Kellhems - Steve Rogers Wife

kellhems - steve rogers wife
kellhems - steve rogers wife
kellhems - steve rogers wife
kellhems - steve rogers wife

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1 year ago

OMG IM DYING 😭😭😭

Triumph

triumph

{virgil van dijk x reader}

in which virgil wins a trophy and celebrates in the best way ✨

warnings: unprotected sex, semi!public fuck with hold the moan vibes. no rhyme or reason except that this man deserved a bit of celebratory love.

To the roar of a blazing crowd, he lifts his first trophy as captain gloriously over his head, and although you know you should be paying attention to that shiny silverware that he and the kids worked so hard for, you’re staring at his biceps instead - the defined, hard line of muscles there, the veins that run across the length of his arms - entirely lickable, biteable even, how they seem to almost stretch out his sleeves.

You cross your legs to repress the ache that grows between them, as his gaze searches the crowd and lands on you - the only one he looks to for approval and love, and you blow him a flirtatious kiss that makes his smile grow wider, his eyes sparkly with the thrill of victory, of being on the receiving end of your love.

He eventually has to hand the trophy over, to your disappointment that his arms are no longer on display. But this sadness immediately vanishes when he runs to you so he can lift you up in his arms now, as if you were the real prize all along. You cup his face and plant a kiss on him that curls your toes, between his whispered gratitude and his hands stroking through your hair. The crowd behind you goes wild at the display of affection, but Virgil doesn’t care. In fact, he doesn’t seem to even notice them. He drags you into the tunnel, away from the roaring chaos, and in this relatively quieter space, you can talk freely now. 

“Later,” he murmurs into your ear, his hand wandering up your back, “I want to celebrate properly.”

You nod, already seeing the glint of excitement in his pretty eyes. Your eyes are drawn to his mouth, and the bead of sweat that trickles over his neck and throat, down to the neckline of his jersey. “How… exactly?”

His gaze locks on yours - intimate, enthralling. “Going to have you strip off all these clothes for me - slowly. I know you’ve got some pretty underwear on, don’t you?”

Your cheeks heat up. “Maybe.”

He grins. “Maybe I’ll take them off with my teeth then. Have you lie there, wrists tied to my bed with my jersey… so I take my time with you and do anything I want.”

“Virg…” you warn, but he just carries on - voice growing lower now.

“Or maybe…” he glances around, trying to evade suspicion. “We don’t even have to wait to go home to celebrate.”

You blink slowly at him, the thought making you want to shiver - it’s too much, too naughty. “I… you want to… now?”

He winks. “If you can be quiet… I don’t see what’s the problem.”

-

It is a problem, actually, when he’s dragging you into an empty room barely a few meters away from his team’s actual celebrations - one kiss blaring out triumphantly. His hands make quick work of your jeans, practically ripping the zip and swearing at how tight they are, groaning with relief and need when he finally touches bare skin instead of denim. You peel his shirt off and indulge yourself with kisses along his neck and collarbone, sucking along the smooth skin until he’s letting out soft moans of his own. His body practically flattens you against the wall, hands already slipping into your underwear - red, lacy, and he groans at the sight of it. Still, he’s impatient to do more than just look - and so his fingers take to stroking and teasing you until they’re soaked, and you’re gripping his bare back, desperate to be filled with him.

“Fuck, I need you,” he groans, and you’re not doing any better, whining and rutting back into his fingers like you’re starved (and you are).

“Please, Cap,” you beg, and it turns him on when you call him that - when he gets to hear how desperate you are for him. 

“Fuck. You want it bad, huh?” He kisses the moan of approval from your mouth, as you cup the impressively thick bulge of his cock, his hips grinding back into your touch. He feels so rock-solid and you’re not able to wait - shoving his shorts down, his underwear, letting him hoist you up with your legs around his hips so you can position his cock perfectly where you need it.

The first press of him against your entrance makes you moan, until he has to cup his hand over your mouth and chuckle (unsteadily), “shhhhh… they’re going to hear you, sweetheart.”

But that reminder only turns you on more, and you whimper against his hand over your mouth, as he fucks slowly into you now, rocking his hips into your wet, aching cunt. It’s good - it’s always so good with him - this aching stretch and the way your walls clench around him, possessive almost. But what seals the deal is his mischievous eyes full of excitement and love and everything in between - the grin he makes, the freckles along his pretty cheeks, his hair no longer neatly combed back in a bun but a little unruly, messy even. You struggle away from his hand over your mouth so you can kiss him again, and this time, you suck on his bottom lip, moaning his name, letting him know how wet he makes you, how fucking good his cock is. You feel him pick up the pace, his breaths ragged and intense and you need him closer, so much closer, even though you’re pressed up against him with not an inch of space left. 

He gets so wild, actually, thrusting into you, calling you all sorts of pet names and struggling to stave off his orgasm - but you’re clawing at his back now, making him go guttural, feral, fucking into you with boundless energy. “Virg… I’m going to come,” you gasp, the confession shuddering from your lips. 

He leans his forehead against yours, and you share a breath as your orgasm slams into you, making you clench around him in spasms, and it’s too tight and wet and hot for him to hold off any longer. He makes those final few pumps inside you and moans long and loud into your mouth, and you kiss the sweet surrender from his lips, feeling him spill into you, deep and good.

He laughs in disbelief and delight when letting you down from the wall, sliding past his body and so he can give you one final kiss. He squeezes your bare ass and you giggle into his sweet mouth, “haven’t you had enough?”

