’re covering yourself with and exposes your bare chest. Goosebumps collect like pebbles on your skin from the cool air, and your nipples harden from the significance of the moment.

“No need’ta hide from me,” he assures you. You believe him.

You push your chest out to him, for him. He accepts your offering; swipes a calloused thumb across your plush, silky nipple, and crouches to catch the other in his desperate mouth. He groans into your chest the second your nipple meets his lips. You can’t control the deep hum that escapes from your throat. Joel smirks at the sound, lips still attached to your breast.

“Feels so good, Joel,” you moan. You have of course played with your nipples when you touched yourself, but you’ve never had a man pay so much attention to them, to be gentle and firm at the same time.

He trails kisses down the valley of your breasts, across the soft swell of your stomach, whispering sweet praises as he does. You drape your hands over his broad shoulders and thread your fingers through the curls that gather on the back of his head as he works his way down to the band of your panties. Much like your bra, you’d wish you opted for a cuter pair of underwear. Not like you own any anyway, but something tells you he could give two shits about that right now.

On his knees, he places both of his hands on the curves of your hips and holds you steady while he looks up at you. He looks up at you with a softness you’ve never seen in a man, his pupils so dark they edge out most of the brown, his hooded eyes are almost a plea for you to let him continue.

“Can I take these off, baby?” he asks, already hooking his thumbs in the band of them, awaiting your permission.

You pause with your mouth agape a bit, not quite sure what to say. Every fiber of your being wants you to say yes, yes, yes. But you’re nervous – you haven’t shaved, and you remember Tracy saying something about men not liking hair on women, especially not on their pussy — a man won’t even eat you out if you’ve not been properly groomed.

What if you taste weird? What if he doesn’t like it? You’ve only been eaten out once if you can even classify it as such, and he was down there for maybe two seconds before he was rising and wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand, claiming whatever you’re wet enough before shoving his rather average cock into your pussy, paying no mind to you or your pleasure.

“You, um, you don’t have to. It’s okay, really…” you shy away, trying to give Joel an out.

His prominent nose presses into your mound and he moans, moans, at your smell.

“Smell so sweet, need to taste you, sweetheart. I won’t if you don’t want me to, but fuck, I would love to,” he says, the truth behind his voice evident in his tone. His cock twitches against the confines of his jeans.

He suspects you’ve never had a real man take care of you, taking the time to pleasure you to your heart’s content. A damn shame, he thinks.

“O-kay,” you say on an exhale. You’re determined to not let the negative thoughts swirling in your head win.

“I gotcha, don’t worry,” he rasps out, his voice equal parts gentle, and gruff with desire.

He gently tugs the fabric down over your thighs, the fabric gathering at your ankles. You take a small step out of them, and he gently caresses up the back of your calve, and back of your thigh, his hand landing on the curve of your ass. He tightly grabs the flesh there. He gently guides your leg up onto one of his shoulders, and you press back into the wall and lean your pelvis closer to him.

“Fuck, what a pretty little pussy,” he praises, before leaning in to place an experimental kiss on the top of your mound. You let out a soft little sound at the feeling of his lips on your skin. He looks up at you once again, making sure you aren’t uncomfortable, before once again returning his attention to your cunt.

He gets bold with his kisses, and once you’re comfortable with his mouth on you, he glides the middle finger of his non-bandaged hand through your wet slit before flipping it so it’s wrist up, pausing with the pad of it right at the entrance of your tight hole. You look down at him with lusty doe eyes and bite your lower lip in anticipation, still a little nervous. He looks at you and gently nudges the nip in, he holds it there for a brief second, before fully thrusting it up into your core, holding your gaze as he enters you. You gasp.

“Fuck angel, you’re tight,” he moans as he continues to feel you, eventually putting his mouth back on your pussy, his lips sealed around your puffy clit. His large finger pumps in and out of you as his tongue flicks and swirls where you need him the most.

“More,” you moan, “Fuck–please, Joel, give me more,” you mewle.

“That’s my girl, gonna stretch you out, get you nice and ready for this cock,” he whispers against your wet skin as he slips another finger in, one you greedily accept. He devours you, licks at you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. It’s so precise, so overwhelming, so fucking good.

Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and the world goes a little fuzzy at the edges of your vision. You’ve had an orgasm before, you think, but you don’t remember it feeling like this.

You moan as he sets a relentless pace with his mouth and fingers, slowly tightening the coil inside of you in a way you’ve never felt before. Time slows for a brief moment and your vision goes white, little specks of light dancing behind your eyelids, heat rushing up to your chest and cheeks.

Until –

“Holy shit, yes, I’m coming, oh my god, don’t stop,” you unravel for him, a babbling mess of pleasure, he holds you steady as he works you through it. And when he’s satisfied that you’re satisfied, he gently hoists your leg off of his shoulder and rises to his full height.

“Such a good girl for me, you come so pretty,” he whispers against your neck, nipping at your jaw until his lips find yours. You taste yourself on them, feel the wetness in his beard. He slips his tongue into your mouth and you moan. It’s so hot to taste yourself on him, dizzying that he’s not wiping it away. He wants you. Joel wants you.

The daze of your release wears off, hurling you back down to earth. Joel kept his promise, he did show you what you’re worthy of. No more mediocre, subpar sex for you. You are worthy of that. Deserve that and more. It’d be rude of you not to return the favor.

On jelly-like legs, you begin to kneel before him, wanting nothing more than to be a practitioner of pleasure, to elicit another good girl from him. He stops you before your knees touch the floor.

“You don’t want me to suck your cock?” you ask, feeling a sting of rejection.

“Oh angel baby, I would love to feel those sweet little lips of yours wrapped tight around my cock, hold your throat as you choke on me,” he coos.

You bring your palm to cup him through his jeans and he groans, your hands trace over the thick shape. He’s big. You watch as his jaw tightens and his head falls back as you work over him. You can’t help but feel excited when you feel a damp spot on his jeans, the place where his pre-come has gathered.

