I Love Men Who Moan, Men Who Whimper Unashamedly In Your Ear. Men Who Sob, Men Who Cry, Men Who Bite

black vampires + witches

akasha, queen of the damned (2002)

louis & claudia, interview with the vampire (2022-)

tara thorton, true blood (2008-2014)

blade, blade (1998)

marcel gerard, the originals (2013-2018)

sarah fox, my babysitter's a vampire (2011-2012)

alex & camryn, twitches (2005)

rochelle zimmerman, the craft (1996)

bonnie bennett, the vampire diaries (2009-2017)

vincent griffith, the originals (2013-2018)

marie laveau, american horror story (2011-)

macy vaughn, charmed (2018-2022)

“Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.”

I read this here listening to SZA and broke down in tears as I just wanted a smut to read 😭

Just One More/No More

Relationship: Chris Evans x black!reader

Warnings: heartbreak, too many emotions, infidelity/cheating, an affair, graphic language, drinking, cliffhanger, emo smut, oral (fem rec), unprotected sex, crying, angst angst angst…18+

A/N: Angst Queen here…another for the Breakup to Make Up 2K collection. Mmm this is based on a true story…so it was fun to recount lol uh you might cry? I hope you do cuz I’m a monster. Not sorry for the cliffhanger. You won’t be having fun with this one.

You’re falling in love with him. Didn’t mean for it to happen, but…you’re falling in love with your best friend. Your best friend who you spent everyday with, getting drunk and shooting the shit, confessing every bit of your lives to each other for the past five years. Brought together through a friend of a friend, your relationship with Chris jumped off without an awkward breath, immediately bonding over your love of tattoos and football. Like it was meant to be. Whenever either of you had an idea in mind, you were each other’s first call. Let’s go here. Let’s try this out. Oh you know what would be fun? Hey I need a plus one. You had each other, and never second guessed a single thing about your relationship, even when your friends thought it was so weird that you guys are so close because,

“You’re not even his girlfriend.” Your friend Bri fusses as you two sit at a table on the patio, drinks in hand, while the guys order another round. “You don’t think that’s weird? You two spend all this time together and you don’t even reap the benefits.”

Little does she know…

You take a sip of your beer with a small shrug of your shoulders. “That’s a them problem.” You kinda shout across the table since an annoying 80’s rock ballad blares from the speakers. “Not an us problem. I can’t control Chris. Besides she’s trash fuck her.”

That wasn’t a secret. Chris had been dating the worst girl off and on for as long as you’d known him. She didn’t even seem all that interested in him, and you’d heard that she was out trying to fuck other dudes while being with the perfect guy. But they somehow were into each other? Their dynamic made literally zero sense. You can’t understand why he keeps going back, what fuckin spell she had on him, but she drove everyone crazy with her weirdo personality. With how she smothered Chris when they were together. How he became such a fuckin pussy when she was near. It was disgusting. It made you wanna fist fight her.

“Exactly. So why aren’t you two together?!”

That’s a question you’re tired of hearing. Everyone in your friend group could see it, hell you and Chris could see it for yourselves but clearly he has issues. And so do you, still working on getting over your ex who blew your heart apart. There’s just no need to address it. Where you and Chris exist is exactly what you need: best friends who take care of each other. In every conceivable way. But the feelings, the love, you two have for each other is very loud and very real even your friends picked up on it. Always wondering why. Always throwing their two cents in when neither of you asked. No matter how you felt deep down, this hodgepodge of a relationship worked in its own strange way.

Rolling your head back with a tired huff, you gripe, “Bri it doesn’t matter.” Because he’s never really going to leave her. “I’m fine.” But you aren’t. “We’re good!” For the time being.

Bri just stares at you with the stalest face, ignoring every bullshit word flying from your lips. “Bitch, you’re lying so hard through your teeth right now I wanna get up and leave.”

“What the fuck do you want me to do bro?”

Give him an ultimatum? End your friendship? Stop fucking him? Yeah you hated all those options. And she can’t come up with anything else either, already expecting you to come up with all sorts of excuses as to why you’ll never leave Chris alone.

“I’m just…” Darting her eyes to some dudes playing cornhole, Bri sorrowfully looks away, “I’m tired of seeing you hurting.”