“With you?” He smirks, daring to spank you now, “it’s never enough.”

-

oh my god. how insane was yesterday?

wrote this weeks ago with someone else in mind, but it never quite stuck for me. I realised today that this is why - fate had intended for this fic to work out for virg after all.

for my captain’s series! and because a trophy win demands a celebratory fic (it’s tradition).

lots of love, ivy


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1 year ago

I love men who moan, men who whimper unashamedly in your ear. Men who sob, men who cry, men who bite your neck, your shoulder because you feel so good they can't help but drool a little, men who beg "Please baby, you feel so good", their pretty eyes crystallize, men who like to overstimulate themselves by continuing to come in and out of you, with broken grunts and a scratchy throat.


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5 years ago
Daenerys Targaryen Appreciation Week: Longing
Daenerys Targaryen Appreciation Week: Longing
Daenerys Targaryen Appreciation Week: Longing
Daenerys Targaryen Appreciation Week: Longing

Daenerys Targaryen Appreciation Week: Longing

If I look back, I am lost.

9 months ago

Thank God she now has Sarah and Calliope or she would be easily swallowed, even the queen is distilling poison against her. Waiting for Sarah to highlight this jewel for her only son 🤭

upon his grace 2

Upon His Grace 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, bullying, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are called to court after the end of the civil war, but find yourself facing many challenges, expected and not. (fantasy medieval au)

Characters: king!Steve Rogers

Note: friday!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Upon His Grace 2

You are summoned to the queen’s chambers shortly after your arrival. You come together with the other young ladies from courtyard in the corridor just before a set of painted doors. Within, Queen Margaret keeps court with her ladies, of whom you are to be one of. The thought alone has you devilishly unnerved. 

The guards in their livery greet you with dull eyes. The groom announces your purpose and receives little in return aside from the one soldier’s lazy reach to tap upon the door. He lifts the lever and eases a space between the wood. 

“Your highness, you’ve some ladies requesting an audience,” he drones through. 

There is some movement from within. A lady servant appears in her white cap and beckons you inward. You are further intimidated by the formality of it all. Marcia and Marigold rush ahead to be first and the three earls’ daughters from the White Plans take up their train. You glance over at Calliope and trail after her. 

The doors shut at your back and the lady maid retreats, her soles scuffing amid the murmur around you. You look around the skirts of the other debuts and see women in recline, others perched upon cushions and stools, all at leisure with needle, book, or frame. There is another at the window, sat between two ladies on the bench, the late afternoon breeze stirring the long waves that hang around her face, the rest of her chestnut hair twisted up behind her hood.  

The lady maid stands at the wall in deference, “your highness.” 

The brunette raises her chin and her eyes narrow at the lot of you. You can barely see much past the shoulders of the twins and the other ladies clustered closely in shared apprehension. Still, the twins stand tall and the other ladies hardly seem as wrought as you in the ceremony of it all. 

“The twins of...Mawsley, is it?” The queen declares, “yes, your father proved himself a valuable asset, didn’t he?” 

“Your highness,” the twins recite in unison and bow, “Marcia,” the first introduces herself, “Marigold, the second adds. 

“How keen,” the queen chimes, “you look as the same person. How amusing.” 

“Thank you, your highness,” the sisters chirp. 

“And those gowns, wonderful. I may have to ask after your tailor,” Queen Margaret preens, “and where is the Countess’ daughter? I recall I met you once when you were still a child.” 

Calliope steps dutifully, “my mother sends her regards.” 

“Oh, yes, that poor widow,” the queen bemoans, “she is ever steadfast despite her plight.” She takes pause as you sway to see her, “and the rest of you, forgive me, these last days have been a whirlwind and I’ve heard an endless slew of names one after another. 

“Lady Selene,” the very lady proclaims. 

“Lady Ameri,” she bows in quick succession. 

“Lady Dorida,” the last shows her courtesy in an elegant bend. 

As you come forward, the twins push their arms together as if to block you out with their sleeves. You sidle side to side and sweep around their skirts with an ungraceful stumble, “your highness,” you greet as if you have something stuck in your throat. You swallow before you can muster your own name and title. 

“Woodsdam,” the queen tilts her head and looks from the lady at her left shoulder to the one on her right, “I’ve never heard of it.” 

“Neither have I,” the leftmost agrees. 

“Farmland,” the right says. 

“Yes, your highness, my father is a farmer, but an earl as well,” you supply. 

“Mm,” the queen looks down her nose as her lips thin, “it appears the Woodsdam style is much... defined. I don’t think I’ve seen that style gown since my grandmother was still on earth.” 

You look down at your modest cotton. The square cut of your bodice is much different than the other ladies’ rounded collars. Your mother crafted the dress from pieces and the seams are tidy, yet it does lack a similar flair to the others around the chamber. You raise your eyes and keep your composure as best you can. 

“Many thanks, your highness.” 

The queen scoffs, “quaint, indeed.” She sits straighter though her posture is already unyieldingly staunch, “ladies, please acquaint yourself. And be certain to pay heed to these ladies who know well the ways of court. For all that’s changed in these past years, we will retain as ever our elegance and our etiquette.” 

You peer around, uncertain what comes next. A lady stands and calls to Calliope, “Lady, it is me, Gwendolyn, of the Spades. Near Clovers, you will know it?” 