“But there’s something I want more right now. Feel what you do to me?” he says, pressing your hand harder down onto him. “Need to feel that sweet, tight cunt of yours around me first,” he says with intensity, an urgency in his voice. You make quick work of undoing his belt buckle and slip off his jeans and boxers in one swoop.

Truly seeing him, the sight of his heavy cock in all its glory, makes your mouth water a little.

“Yo–you’re so big,” you say, a little intimidated. He grabs you by the hips and holds you tight against him, his cock pressed between your bodies against the bare flesh of your tummy. You think you might actually feel him there when he’s inside you at this rate.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. You can take it,” he says, using one hand to grab the back of your thigh and tapping the other. You get the memo. He lifts you and spins you around so you’re sitting on the mahogany desk behind you, your damp skin sticking to the mess of customer receipts and supply lists underneath you. He stands between your legs, holding himself by the base, pumping himself slowly up and down his length. “I’m on birth control,” you say, blurting it out. “And I’m clean, you don’t have to use a condom, I mean, if you don’t want to.” And shit – that’s music to his fucking ears.

“Okay. Open your legs wide for me, baby. Wanna see you,” he says, and you do. He juts his head down and spits onto it, using his fist to work it onto himself. You hold your legs open in a V, bracing yourself with your arms behind you. Your ass hangs slightly off the edge of the desk, just enough for him to have full access and view of your glistening slit.

He positions himself at your entrance and gently pushes his hips forward so the tip of him is inside of you. He pauses there, giving you a second to adjust. Your heart throbs in your chest, and your eyes flicker closed.

“Eyes on me, baby. Wanna see you as I take what’s mine,” he says, his voice a wreck. When you open them, he sinks even deeper. Halfway inside of you, he pauses again.

“Okay?” he asks. You nod.

You can tell he’s holding back, not wanting to hurt you. And while you may be out of practice, you know your body was made for this. You feel so full, so content, you just want to feel all of him. After he’s confident you’re ready, he pushes his hips forward once again, fully burying himself deep inside of you.

Your pussy walls clench against him, and your jaw goes slack. You were right, you do feel him in your tummy. He’s so fucking big, but god, it feels good. It’s like he’s stuffing and filling all of the lonely spaces that have been hiding inside of you for so long. Like he was made for you.

He sets a slow and steady rhythm at first, dragging in and out of you. You can tell he wants to fuck you harder, deeper. You can tell that he’s waiting for you to take it there, to give him that permission.

“You can fuck me harder, Joel. ‘M not gonna break, I promise,” you coo. His hand at your hip flexes tighter, and that’s all he needs. “Shit, c’mere,” he says, helping you off the desk, steading your legs. He flips you over and presses you against the desk, your bare breasts flesh against the cool wood, your hips perfectly positioned at the edge, bent over and waiting to once again be stuffed.

He stands behind you, angles your hips up slightly, and once again buries himself in you.

“Such a perfect cunt,” he groans, beginning to set a relentless pace. Something about this angle does something for you, too. His cock fits just right, pushing and gliding over the spongey spot inside of you that makes you see stars. He holds your hips tightly as he pumps in and out of you, eliciting throaty moans from you. The air is filled with the filthy wanton sound of skin slapping against skin.

“I –” you mew, “I think I’m gonna come again,” you say, breathless.

“Come for me, baby. Be the good girl I know you are and show me how pretty you are when you come on my cock,” he says, a little out of breath, voice deep.

Good girl. Pretty. Come for him.

And you do. Your pussy pulses around him as the wave of your orgasm takes over you, your mind hazy and filled with nothing but the thought of the way he fills you just right.

His movements begin to slow. You can tell he’s close.

“Where do you want me, baby?”

“Inside, please. Want you to fill me up, make me yours,” you rasp, beg.

After a few more thrusts of his hips, he begins to stutter and slow. He pauses buried to the hilt inside of you and groans as his cock paints your insides with thick ropes of come.

He holds you there, both of your breaths coming a little ragged, his body shaking and jolting a little. You feel him pulse inside of you. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this content, utterly blissed out from the feeling of him – all of him – deep inside of you.

When he pulls out, you let out a small moan, a little sad your pussy has nothing to clench around anymore. He tells you to stay there for a second before he returns with a handful of paper towels from the kitchen to help clean you up.

He kisses you again. It’s different this time, not as intense as the first few, but just as hot, just as passionate. The same pull you felt the moment he first entered the restaurant.

He helps you get dressed, and you fasten his belt buckle for him and check the gauze on his fist. You both stand there in silence, not quite sure where to go from here, until he offers up.

“Wanna smoke?”

++++

“So, how long have you lived here’?” he asks, holding open the lit zippo from his back pocket to you. With the cigarette dangling between your lips, you steady it between your fingers and lean in, the dim glow of the fire illuminates your features.

“Too long,” you mumble, taking a big drag. Now you get why in movies after a really good sex scene the characters always want a cigarette. You watch as he lights his own.

“And you, where are you off to next?” You don’t want him to leave.

“Not sure, the contract job my brother and I have in the county over ends in a week or so. Was thinkin’ it might be nice to head south, maybe Austin,” he responds, smoke dancing in the air around him.

Your stomach twists a bit at the thought. Don’t go.

“Although, ‘M not so sure anymore. Starting to think I might have a few things I need to take care of here first,” he says, shifting his gaze from the ground until his hooded eyes find yours.

He gives you a subtle wink. You smile.

You stand there in comfortable silence, leaning up against the wall next to him, taking in the crisp desert air, enjoying being next to him.

And when it’s time to go, he offers you his hand and a ride home. You accept.

But this time when you stamp out the cigarette, watching the embers fade into darkness, you fully entertain the notion that not only could you have more.

You will.

Especially if Joel has anything to say about it.

END

Or if you want, you can read Joel’s POV here.