Calliope accepts the initiation and there is a swift storm of voices swirling around the lot of you. You flutter hopefully that someone might think of Woodsdam or might’ve been to the waterfall near Aquil, not far from your father’s hold. The twins confer still with the queen and her ladies, trilling and giggling, as Serena and Dorida marvel over another ladies’ sewing frame, and Ameri is overly familiar with a lady swollen with child. 

You drift away from the centre of the chamber, trying not to draw unwarranted attention. It would do little for any to note your insignificance. You’ve all to soon faded into obscurity. No one cares for a farmer’s daughter. 

“Eh, do you read?” The question startles you and has you spinning to face its speaker. She looks as she sounds; squawkish. Birdlike. Her blond waves are woven with strands of silver and her hooked nose is not unbecoming. 

“Yes, lady, I do,” you answer, uncertain if she is genuine or she means it as jab. 

“Have you read Corswin? He wrote a fair tale about a shepherdess.” 

“I’ve not heard of him,” you recover your confidence at her interest. It is clear she humours you, that she is speaking to only keep you from floundering. 

“I must lend you a book or two,” she insists, “come sit with me. These old hens grow tiresome.” 

“Many thanks, my lady,” you accept and claim the stool next to her, shifting it closer. 

“Sarah,” she gives her name, “Woodsdam. I’ve never been. I hate the swamps.” 

“Oh,” you nod, “yes, it isn’t very swampy. Only in the rainy seasons but we get the sun.” 

“Mm, still, I’ve been down Ashton and I hated the place. My horses caught some sickness there,” she gripes, “perhaps though, your home is more pleasant. A woman old as me, though, I don’t venture far as it is.” She tuts and taps her oval nails on the book in her lap, “if my son wasn’t so foolish as to take up his sword, I’d still be in my library, hidden away from these chits.” 

You clasp your hands together and smile. She’s amicable and you wouldn’t want to bother too much. She flutters the pages of her book and huffs. You look around, sensing some intrigue from the other ladies though they do their best not to let their flitting eyes be caught. 

“All these birds know how to do is cloister themselves up like nuns,” she bemoans, “I’d as soon be out in the sunlight. If I were home, I’d be in my courtyard with a better book than this,” she wags the volume in agitation, “and you, lady? What is it you do on the farmstead? Chase hens?” 

“We have geese,” you say, “though they aren’t truly kept. They sort’ve linger around. And some cattle.” 

“It does sound rather bucolic, this must be all so drab to you, castle walls and dusty tapestries.” 

“Oh, it’s all so wonderful,” you expound. 

“It is?” She drawls tritely, “aren’t these ladies of ours so polite? The way they whisper about our hems and our titles. Don’t let yourself be fooled, though I suppose that should be as good a warning against myself. Ladies of the court are like crows; the like shiny things and the hold grudges, and sometimes, they needn’t even a reason to peck your eyes out.” 

You close your lips and swallow. Her tidings only underline the unwelcome forged in the queen’s introduction. All you might forgive is at least she seems genuine in her girding. You look down at your skirts and run your fingers down a crease. 

“The dress is not so hideous,” she assures gently, “some of the ladies do forget we did just fight a war. There are those without silks and without food in their bellies. They should weigh their fortune that they are still alive and well.” 

Your eyes meet and she looks a little less stony. She turns her head to the window and her gaze drifts into the distance. You follow them with a sense of solemnity. Again, you snare a few glances from the others. Many men died, women and children too. It wouldn’t do to care so much for what people think of your wardrobe. 

👑

Your first day at the castle ends in a fine supper of freshly baked bread, beef with gravy, and seasoned scallions, onions, and sweet herbs. It is not so hearty as your mother’s stew which you share as often with the servants nor so delicious. It’s a different sort of taste but not unpleasant. 

You retire at the queen’s behest. She declares she must see to her husband and several of the other ladies claim the same of their own. You rise and wait courteously to tail after other ladies, not wanting to get underfoot as you so often did on the farm. As you stand aside, Lady Sarah swats you with her book. 

Skirts swish against the rows of chairs and benches that line the long table. The dining chamber is set with the portrait of peregrine and similarly hawkish depictions woven into tapestry and tablecloth alike. Despite the uniform decor, the furniture is mismatched and the hews of wood and metal alternate with each piece. 

“Don’t fear the stampede, little calf, run with it,” she chides, “ah, I’ve decades upon these sows and they plod like heifers.” 

He uncouth words draw your surprise. She laughs at the look you send her and waves you off with the hardcover. She shoulders past you without pause. 

“One day you will see, it is better to speak the truth than let it shred up your soul,” she tosses over her shoulder. “Ah, naivete, how entertaining you are.” 

Her voice carries and you notice how the other women shy away from her. There’s a glint of deference to the tilt in their chins as they part for her like a like drawn in the sand with a stick. You wonder how she can be so bold and why the other might tolerate it. As Queen Margaret girded, you are to maintain propriety. Sarah seems to carry the same manners as any farmhand you’d known. 

You hurry to meet Calliope near the door as she departs. She seems the tamest of the lot thus far. Sharp-witted but not needlessly cruel. She turns her head slightly in acknowledgement of your presence. 

“There you are,” she mutters. 

“Did you enjoy the afternoon?” You ask brightly. 

“Enjoy? I tempered it,” she retorts, “I’ve the measure of most ladies.” 

“The measure? They were all quite friendly.” 

“You are too friendly,” she admonishes, “this is court, you cannot be so simple. Each lady is attached to a lord, thus they work upon his purposes. Her ears are always listening, eyes always seeing.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You represent your father and though mine may be in the ground, I carry his mantle all the same. We are our houses, not ourselves here,” she keeps her voice low and slows markedly to keep away from the others, “you should count yourself fortunate for my wise counsel, lady, for no other would give it.” 

You chew on her words, tasting their bitterness, “so why do you, Lady Calliope?” 

“For I despise those twins and I know they aren’t so keen on you,” she sighs, “and I saw you as any other did with the dowager.” 

“The dowager?” You echo. 

“The king’s mother, Lady Sarah,” she sends you a sharp look, “don’t tell me you didn’t realise?” 

“Oh? No? She spoke of books and her gardens, she didn’t mention...” you peter off and snap your mouth shut. But she had, she did say her son ran off to war. “Oh!” 

“Oh! Indeed,” Calliope mocks and shakes her head. “Look, I’ve not the patience for these women, but you’re not so bad. You don’t speak without meaning. Shall we be companions?” 

“Pardon?” You let your surprise bleed through. 

“I need at least one person I might stomach, how about you? I don’t think the others are so eager to be friends. Marcia did say how you look like a peasant.” 

“She did?” You frown. 

“Hm, you need me,” she insists, “you can’t let yourself be so whimsical. Never mind what they say or think. What do they care so much for anyhow? They are a duke’s daughters, they will do well enough.” 

You carry on next to her. You feel as if you’re being pulled in all different directions though all tell you just the same. Be wary 


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2 years ago

How is this the cutest thing ever😌

8 months ago

I just know she will find her hair when he drags her to his place or even find out that he keeps it in his pocket ☠️

Mission Control 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Mission Control 2

“Height?” The officer taps the nib on his notepad. 

“Ugh, tall. Er,” you keep your hand on your head. It still throbs. “Um, six foot something? He had to be bigger.” 

“Right,” he squints. “Blond, blue eyes, and a scar. Dressed in all black...” he reads it over. “And he didn’t say anything?” 

“No, sir, I told you. Did you check with security? There's cameras--” 

“Nothing there. Checked all the footage. Some glitch. Guy’s not sure. Not his problem, I guess. Paid minimum wage to sit in a room,” he scoffs. “We can file the report but we can’t do much else. No footage, no proof--” 

“No proof? Look at my head. He ripped my hair out!” You whine. 

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen worse. Should count yourself lucky he left you alive,” he says. 

You shake your head and drop your arm, “uh... thanks, I guess.” 

“Look,” he exhales. “I really don’t have much to go on but this guy sniffs around again, call. File another report.” 

“Right,” you agree glumly. “Thank you, officer.” 

He shrugs, “have a good night. You want me to stick around while you lock up.” 

“It’s fine, I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time.” 

You sniff and turn around. You’re not surprised by his indifference or his answers. You have friends who had men pounding on their doors and the same reaction. You saw police arresting drunk girls instead of the guys who cornered them in the bathroom. There isn’t much anyone can do, it seems. Especially not you. 

You go through the closing list. You know it by rote but that night, you’re uncertain. You check the clipboard that hangs behind the counter. You’re fractured. The whole world feels like it’s strewn before you. Nothing fits together. You feel like you’re disconnected from your own body. 

God, your head hurts. 

You stop and open up the front camera on your phone. You look at the bald patch again. Near the back. You can’t really see it head on but it’s there. Or not. He just... did that? He took a part of you. 

You close your phone and put it in your pocket. You pull on your jacket and hike your bag onto your shoulders. As you do, the Pom Pom falls onto the floor. You tossed it on top but didn’t hook it on. You pick it up, quivering. That man... did he find it or take it? 

You squeeze it and grab the keys from the hook. You pull the gate across the store front and lock it. You turn to face the empty mall. 

The idea of going out into the dark and waiting for the bus is the same as scaling a mountain with your bare hands. You make yourself move. The longer you wait, the more likely you’ll miss it.  

Your steps echo around you. You flinch and glance over your shoulders, back and forth, even spinning to make sure you’re alone. 

How are you supposed to do this? After what he did to you. Did he just see you on the bus and decide to mess with you? How did he track you to the store? You had your jacket on, he couldn’t see your name tag or uniform. You didn’t have your badge out. 

You can’t figure any of it out. Would it matter if you could. 

You slow down as you approach the doors. You look out and see the bright signs for the businesses housed in the mall and the other plazas close by, headlights shining along the street. You push through the first door and stand in the vestibule. 

You still have the fluffy pom pom in your hand. You unhook your bag from one shoulder and hook it on. You trade the store keys for your house keys and poke one out between your fingers. You’re on your own. 

You walk out into the night. You don’t stop. You almost jog across the lot out to the bus stop by the road. You duck into the shelter, the lights keeping you safe in their glow. Or so you hope. 

The bus pulls up only a few minutes after. Your relief flows out of your chest as you scan your pass. You find a seat at the back and sit. You want to see everyone else. 

The tires grind the gravel and veer back onto the road. They slow again at the next stop around the corner. You watch the passenger turn and you know him in an instant. He stalks down the center of the bus and climbs the steps up to the back level. He does just as he did that morning. 

He sits beside you. You can’t move or speak. You can’t believe it. 

He must know that no one else cares. He’s counting on it. You’re breathless as you shake, your ribs wracked as adrenaline burns through you. 

“Why?” You quaver weakly. He doesn’t answer. You lean away from him and touch your head, grazing your tender scalp. “Please, why me?”  

Still nothing. 