Tagging some moots cuz I'm sure Tumblr will probably fuck my engagement on this one since I haven't posted in forever :/ If you like this, please consider a reblog (dm me if you want to be removed): @endlessthxxghts @theoasisofthings @pedrostories @bastardmandennis @milly-louise @ghostwritesthings @josephquinnswhore @drunk-and-capable @hellishjoel @survivingandenduring @hotgirlbedtimescenarios @ohheypedrito @joeldjarin @nerdieforpedro @amyispxnk @paleidiot @ghostwritesthings @kulekehe @darkheartgatita @goldenhxurs @javiscigarette @morallyinept @ro-nahime-things @gwendibleywrites @missladym1981 @auteurdelabre @morgaussy

ily.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller the last of us #joel miller one shot #pedro pascal character #pedrohub #pedrostories #consent #joel miller #joel miler x fem!reader #joel miller fanfic

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buggachat · 7 months

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hey guys, i know you all want updates to my bakery enemies comic! i AM still going to finish it, i have NOT given up on it, and i'm sorry this hiatus has been so much longer than i anticipated. getting the second wind i need to work on it can be kind of tough (especially since we're in the final stretch, so when i start working on it again i want to make it all the way to the FINISH), but it is still absolutely in development!

anyway, this is also to say, you don't need to tell me you want updates. I know you do, and I can't give a clear answer as to when the next update will be, because i'm not sure when that inspiration will strike... but... if you're going to ask for updates, please don't do it on my other works. It's kind of disheartening to have comments on a new, unrelated work say "but what about beau?". If you want to ask about beau, at least ask it on a beau-related post, please!

#bakery enemies au #putting this out in anticipation because im going to be posting some art today #i am drawing again for the first time in a while so that's a good sign #or well. i HAVE been drawing since but... not for fun lol #the paris special has awakened something in me

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spicy-apple-pie · 4 months

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Oh Damian, if only you knew that you could never do wrong in Bruce's eyes.

Chapter Index

Also some notes: Sorry about the short updates, just want to get some motivations established for the next arc, but there will be an interlude where Bruce confronts Talia, so that's fun.

And with the holidays and the fact that I'm going on vacation in early January, it's likely that Adopted Damian will go on a two week hiatus. It's still up in the air because I have a few more days off work than I usually do, but I procrastinated gifts as per usual so I have no idea.

I also want to thank everyone for the support during this comic, this is way bigger than I thought it would be and I'm having a really fun time making it. I'm really glad to see so many people enjoying it as well, so I hope I keep doing right by you guys.

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twiixr4kidz · 5 months

Note

Hey I hear you do Ramona's Evil Exes x Reader so I have a Request I don't know if anyone ask this but the Evil Exes Reaction to their S/o wearing their clothes I got this idea from a boyfriend scenario on Wattpad and I thought it might be cute🥰

sorry it took so long to get to this :( i went on a hiatus and got caught up with a lot of asks so i'm finally getting around to finishing them all. hope this was worth the wait!!

matthew patel:

okay, we know mattie.

he's obsessed with literally everything you do and this is no different

when he sees you in his clothes, he MELTS

literally merges with the floor

"hey babe....... you uh, you look really, uh, you-"

he cannot get a proper sentence out of his mouth but just know he's going to be thinking about this FOREVER

lucas lee:

tch, whatever

just kidding HELLO O___O

at first he wasn't paying attention, but now.......

he's a pretty big guy so his clothes probably hang off of you

he acts very nonchalant about it but even the coolest skater boys have their weaknesses

this is his

he gets so handsy you're going to have to reprimand him

todd ingram:

this motherfucker gets so flustered

literally makes eye contact with you and he's STUNNED

"i see you went through my closet, huh?"

he will not stop staring at you

literally boring holes through your body because oh my GOD you look incredible

he's going insane

roxie richter:

"god DAMN!!!!!"

insert whistling noise

she will not stop complimenting you

insists that you keep whatever you're wearing because "it looks SOOOO much better on you!!!!!!"

also gets very handsy with you

in simplest terms, she's feeling you up

you're way too hot to keep her hands off of

you're a magnet and she's a bag of nails :3

kyle katayanagi:

"woah, hello there"

he's in deep thought

deep, DEEP thought

he's going to tease the shit out of you for this

but don't mistake that as him not enjoying it

he's eating it UP

ken katayanagi:

he doesn't say anything immediately

like he takes notice, but he's silent

sort of just smirks to himself

if you want any sort of reaction, you're going to have to point it out

"notice anything different?" "of course i did hun, you know i'm very attentive"

okay now that you've pointed it out, he's going to be annoying about it

constant teasing, "looks like somebody missed me"

gideon graves:

it takes a little for him to notice

"oh, nice shirt," he says, completely unaware of the fact that it's his shirt

actually it's the smell that makes him realize LMFAO

he wears a very specific cologne and when you walk by smelling like it, he's like "OH HELLO????"

slides over in his silly little desk chair, wraps his arms around your waist, and buries his face in your side

"never stop doing that" he mumbles

god he's so CUTE I LOVE HIM

#scott pilgrim #scott pilgrim vs the world #spvtw #scott pilgrim takes off #spto #matthew patel #lucas lee #todd ingram #roxie richter #kyle katayanagi #ken katayanagi #gideon graves #matthew patel x reader #lucas lee x reader #todd ingram x reader #roxie richter x reader #kyle katayanagi x reader #ken katayanagi x reader #gideon graves x reader

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orionlain · 1 year

Text

𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐱 𝐫𝐞��𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐝𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐤𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 note: I came back from 2 month hiatus go me! anyways ur gonna see me post more on diff fandoms other than horror. sorry bout that guys love u all tho

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐚𝐧

Your window was open for everyone to see, the curtains being put aside, and with that he could easily take a peek at you.

The mirror light bulb shined upon your skin as you were carefully putting your highlighter around the corner of your eyes. The little specks of glitter and your rosy lip balm complimented your looks, and your hair was put in a tidy style. People would assume you were going on a date. A hookup, a party or the bar. But instead, you were staying home tonight. Why? For your job, which was to open the camera and say hello to your followers.