“Why are you doing this?” You whimper. 

He closes his eyes and lifts his chin. His hand moves from his leg onto yours and he squeezes. You tremble as his fingertips dig into your flesh. 

“Please, stop!” You cry out and slap his hand. 

No reaction. What is wrong with him? You wriggle and look at your other hand; the key poking out from your fist. You bring it down towards his hand but he’s fast. He retracts his touch and the key sinks into your thigh muscle. You screech, and he reaches across to tug the cord. 

“What’s going on back there?” The driver hollers back as he stops. 

The man stands and marches away. He doesn’t answer the driver or look back. He steps off the bus and you watch him through the window. He almost fades into the dark as he delves into the shadows of the buildings.  

“Knock it off,” the driver warns as he puts his foot on the pedal. 

You puff between your teeth and look around at the other passengers; deafened by headphones and ear buds, engrossed in their screens and pages. There’s at least ten other riders yet you’re all alone. 

You look down. You quaking as you let go of the key and it sticks out of your leg. You cringe and grasp it as tight as you can. You hold your breath as you rip it out. Argh.  

That officer was right. You’re lucky he didn’t do worse. 


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7 months ago

I started reading it at the time it came out, but I stopped because I was very sleepy and I felt like I wasn't really consuming the story and I'M SO GLAD I came back because this is a work of art. The way he verbalizes the fears she confessed to him? This man is the devil and wants to dismantle her. I need more!⚰️

Lead Us Not Into Temptation

Lead Us Not Into Temptation

Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader

Warnings: NON-CON, mentions of prostitution, mentions of infidelity

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies 

Lead Us Not Into Temptation

summary: turning your life around is easier said than done when you tempt the very man meant to lead you to salvation.

♱

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned…”

The familiar words tumbled from your lips, and your gaze remained on your lap, eyes following your finger as you traced patterns into the solid black skirt on your frame. It kissed your ankle as you shifted your feet, and the reminder of the long fabric had you swallowing down less than gentle thoughts. You slowly reached up to touch the collar of your shirt, eyes briefly falling closed as you cleared your throat.

You’d spent hours agonizing over how you’d leave the house…

“It has been seven days since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Like clockwork, you listed the time you cursed for some accident or another and the time you took the Lord’s name in vain and the brief impure thought about that attractive man you’d seen in the grocery store. Every week, it was the same. Sins that you yourself would never have considered as such months ago that you were now hyper aware of. They climbed out of your throat seamlessly, remembering every single one until only one was left.

The silence between you and the man just on the other side of that wall stretched—a familiar occurrence—and you took your lip between your teeth. You could taste blood as you worried it, swallowing it down before clearing your throat again. You smoothed your hand over your skirt, and you furiously blinked, struggling to blink away the tears that had started to collect. As you sat in silence, you wondered why you were trying so hard to impress people that had already written you off?

“I’ve had…some hateful thoughts as well.”

You struggled to get the words out, always struck by just how emotional this made you. You looked up towards the ceiling, eyes roaming, and you hadn’t even realized that your breathing had started to pick up until he spoke.

Father Mayhew.

“Take your time,” he gently encouraged. “Speak when you are ready.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words, recalling your first ever confessional and how you’d cried. It was as embarrassing now as it was then, but it was necessary. You were determined to live differently now—to be different, now.

“Although I have abandoned my former life and…occupation…” you thought you heard him shift. “...I feel as if I will never truly be forgiven for it.”

You swiped your tongue between your lips.

“...will never be accepted.”

You recalled the eyes that often found their way to you during mass—the judgment, the disdain, the way in which some stared at you as if they didn’t know how to place you. 

Every sunday it was the same. You’d wake up and agonize over how to present yourself in a place as holy as this. You’d fret that this skirt was too short and that dress was too tight. You’d fiddle with your hair for far too long and every lipstick you wiped off would stain your lips a little more than the last. You were constantly at a crossroad, torn between wanting to look nice for church and concerned about looking like…well…a whore.

You struggled to swallow.

“I see the way they look at me,” you eventually whispered, staring at nothing. “I can’t hear what they whisper, but I know it’s about me.”

You touched your throat, hating how tight it felt.

“It’s…discouraging.”

You didn’t want to use that word, but it was the only word that was appropriate. It made you sad, and you often wondered why you kept returning to a place that made you sad. Surely a church wasn’t necessary to ‘find God’...right? You didn’t think so, but you had wanted to start somewhere, and considering that none of your friends even owned a bible, they had been of no help. Stepping foot into a place that had only ever served to be ominous and oppressive in your eyes was the most terrifying thing you’d ever done.

…but then you had laid eyes on Father Mayhew.

He’d been the only one in the church at the time, and you would never forget the curious glint in his dark gaze. You’d had no doubt that he could see you were scared and unsure and in an environment you were wholly unused to. You’d appreciated the gentle way in which he talked to you, guiding you towards a pew in the front as you asked him questions that some people had answers to their entire lives. He hadn’t treated you like you were stupid, but more importantly, he hadn’t treated you like you didn’t belong.

You were willing to bet that he hadn’t even known about you then.

Although, months later, you were willing to bet that he did now…even though you’d never told him.

“Humans are flawed,” his smooth voice reached your ears through the wall. “We all fall short—even the most devout of us—and we find ourselves falling prey to the temptation of judgment…pride…lust…”

You intently listened. After all, he’d never said these words to you before, always giving you some speech about God’s love trumping all.