As you finished your foundation and last touch ups, you started setting up the camera in your computer. Browsing from each web page, and quickly announcing that you were going live for all your fans to flock to your stream. You were grateful for your followers, for the money, but as well as them giving the new found confidence you have nowadays. Your outfits had become more flashier, bold and a bit more risque, and he didn’t like that. Your smile lingered on more, and you received more texts than usual, and he didn’t like that. Your new height of fame and laughter was making you less alert. And that was the only thing he liked, knowing that one day you’ll meet your number one fan, which was him.

He couldn’t lie though, the outfits weren’t so bad, he just wished you wouldn’t have to flaunt it to others. Or that pretty gasp you have on camera when you play a horror game, he wished that you were doing that as he put his knife into you instead. He wished, for everything that you were doing, to those stupid men in the same doormat as you, to those girls who were forcing you to party, to those pesky followers who abide by you no matter what you say; was for him instead. And he wanted so much of you. Even if you didn’t know him, and he was there in front of your house right now as you stream, he wanted you to smile for him as well.

It's been months he's been watching you, he knows what coffee you like, what route you take to go to your lecture, what you order in that nearby bakery. He knows who you interact with in real life, your study friends and your family members, he knows which albums you loved when you went to the vinyl store. And he knows what you do at home. You yell and shout at the game, you make niche jokes about your interests to chat. You scroll down in your constant approvals from the masses, you converse to other creators from an entirely different place of the world.

He knows your two lives. And he found it endearing, found it to be so different from all the other victims he had. When nobody knows what you say and what you are in real life, he does. When nobody on the internet knows what location you were at and what you were studying, he does. He found it so special. Of course, he came into the conclusion he was truly your biggest fan. Whether you put that stupid mask on and off, and you become insane from your two lives blurring into another, he’ll have front row seats to such an event. How sweet.

Ghost_F: Nice shirt cupcake.

“Oh Ghostie! You’re too sweet.” You responded in a flush state. To be honest, you always laughed at the nickname you gave to this fan. You gave this name after he became such a vital follower in the past four months. You can say he was rapidly coming close to being your most noticeable one, after he constantly catches up with your streams daily. He was also giving a hectic amount of money, where you had no clue coming from. Well, he didn’t want you to know that money came from the victims he murdered with cold blood. Maybe next time.

Ghost_F: Whatcha doin’?

“Mhm? I don’t know Ghostie. I believe I’m just gonna talk today. How bout it, chat?” That shirt on you was slowly hanging more down as you face more to the screen, he could see that bra he saw a week ago on a night. It looked good on you. Although, it would’ve been better if there weren't eighty people seeing this as well.

And to his annoyance, your followers agreed to the idea. You were just gonna sit there and stay pretty, which he didn’t mind, but he would rather hear your screams again as you play a game. But, you don’t need a horror game for today. He’ll find a way to help you yelp and cry later.

“Alright chat, let's check the timeline for today- Uh.” You turn your head.

There was a knock on the door. Package delivery? You didn’t order anything. You stand up out of your seat and open your door. There was nothing on the ground. Probably one of those annoying college dudes who prank dorms.

“Sorry, chat! There was a knock on the door. But it was nothing! God, my neighbors are assholes.”

You continued to your stream and shrugged it off as if nothing had happened. You casually just scrolled down onto your posts and saw what was happening to the latest news of your favorite games and movies. Small comments back and forth, making you chuckle, but nothing out of the ordinary. Until one viewer sent out a message in chat.

“Don’t you get scared at night? There's like a killer running around in the streets of your state.”

A fan warned. You heard about the murders happening around the state, especially in your town. But you didn’t seem to be phased by it, knowing how much serial maniacs plague this country with states such as Illinois and Ohio, you became desensitized. Though, you didn’t know so much about the recent papers about this prolific guy.

“Well, I don’t know much about him.” Your chat quickly was then filled with information and rumors. Some say he came from the deep levels of hell, sadistic and twisted. Others told how he looked, how he was covered with a ghastly mask and a dark cloak hiding his figure. More talked about the victims, how they were left in a bloody gruesome mess. Word around the street, he goes by the name Ghostface, because of his uncanny mask. All in all, it freaked you out a little. This man is out free swinging his knife and no police were able to catch him. You started getting paranoid.

Ghost_F: You guys are scaring her. Sweets, don’t listen to them.

“Yeah, chat! I don’t even go out at night, I stay home and talk to you guys. And the likely chance of me getting snatched, is pretty low” You giggle it off.

“Anyways, I’m probably not his type.” You were so wrong.

As you were facing the screen and fidgeting around your hair, you swore you something in the corner of your eye. It stopped you in your tracks. You froze in front of the camera. All of your followers were concerned, asking if you were okay.

“Ah, it’s nothing guys. I’m probably just being paranoid after you guys scare me like that!” You resumed your cool facade. You didn’t want them to know that your legs were bouncing up and down in anticipation for what's next. But you soon finally let yourself calm down, telling your brain it's probably some silly animal or neighbor.

You heard a thump. What was that?

Now you were fully freaked out. You jump out of your setup and slowly walk to the kitchen, to get a pan. You tiptoed to your door, and waited for the figure to come here. The thumping of your heartbeat was all you could hear in your ears, and your breath became anxious as you feared for an intruder coming in. No, no not like this.

In a countdown, you open the door once more. It was bare. Nothing, but you could see a hint of a footprint. Dirt? Blood? You couldn’t tell as it was mixed within the colors of the hallways carpet. But something was going on. And yet you close the entrance to your home, shrugging it off to keep up with your stream. You come back to where you reside, and update your followers. Telling them constantly there was nothing wrong. You brush it off, hoping for them to stop trying to interrogate what had happened. You didn’t wanna think about it too much.

Soon, minutes passed and you finally had your fans stop nagging and continued with the next topic. The nerves in your body were finally going down, and you could see yourself sinking into the chair with relaxation. Nevermind what had happened, it wasn’t your problem anyways.

You received a message.

Who was it? The notification went on your screen, and you check on your account on who it was. Hoping it isn’t a scammer or some creep.

It was revealed to be your follower, Ghostie. Hello, it said.

You message him, asking what’s up. No response. You waited for some sort of confirmation or reply after he said a simple hello. Ominous and a little worrying. You sat there, furrowing your brows as you stood by. The stream was finally coming to a close, and there was still no updated news from the man. You sighed, you’re going to leave it be.

Ghost_F donated 2000 dollars.

“Holy shit! Ghostie, what the hell?” He was toying you at this point. This mysterious user was playing mind games with you, and you had no clue why. Just a pitiful gut in your feelings, waiting and responding with surprises. The night was getting even stranger.

Everybody in the chat was shocked. Praising the guy for the huge donation and telling you deserved it. You felt lost of what to say, how do you even reply to such a generous amount of money? If he keeps it up, your entire debt would be gone by the end of the month. And you couldn’t help but feel shameful, thinking about how you didn’t really do that much. You sat around and played games, there was nothing honorable or worth spending a gold bar on.

“Jesus Christ! That’s the biggest donation I-I ever received.” You look at the camera with your face feeling a little flustered.

“How can I make it up to you?” This will bite you in the ass later.

The man privately messaged you. It says;

Go on a call with me, sweets. Stay on live.

Sketchy, but you didn’t wanna ruin this generous deal. You obliged, and you tell your following that you’ll go on a call with him, expressing your happiness and thanks. None of them opposed the idea, they probably wanted to interact with this unknown user who came into the community out of nowhere. Joking about how this bizarre online stranger was going to make you end up like those victims. And you were curious too, who was this guy? Who was Ghost?

His profile was just a default one, no bio, no additional excerpts, just a username. Hesitating at first, the unknown user startled you, it made you draw back and doubt. But you ignored your gut screaming at you to stop. You wanted to make your number one supporter happy, nothing bad right?

You started the phone call. Sitting there, anticipating for him to join.

“Hello?”

“Hey doll.” Wow. His voice was smooth and raspy. You blushed at the sound of his words, it was all rugged and yet deep. It was attractive, especially with that name he called you, you couldn’t help but feel heat rising on your cheeks. And chat wasn’t helping either, spamming in with comments of how nice he sounded, teasing with your sudden reaction, you could feel embarrassment furrowing into your body.

“Um- well I want to say a huge thanks to you man. Thanks Ghostie!”

He chuckled. Don’t do that!

“No problem sweet’s. You can make it up to me.” His comment piqued your interest. What can you do in return for his huge donation? Play a game? Do a silly prank? Or wear a costume? You didn’t know, but as much as bad as it sounded, it made you curious. The deal was so lucrative. It weighed like a mouse leading to a trap, and you were still wanting to know more. About him. About this mysterious man. About this fan that you couldn’t help but have your eyes on. You needed to know more.

“Pfft- Do I have to wear a cute dress or something?” You tease.

“Oh no doll, I wish though,” Huh? “Just a question would do.”

A question? This guy was really strange. Out of all the things he could’ve told you to do, he wanted to just ask you a question. Hell, you would’ve actually worn something for him if you really had to. He disregarded that option though. Something more he had in mind it seems.

“What’s your favourite horror movie?”

Strange, but nonetheless intriguing. You look back into your memory, thinking of the multiple movies you have watched. You always loved the horror genre, so it would be harder to pick out which ones you loved the most. Nightmare on Elm Street, Hellraiser, Texas Chain Massacre, the list goes on, and you didn’t want to pick such a basic answer. Thinking back to your recent watches, you reminded yourself that you watched Halloween. And you enjoyed that movie, so you’ll use that as an answer.

“Mhm, Halloween. The guy with a white mask and blue outfit.”

“Good pick, cupcake. Why though?”

“Well it was a really good movie, it had a lot of scares and had me tense for a little bit and- chat don’t say that!” Oh god. Chat was telling your real honest opinion of the movie, and said you were lying. Laughing and spreading emotes, and told Ghostie that you liked the movie because of the killer. In a drunken state of mind in one of your past streams, you mentioned that you had the hots for Myers. It haunted you ever since, and you forgot that people remember that little fact of yours. You were punching yourself in the inside, dying from all the humiliation.

“You have a crush on Myers?” He asked, chuckling on the side. He was happy knowing he was your type.

“Yeah. God that’s so bad. I-I don’t know how to explain it, I mean he’s a killer!” You giggled in response. Admitting to how hilarious and humbling it is. All the while, the other side of the phone is smiling underneath the mask. Smirking with your cute answer, he can’t help but to awe at your little face cringing from chat nagging on to you. He couldn’t wait for you to realize that he was one too. A dirty, murderous, criminal, who has eyes on you. He couldn’t wait for you to look at him and see your adorable face.

“It’s not that bad, sweets. People love bad boys.” You could hear his grin even if you didn’t see his face.

“Ok, ok, just ask me a different question!”

“Alright, alright. Hm. You got a guy?” Oh christ! You stood aghast, a little shocked from the boldness. In front of viewers too, he didn’t care that you had fanboys or loyal people loving you. Yet, you played along, wanting to tease around as if you were interacting with a beast. You were too curious to give up.

“No, I’m too busy with streaming and school. Are you hitting on me or something?” His laughter ensued, it sounded mischievous.

“I don’t know, am I? Tell me doll, do you think I am?” He was playing with you. Taunting you. You didn’t know how to respond, it made you stutter with your words. You hated it so much. But, god, was it attractive.

“I mean- I don’t know! I think you are!” His laugh became even more boisterous. You were just so fun to tease. He never had a victim like this in a while. Never had a girl like you being so eager and yet so hesitant. It amuses him, your defiance brings him entertainment like never before.