“I have no doubt that it is trying, but I am sure you will come to give them grace for their sins just as they will give you grace for yours. We are all God’s children striving to lead a life in his image…”

His voice lowered at that, and you frowned slightly, looking towards the wall and thinking to yourself that he almost seemed to be talking to himself now.

“He wants his children to love one another, a feat that is not without difficulty I’m sure you know…” that actually made you hold back a chuckle. “...but God’s love is powerful and he always grants forgiveness to those who genuinely yearn and ask for it.”

At that, you did smile.

You told him that you were truly sorry for your sins, and he told you to say ten Hail Mary’s, and you stepped out of the confessional feeling better than you did thirty minutes ago. You didn’t know how long the feeling would last though, and so you wanted to hold onto it for as long as you could, but you knew from experience that was easier said than done.

You touched the crucifix around your neck as you stepped out of your building.

It had once belonged to your mother, and despite how long she’d been gone and how down on your luck you’d been ever since, you could never quite find it in you to pawn it. It was real gold—probably the only real piece of jewelry you ever owned—but you just couldn’t do it, and you supposed that you were never meant to. Despite the many years you’d lived life as the complete opposite of a God fearing woman…it felt right sitting just below your collarbone.

Even if many would not agree.

You were no stranger to several men in this town—and the ones who often passed through on their truck routes—but that had not stopped you from seeking solace and guidance from a place you’d never stepped foot into in your life. You couldn’t lie and say it didn’t feel…strange to be in the same building as some of the men you’d serviced before, their wives and children at their side as they furiously avoided making eye contact with you. It felt even worse to watch the way the women would congregate together after church, excluding you all the while talking about you.

It felt somewhat pathetic for your only ally in the place to be the priest.

Although you sometimes wondered how true that was these days. You’d never once confessed that you used to be a prostitute—although the kids called it sex work these days—but you weren’t stupid. As godly and devout as they claimed to be, you knew that the church was filled with gossip and there was no telling who’d let it slip to the dark haired man. You knew when he knew though…

…because he looked at you different.

It wasn’t a bad different—thank God for that—but just…different, and while it wasn’t necessarily bad, you still didn’t think you liked it. Confession—being anonymous—never allowed for you to tell him your name, and considering you’d only ever spoken to him once outside of confession months ago, you didn’t know if he ever knew it was you he was talking to. You didn’t know if he knew that the woman he spoke so gently with each week and listened to cry on the other side of some window was the same woman who often shrunk under his heavy gaze as he looked down on his congregation.

You never felt like he was judging you, no, but you also never felt like he was looking at you as he did that first day, a gentle curiosity in his eyes. He wasn’t your friend—far from it in fact—but he felt like the closest thing you had to one in this church, and so you often forced yourself to find excuses for it. He watches you because he wants to make sure you’re settling in okay. He watches you to observe how other members of the church are treating you. He watches you because he’s wondering if you’ll ever come to confession, convincing yourself that he’s never recognized your voice all this time.

That is why he watches you, you told yourself.

No other reason. 

“You always come to pray at least three times a week…”

The familiar voice startled you as you stood, hand lowering as you’d just finished signing the cross. Your hand was still on your chest as you turned to face him, a small smile on your lips as he stood directly in the center of the aisle. You hadn’t even heard him make a single sound, and you wondered how long he’d been standing there.

He slowly returned your smile with one of his own, although it was smaller, and the silent way in which he stared at you reminded you that he’d said something to you. 

“Yes,” you finally said, moving away from the altar. “It helps with…um…really everything.”

He blinked at you, and you noticed that a strand of his hair was threatening to go rogue. He always looked so neat and perfect that it was hard to miss. Father Mayhew was handsome—if anyone had seen enough men to know it was you—but he was handsome in a way that you would categorize as flawless. Divine even. In a way that was untouchable and only meant to be admired in the most innocent of appreciation. 

He slowly nodded at your response, and you didn’t miss the way he studied you—dark eyes drinking you in and taking note of every stylistic choice you’d made today.

“You know, I think I might see your face far more than those who have been coming here for years,” he lightly told you, a slight laugh on his lips.

You laughed with him, only offering him a shrug.

“I’m still new. I’m sure it just seems that way because you aren’t used to seeing me.”

He started to shake his head before you could even finish talking, and you watched him move closer.

“No,” he murmured—so low you almost didn't hear him. “I think you are perhaps my most…devout congregant.”

He touched your crucifix as he said this, dark eyes tracing the shape of it, and he was so close that you could smell his cologne. You blinked at the scent, finding it strange to know that he wore cologne. It shouldn’t be strange, you supposed, but you realized then that you didn’t quite view priests—view him—as human. As normal…

His eyes lifted then to finally connect with yours, and a crooked smile danced along his pink lips.

“It’s admirable,” he whispered. “More of my congregation could stand to follow your lead.”

You couldn’t ignore the way your chest bloomed at those words, almost hating how much validation you wanted from this place. Validation that you were a good person…you weren’t who you used to be…that you were worthy of something more, you didn’t know. It just felt relieving to hear such a compliment from Father Mayhew when no one else in the church would even give you a chance.

“Thank you, Father,” you quietly replied to him. “That means a lot to me.”

You watched him slowly inhale as he dropped his hand, and he seemed even slower to step out of your way. When you walked past him, you could feel his gaze on you—always watching—and you smiled when he called out to you, telling you that he looked forward to seeing you on Sunday.

No one was more sad than you when you had to disappoint him.