“Oh cupcake! You’re making me laugh.” You giggle back to him. “I just have one more question.”

“Ok, ok. What Ghostie?”

“Where do you live?”

What?

You froze. You didn’t know if you were hallucinating what he just said, but the silence told you otherwise. He means it. Chat became quiet. They were just sending messages with emojis seconds ago, and now becoming fearful as you were. Your mouth went dry, and you could feel your throat perk up.

“I can’t, can’t say that.” Your eyes well up, what do you do?

His breath was becoming noticeable. And his voice changed into a more sinister tone.

“That’s okay. I already know anyway.”

He immediately left. And you look to chat. They were just as puzzled and terrified as you were. Shaken to your core, you end the stream. What just happened? It was supposed to be a joke, but now it ended up as something much more threatening and dark. Due to this, you jumped out of your seat, and ran to the door for the third time.

Checking the peephole, hoping to not see a single being outside your unit. Your hands were shaking. Nervous and petrified, you get away from the entrance again. Your brain was playing tricks with you, or there really was someone else playing with you.

Though, you could hear notifications going off in the background. Your fans were concerned for you. Asking if you were okay, if you were safe, and all you could respond with was a yes. It was a troll you assume. A terrible, scary one to be exact. Until a message popped up onto the top of your screen.

Ghost_F: See you soon.

Alarmed, you press onto the profile. It was deleted. Content unavailable. You were fucking freaked out. You called your friends, hoping to be comforted and gain help. But no response avails.

You sat there on your chair instead. Heart beating to the extreme lengths to the point where you could hear it ringing in your ears. Staring at the screen, looking at the message, trying to see if you can decipher its cryptic tone. Hoping to think positively, you put it aside and think it’s a joke. All streamers go through it, having a creepy encounter with viewers, and this is the same thing. Nothing dangerous is going to happen, it’s just some weirdo freaking you out. Right? Yeah it is. It’s just an offhand interaction.

Sighing, you closed the computer and went to the bathroom. Cleaning yourself up and pondering to yourself, if that was really true. And coming back to your bed, relaxing as you scroll on your phone to remind people that it’s just a troll. Mentioning you thousand of times with concern, and telling you it was a real threat. Although, you ignored it. Was it actually a threat? Probably not, because it’s been hours since the incident, and you were laying down on the bed. Nothing was going to happen.

You rest your eyes, and think ahead of the stupid troll. The creep with a sultry voice. You didn’t wanna mind it. It was just a fake threat after all.

You woke up. You heard a thump within the walls. Probably the neighbor's cat is acting up again. With your foggy brain and eyelids, you travel to your hallway and press the light switch to check what was there. You couldn’t tell if there was something black in your eyes, but you presumed it was nothing. You finally ended up in the kitchen from your hazed walk, and glanced at what was ahead of you.

The kitchen was empty. No creepy dude, it was fake!

You walked and got a glass in your cupboards. Your shorts were slowly sliding up as you tried to stretch to get a cup in the back of your cutlery. Feeling your shirt also slowly lifting up as you grabbed the object. Your feet finally face the ground when you are done getting the glass, and you turn your back around. Incline to having it be filled with water.

“Boo.”

The glass dropped. Forget water. You shrieked in horror. It was a man covered in a mask, cloaked with a black hood. The mask was detailed with a look of horror, eyes piercing hollow black, and wrinkles to enhance the uncanniness.

“You’re even cuter in real life.” No. No. No.

It was the killer your chat was talking about. It was the mysterious man who sent you the donation. And it was the user who threatened you on call. It all added up. You could feel you chastise your brain for being so foolish, for being so damn stupid. For being so curious.

“I-Is that you?” Your voice shakes in fear. He responds by caressing your face, and pining you closer to the counter beneath the cupboards you were just rummaging into. You feel your back slowly leaning back into the furniture, as he goes closer to you.

“Uh huh, it’s me baby.” His pet names made your stomach churn.

“Are you happy to see me, hm? I think you should be. I mean, I saw you blushing just by the sound of my voice, sweets.” He cackles at the end of his sentence. He enjoyed this. He enjoyed the way you looked at him with those pretty eyes of yours, pleading for his mercy. It was better than he imagined.

“You’re- you’re the killer? You’re, you’re-“

“Ghostface. That’s right baby. Awh, don’t tell me you’re terrified? Earlier, you said you had a little crush on Michael. I’m exactly your type. Maybe a little more talkative, but you get the idea sweetheart!”

He was snarky, condescending and overall, fucking with you. You didn’t know what else to muster but a little placid gasp as he leaned into you. He was built entirely different from yours, toppling your body. His hold backed you into a corner, defenseless and armless. It was a recipe for the end of your life.

“Look at you. Trying so hard to look away from me-“ His sharp blade went to your throat. Forcing you to stare at his blank dark eyes. You still resisted. “Don’t be such a bitch. I gave a generous donation, didn't I? Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy killing all of the guys crushing on you and stealing their money.”

“The fuck! You freak-“

“Freak? Rich coming from you. Babe, I’ve seen your search results.” He chuckled harshly. Oh god.

“It’s filled with some of the sickest shit. You love a killer. You know it’s so, so, so bad to like a man like me?”

“And your kinks. Oh sweet girl, you’re just asking to be gutted. And not in a bloody way either.” Even if he was covered behind a whole costume, you can practically hear his maniac smile. You can hear the tone of voice being clouded with figments of lust, and you hated it. But you proved his point, you could feel yourself squeezing your thighs, for some sort of stimulation, friction or movement.

“Mhm, I know what you’re doing sweetie. So needy.” His words were going to kill you before he ever could. It made your heart thump and filled your belly with butterflies. The attention was getting to you. You had to start thinking fast, to defend yourself in some sort of way. But his body and twisted words held you back from doing so. Although, that unwashed pan in the sink may be the trick. With no thought, you swiftly grabbed the cooking instrument, and swung into his head.

“FUCK! You goddamn whore, you’re going to fucking get it!”

You ran. Ran as fast as you could like those final girls in the movies you watch. Ran towards your bedroom, hoping to escape by jumping out of a window. It wasn’t the greatest plan, but breaking your leg out of survival, seems to be so much better than being a news headline. As you hastily open the glass window, sliding it in a painful slow motion, you put your whole body to ensure you flee. Outside was waiting for you, and you could see yourself escape from the monster. Just as you were so close to getting out of the building, you felt the hem of your shirt being tugged.

You tumbled down, hitting the floor. He grabbed you away from freedom.

“That was close. Ha, cupcake, you gotta be the feistiest one yet,”

“Makes you all the more of a treat to me.”

He puts his boot onto your back, stepping on your laying body. He tied you up with scattered ropes and brandished you like a present. You could feel your lungs giving up as he put more pressure into your figure, and your eyes started to tear up out of pain. Whines could be heard out of your mouth and you forced curses to be thrown towards your intruder.

“I warned you, didn’t I bitch?” He took a fist full of your hair, making you have to kneel and look at him. Putting you in a position that was very revealing. Right in front of his crotch. It was embarrassing, and yet your body was heating up.

“Just get on with it. Kill me.” Your comment was then returned with laughter. As if you were the one that’s insane.

“No, no, no way sweets. I have so much more to do with you, y’know?” He lowered his body, titling his head as he was now in your eye range. With his movement mocking you, as if you were a little puppy. “I’m doing a favor for you, baby.” His hands traced onto your legs, dangerously reaching down into inner thighs.

“You wanted a sick man to fuck you, right? I’m going to do that. I’m going to make you scream, making up for all the times that I saw you touching yourself, thinking about a slasher like me fucking you. I’m going to make you cry, making up for all those men who didn’t pound you right.” His gloved hands were now placed upon your pussy. Rubbing you up and down on your clothed slit, eliciting sweet sounds from you. You cried out to him, and he responded by making his fingers go faster.

“I’m going to make you mine. The only fucking thing you’ll think about is me, a murderer.” His touch was fucking you stupid, drool slowly dripped out of your mouth. He took notice of that and giggles ensued from his mouth. You were being so obedient, in such little time.

“Good girl. Look at you! I’m just rubbing your cunt, and you’re whimpering like a bitch. Fuck, baby.” There he finally stopped teasing you, and swiftly plunged his fingers within your shorts. A yelp escaped out of your throat, and he laughed even more. Panting, your hand grabbed his wrist, hoping for him to stop going so rough. It was immediately shut down, by his arm pinning your palms down. Showing how much more power he had over you. Manhandling you like a little toy.

“Ha- Ghos- Ghost-“

“You can’t even form a sentence. Fucking slut.” In a second, he stopped moving. He took his fingers out of your insides and you whined loudly. No no no! You were so close!

“You don’t deserve to cum. Not fucking yet. You will when you’re done your part, sweets.” He stood up, and towered over you. His hands were now fidgeting with the zipper of his pants, rushing for his erection to breathe. His ache lasted for hours, even before he came to visit you. When he was calling with you, he was so fucking close to just whipping his cock out and fisting it up and down with the sound of your voice. His obsession with you was that bad. It made him even more insane, seeing you afar and in hearing you, your flesh drove him crazy. With your ass around, he couldn’t focus on writing reports of his own victims, since his attention was all to you. He hated it. He hated how much he needed to fuck you, or kill you, it didn’t matter either way, he just had to have you. To make up for all the times he was too distracted to kill or report on news.

His dick finally came out of his slacks and hooded cloak. You were a little entranced. It’s been fucking ages since you took one in your mouth, probably because of him killing all of your suitors, and you felt unprepared.

“Suck. And don’t even fucking think of putting your teeth onto me.” You obliged. With your hands out of the questions, you made sure your mouth was able to take it. Slowly, you teased upon the tip and quickly made your way down his length. And with that, he responded with grunts.

“Fuckk, god. You’re so fucking good at this cupcake.” His hands fondled the top of your head. Resulting into him tugging the strands of your hair.

“Your mouth is so tight. Expected from a bitch like you. I can’t wait to fucking gut your pussy.” He rasped out, and soon his hands had moved to his rhythm onto your skull. Forcing you to bob up and down his dick. Your throat was now filled to the brim, and you started choking. He could hear you struggle, you mouthing that you couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t care. He kept on going, and your oxygen was dying out.

But he finally stopped when he realized you were going to actually pass out. Controlling himself from throatfucking you to unconsciousness, mainly because he wanted to hear more of your whimpers, but he considered you lucky. “Breathe babe, breathe.”

Taking a fresh gasp of air, away from the penetrating taste, he held your hair to the back. This probably was the only time he was ‘kind’ to you. And then you quickly went back.

Thrust after thrust, he was coming close. It was noticeable as his hands were becoming more frantic. Craving for a release. All the while you were squirming your legs for some sort of stimulation. The wet pooling onto your panties was driving you insane. You needed to be filled up, bad.

Finally he came into your mouth. The tangy substance filling up the space. Little drops were slowly falling down but he quickly wiped it from your face, looking proud of his work.

“Swallow it for me babe.”

You obeyed.

“Atta girl.”

You got up. But he quickly deflected your action.

“Ah ah. I’m not done yet.”

You looked at him with a furrow. As horny as you were, you still hoped this would be done shortly. But he still continues. Fuck.

“What- I thought-“

“Mr. Ghostface, please don’t tell me you’re gonna fuck me!” He mocked. “C’mon, I like my toys stupid, but you can’t be that fucking dumb babe.”

He pushed you into the bed. You lay upon your sheets catching your breath, and your cute top had a little peak of your breasts. Your face was filled with slob, and your shorts were absolutely drenched. A beautiful sight indeed.

“Wait, before I ruin you, let me just-“

He whipped out a camera from his back pocket.

Click!