An unexpected cold had you bedridden for days, and while you knew that an illness was a perfectly valid excuse to miss church, you couldn’t swallow down the disappointment. You hadn’t missed a single Sunday since you first started going, and you thought to yourself that the first thing you’d do when you returned was explain your absence to Father Mayhew.

You had never anticipated him showing up at your door to get it himself.

No one ever knocked on your door these days, so the sound had taken you by surprise. Your friends—while supportive of the direction your life had taken—didn’t quite understand it and so you didn’t see them as often, and as for anyone else… Well, there wasn’t anyone else who would come knocking on your door. You didn’t do that anymore so no customers were going to be greeting you on the other side with their money in their hand and an eager grin on their lips, and you doubted any of the women in town would want to sit down for a chat anytime soon.

Your shock at Father Mayhew’s presence was all over your face.

“Father,” you stated, the lilt in your voice hinting at your surprise.

He looked just as you were used to seeing him—clerical collar still on, not a hair out of place, and a hint of a smile on those pink lips. You stood there gaping at him for all of five seconds before it struck you how rude you were probably being.

“I…I’m so sorry. Um…come in,” you told him, stepping out of the way and widening the gap in the doorway.

He didn’t respond nor move right away, looking past you into your small house with a look in his gaze that you couldn’t name. If he were anyone else, you might worry that he was judging where you lived. You watched his jaw briefly tighten, a noticeable strain in his face, and it only just occurred to you that maybe this wasn’t appropriate? Although you were positive you’d heard of priests and pastors visiting the sick before, and while you certainly weren’t on your deathbed, you didn’t see why this would be different.

Before you could say another word though, his foot crossed the threshold, and you closed the door behind him.

“I do apologize for the unexpected visit,” he said to you, gazing around before his eyes landed on you again. “...but when I noticed that mass was absent of a face I’d grown to look forward to, I became concerned.”

You couldn’t stop your smile at his words

“Oh,” you softly said. “Well, there’s no need to be concerned. It’s just a small cold that will be gone in a day or two.”

You watched him exhale at that, nodding to himself, and you studied him, surprised to see that he looked genuinely relieved at that.

“I’m glad to hear that’s all it is…”

At that, your brows furrowed, and you watched him slowly walk about your living room.

“I had feared that some of your fellow church goers had scared you off.”

Your lips parted at his words, and he turned and looked at you.

“They often fall into the temptation of judgment, after all…”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you didn’t know how to react with the knowledge that he knew it was you who came to see him once a week. You’d only spoken to him face to face twice, and you swallowed, looking away.

“I thought it would be a shame if they scared you off,” he confessed, and you noted that he was closer now. “I wondered what I would have to do to convince you to come back. Drag you, perhaps.”

You gave a soft laugh at that, although he didn’t join you, and it awkwardly faded. He stared at you in silence for what felt like a long time, and just when you were considering asking him if he wanted anything to drink, he reached out to touch the crucifix around your neck again.

“So devout,” he quietly said to himself. “It almost makes me ashamed…”

At that, you gave a heavy laugh, wondering how you could ever shame a priest.

“Why?”

“...because I see why they flocked to your door…money in hand.”

His gaze lifted as he said that, and you were still as you both just stared at each other. His words made you blink, and you were suddenly very aware of his hand practically on you. You couldn’t stop the slight frown that fell over your face, and for the first time in months—since you first stepped foot into that church—you felt…wrong.

“I see why their eyes trace every inch of you when you’re not looking…as if to relive the memory of what you felt like—tasted like.”

You finally took a step back, hand coming up to cover your necklace as if protecting it from his touch.

“What memories they must have of you…”

You wrapped your other arm around yourself, mind whirling to reconcile the man before you with the same man who’d always been so welcoming and gentle. Not once did you ever think he judged you for your past, and you supposed that you were right, but not once did you ever think he also might…

You hadn’t done that in over a year, but had it really escaped you so quickly that a seemingly devout man was still…a man?

“Father, I think you should-.”

“I don’t say any of this to offend you,” he interrupted, tilting his head. “I say it because I fight the urge to touch you every time you’re in my presence.”

You moved by him to make your way to the door, but like an ever present shadow you only just noticed, he was close behind.

“You can cover up as much as you’d like—wear skirts down to your ankle and shirts up to your chin…” his hand on the door halted your movements. 

You felt his chest just barely grazing your back, and his lips followed suit, the softness of them brushing against your ear as he spoke. That familiar cologne invaded your senses.

“...but none of it can hide the temptation you pose by merely existing.”

You shrunk away from him at that, tears in your eyes as he verbalized the same fears you had every time you walked into the building. You flinched when his lips touched the back of your neck, heart dropping to your stomach, but you reached for the door handle anyway.

“Father, I’d like you to leave-.”

Your words were cut off by your own sharp scream, taken aback by the feel of his fingers harshly pressing into the skin of your throat. His hand rested on the back of your neck, and you pressed your hand to the door when his lips grazed your cheek.

“They’re all like rabid dogs…just waiting to pounce,” he mused against your skin, sliding between you and the door and forcing you further into your house with every step. “Just waiting for you to give up this charade and go back to taking their money for a quick fuck.”

You blinked, and a few tears escaped.

“...but they don’t know you like I know you.”

He grinned against your cheek, and you winced as he lightly nipped at the skin there.

“They don’t know that you come to church at least thrice a week to light candles and pray…”

You were full on sobbing now, and you could feel the cool metal of his ring against the back of your neck.