“That’s it baby, that’s it.” He constantly rubbed on your thigh as he did a whole photoshoot of your body. Your back arches little by little as he continues to stimulate your skin. And his hand slowly takes something out of the backsides of his pants. A knife. You yelped out of surprise.

“Oh baby, don’t worry. I’m just going to remove your clothes. I’m not going to hurt you,” He snickered. Putting the blade upon the fabrics and ripping it apart to give a pathway. But he intentionally cuts a little part of your skin as he forcefully parts your pants. Allowing him to brand you. “Yet.”

Finally, you were bare. Fully naked and vulnerable in front of this clothed intruder.

“You look even better up close, y’know? Fuck. I just knew you were perfect for me.” His dick was caressing your folds, making you scrunch your eyes in response to control your whimpers. You were so sensitive, that little tears started forming from your eyes. “Maybe I should just fucking take you away. Maybe I should just keep you in some basement, naked and shivering, huh? But knowing from you, you’d probably fucking like it.”

“You’re a whore, you know that?” All you could respond was cute little grunts to his stimulation and comments, “Mhm, but you're my whore.”

He inserts it with no warning. You gasp out of shock. His dick was really caressing the corners of your insides. And you could feel contraction from the penetration. It felt like it couldn’t fit at all.

“Sh-shit! So god damn tight! God-“ Ghostface was spasming from the way you tightened around him. Even with the slow pace, it felt agonizingly strained and painful. But you didn’t mind at all, because of how much it was stretching you so well. Filling up the need and wants in every right direction.

“So- so much!” You whined. You didn’t know if you were pleading him to take it slow, or go rapidly fast, but you definitely wanted him to keep going. To keep pushing you to the brim until you can’t think anymore, fucked with no words left to speak. To keep rubbing up and down till you start screaming, babbling with no thoughts to fill in your head. You needed this so bad.

“I know, I know- fuck, christ doll.” The masked man shuddered upon his words. He was as smitten as you were. The way your hole pulsed and tightened as he went further. The way your face is all flushed and cute as he rammed into you. The way your breasts move up and down as he makes you spasm and moan. Your cute little eyes, struggling to keep wide open from the hazy sex. He really couldn’t get enough of you. He really wanted to you fuck you up more and more.

“Ha- I knew you would fucking like this. You love being a sick freak taking in a murderer's cock. You love it, don’t you, don’t you baby?” His hands were caressing your skin as you whimpered. The latex stimulating you as your mind runs wild on the touches and senses you were feeling. At this rate, you were going to finish, and it couldn’t help when you were contracting more and more.

“Yeah that’s right. I could feel your fucking cunt clenching me, you gonna cum? Hm?”

You gave no response, too dazed to comprehend what he said. He slapped your face for you to snap out of your drunken phase.

“I said, whore. Are you gonna cum around my cock?”

“Y-yes!” He started going faster. Abusing your cunt even more and more. You started gasping for air with the amount of assault he was doing to you. Bringing you to the edge. “Mr. Ghostface I-Im going to-“

“Aww, it’s so much isn’t it? Well too fucking bad. You can only cum when I say so, so fucking take it. Or i’ll fucking slice your throat into two.” He maliciously spat.

“Or are you that desperate that you would rather have me fucking gut you, just so you can cum? I wouldn’t even be surprised.” Laughing ensued after he remarked how pathetic and dumb you look. You were all mindless, continuously just taking in and out like a toy. And the worst part, you enjoyed it, loved it and wanted more and more.

“I’ll be nice this time. Beg for me.”

“Huh?” You muttered, confused and not knowing what he just ordered.

“I said beg. Are you fucking stupid? Beg. Beg for you to fucking cum. I know how much you fucking need it.”

You swallowed your pride. It’s too late to do anything more to save your face. Look at the state you were in. Sweat, back arching and drool slowly forming from your mouth. Nothing is reputable with this. You looked like a whore. And he knew damn well he made you into one.

“Ple-please.?”

“Is that all you got? Beg. Beg fucking harder!” He slapped your cunt in order to elicit a reaction out of you.

“I- fuck- fuck! Please, pleasee! Please let me cum! Please, Mr. Ghostface! Please, I need it! I fucking need it! I need it so bad! I need you to fucking fill me! Just- let me- me cum!” You were babbling at this point. Saying all of this under his will.

“I need it so bad! I need it. I need you! I need you!” You reached for his mask. Showing how terribly desperate you wanted for some kind of release.

“Atta fucking girl.” He put his mask to the side. “Come here.”

He penetrated with his tongue inside your mouth. You whisper and moan, faltering around his body. Your arms were frenzied all over his shoulders. You were needy. And most of all, so fucking horny.

“You wanna cum? Yeah?”

“Uh huh!”

“Go ahead, sweets. Cum around my cock. I’m gonna fucking fill you up.” There it went, his pace going harder and harder. Louder and more frantic.

“Cum for me. Cum for me, pretty. Cum for your fucking killer.”

And you did. With a loud whine you came around everywhere. A load filling you up as you spasm with his dick still in you. Your body automatically faltered on the bed, tired and so fucking full. He pulled out, having your cunt leak out all the fluids. You were absolutely fucking gutted.

Click!

You heard a camera snap. You would’ve protested but your legs would have probably given up if you tried.

“I’m keeping that one baby. Displaying it on the top of my fridge.”

“Here.” As his last ‘gift’ to you, he marked your neck. A purple bruise, prominent and easily noticeable.

“Stream tomorrow, cupcake. And show my fucking mark on you proudly.”

He wanted to make sure he was definitely your favorite follower. Wanted to show everyone one of your fans that you’re his now. And it was completely obvious with how much he had made you into his.

Next time, he’ll do it live. And maybe, he’ll bring some other fans he knows of.

Maybe that son of a bitch, Michael would join in.

“I’m your biggest fan, sweets. Don’t forget that.” He said, leaving you in your bed, while he left your house.

And he believed that you already knew.

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