“They don’t know that you never miss your weekly confession, telling me every time you so much as say the Lord’s name in vain.”

His free hand was reaching for the buttons of your shirt, popping them open one by one, and you gasped when his fingers finally met skin. He dipped his head, mouth finding the skin of your shoulder and collarbone interesting before his hand searched for your wrist.

“They don’t know that you are the most pious woman to walk through those doors,” he purred, pressing gentle kisses to the inside of your wrist. “...and that I just want to ruin you for it.”

When his hand dipped between your legs, you were quick to try and stop him, still wincing at the tight grip on the back of your neck. Father Mayhew made a noise of disapproval, and your hand faltered when he harshly bit your shoulder.

“We are…and always will be…sinners…”

Once his fingers were inside of you, it was like the point of no return. You found it funny that he likened the men in church to that of rabid dogs when he himself was behaving like the very thing he used to insult them. When your knees buckled, he followed—one arm around you and holding you in place while the fingers on his other hand curved into you.

Every thrust of his fingers made you wetter—embarrassingly so—and when he pulled your head back, he forced a kiss onto your lips. He swallowed down your whimpers and noises of protest, a moan escaping him as he tasted the inside of your mouth. With him so close to you, you could feel the muscles and contours of his frame beneath his clothes, and you were forced to recognize your predicament and his strength and what that meant for you.

When you were face to face with him again, his hair was nowhere near as neat as it was when he first walked through your door. His pink lips were swollen and reddened from kissing you and dragging over your skin. Your pajama top had long been discarded, the bottoms long ripped and pulled off of you. Father Mayhew’s—Charlie—clerical collar was long gone, his shirt pulled open and hanging off of him.

You recalled the way your mouth had parted into an ‘O’ shape when the head of his cock finally dipped into you, stretching you with every inch and making your heart momentarily stop. His hand covered a breast, the feel of his ring cooling that singular part of your skin, the rest of you so overheated. His other hand was wrapped around your throat, and you clawed at his hand as he fucked you.

The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud in your tiny home, the only sound to rival it being his harsh grunts and your strained voice. Any fight that you’d put up had been quickly squashed down, shown in the harshest manner just how strong your priest was. You hated how good it felt, hated that you didn’t want this but was now forced to enjoy it. Nevermind the fact that you hadn’t enjoyed sex for the act itself in years…

…but of all people to find yourself in this predicament with.

Father Mayhew’s hands never stayed in one place for long. He seemed determined to touch every part of you he could get his hands on, lips tasting the saltiness of your skin. Sweat clung to your frame and his, his fingers sliding over you as he kneaded your thighs and your waist and your chest. Every time you reminded yourself how wrong this was, he’d push his cock into you to the hilt, and you’d involuntarily throw your head back.

You could feel your crucifix pressing into your skin, and your eyes watered.

“I must admit that I was—am—jealous,” he dragged out, voice hoarse and throaty and wholly unlike how you were used to hearing him. “Your devotion to God inspires an envy within me that I never knew existed.”

You took note of the scars on his back underneath your fingers.

“...a desire to have you completely devoted to me,” he bit out, covering your lips with his own. “You so desperately desire forgiveness and acceptance…and all the things you didn’t think you were worthy of having.”

He harshly thrust into you, making you gasp.

“...and I can give that to you,” he whispered into the kiss.

The power behind his thrusts had you scratching at both his back and the floor, eyes squeezing shut at the way his fingers dug into your skin. It was like he was both holding you to him and trying to prevent you from ever walking away. Your chest arched up into his as you gasped, choked whimpers climbing out of your throat with every push of his hips. He growled against your skin as his lips traveled to your neck, the sound almost demonic to your ears.

When you came around him—your first orgasm in over a year—you couldn’t swallow down the noise it forced out of you. You could feel blood beneath your nails and a slickness on the inside of your thighs, but all the while Father Mayhew didn’t stop.

With one hand pressed against the floor, he pushed himself up to look down at you. His free hand slid up your sweaty frame, coming up to wrap around the crucifix that rested against your skin. He tightened his hold around it, and he pulled on it, forcing you to lift your head and meet him halfway for a kiss.

“I want you just as eager to get on your knees for me…”


Tags
9 months ago

Stand for ALL black women

- College Educated black women

- Street Educated black women

- Poor black women

- rich black women

- Gay black women

- Trans black women

- Queer black women

- Imprisoned black women

- criminal-past black women

- mentally ill black women

- sex working black women

- disabled black women

- old black women

-young black women

- loud black women

- quiet black women

- dark-skinned black women

- Light-skinned black women

- fat, skinny, curvy, muscular, athletic black women

- agnostic, Muslim, Buddhist, Christian, Wiccan, Pagan, Bruja black women

- black women that are artists

- black women that cosplay

- black women that feel out of place

- black women out of work

- black women on welfare

- black women working two jobs

- black mothers

- black sisters

- black women choosing to exist in a world that doesn’t care if they exist.

All black women.

11 months ago
CHRIS EVANS As STEVE ROGERS Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014)
CHRIS EVANS As STEVE ROGERS Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014)

CHRIS EVANS as STEVE ROGERS Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014)

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kellhems - steve rogers wife
steve rogers wife

𝐛𝐢𝐛𝐢 🍉: 𝟐𝟏. 𝐚𝐟𝐫𝐨-𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧. 𝐬𝐡𝐞/𝐡𝐞𝐫. some dark stuff, virgil van dijk and drew starkey

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