Shit. Why’d she go and bring that up. Sitting your beer down, you smack your lips and sigh. All of that was the last thing on your mind lately. It’s been weeks since you cried about him, and you were no longer in your feelings about them getting back together for the 100th time. You knew not to get your hopes up, but he didn’t help when he whisked you out of town to hit some breweries for the day. Even though he was feeling some type of way most of the trip you guys had fun. Getting drunk and playing games, fucking in the backseat. Not even a week later, he was telling you she was apologizing and begging for him to take her back. And he did. But you knew what it was so you swallowed all that poison back down with a side eye and kept it moving.

Bri was starting to hate him for everything you’d been going through. His image tarnished the more he kept you hanging by this deteriorating thread. You told her to let it go, that this was as much your decision as it was his, but that didn’t matter to her. Chris was fuckin you up on the inside. And you wouldn’t let go because you’re in love with him. But how could you be when he was fucking with your emotions like this. It’s complicated to say the least.

The night’s nearing its end, and everyone’s about ready to call it except for you two. You guys had plans to go back to your place and drink some more, watch a movie or something. Bri’s already shaking her head as you hug her goodbye, yelling with her eyes GO HOME WITHOUT HIM but that’s not happening tonight.

“See you guys later.” Chris drops his heavy arm around your shoulders, turning you down the sidewalk to head to his car. Everyone disperses with laughs and shouts of goodbyes. Cars driving by looking for parking. You take his hand dangling over your shoulder with a smile when you feel his chin resting atop your head. “I’m starving.”

You’d eaten at the taco truck that’s traditionally parked at the bar but he’s a weirdo eater. Not into certain foods. So you guys always have to make a stop at the worst place. “Please don’t say we’re going to Burger King.”

Chris sniffs a laugh pulling you in closer to his side, flexing his muscles around your neck. He knows you hate that place he just loves to get a rise out of you. “Nah I can just eat up all your snacks.”

“You’re the worst,” you jab a sharp elbow in his gut, “but I’d prefer that over the smell of a Whopper.”

But he didn’t eat up your snacks, just your pussy until you were absolutely begging for him to stop. Always going so hard since his girlfriend didn’t like getting head and Chris had a consistent hunger for something sweet. Why would you ever complain about a man wanting to go down on you. Another pivotal moment you knew that his girlfriend wasn’t shit. Because this man was a beast, using all his mouth to make you cum over and over again. Tonight he’s up to four and you’re too drunk to handle five. Rooms been spinning since he ripped your jeans down your squirming legs. Your squeals are his motivator. Each time you’d climax all over his fluid tongue, you’d curse him for being so ferocious, the way his hooded sapphire gaze would intently watch you lose your mind, the way the corners of his lips perked up behind your messy pussy. You’d curse her for being such a basic bitch, for not releasing him so he could finally really be yours. You’d curse yourself for being such a simp because he didn’t deserve to be inside your heart, your mind, your body like this.

“You’re so weak.” Chris teases as he finally releases your trembling folds, fully licking the juices off his pretty smirking lips. “You know you could have given me another.”

“Asshole.” You’re still trying to catch your breath lifting your ten ton head off the seat of the couch. Combination of alcohol and euphoria weighing you down. Laughing at you struggling, Chris stretches up between your legs to give you a taste, hairs of his beard sticky wet against your chin murmuring,

“Love you too.” Soiled lips dancing across yours just before he kisses you slow, your senses overwhelmed by your essence. Fingers slipping through his soft fluffy hair. Yeah you guys were that comfortable with the “I love yous.” “Mmm you’re so fuckin delicious.”

“Yeah?” A noisy smack of your conjoined lips fills the silence. “Better than her?”

“Hmmm,” Chris suppresses a chuckle, lightly brushing his nose against yours, always loves when you want him to brag about it, “so much better baby…I could eat you out all night if you weren’t such a baby…”

Laughing softly, you guys unlatch your jaws for another filthy kiss, swapping your creamy goodness between greedy mouths. You could kiss Chris for hours, so damn perfect the spark’s electric every single time. The way your lips just molded so perfectly together. Always so sensual and down right erotic each time y’all were attached by the tongue. His jeans already open and falling off his narrow hips, Chris takes ahold of his cock and slaps it over your slit a few times before breaking through your welcoming entrance. Groaning together as he fills you up. No greater feeling in this universe. Maybe to him, your questions sound a little bitter…but for you, it’s just an ounce of gratification you needed to reassure that you’re the piece missing in his life…

“Oh—oh my…feel better than her?”

If only he could realize it…

“God yes baby…”

And actually do something about it…

“Only you make feel this fuckin good fuck.”

But he’s a man, an obedient love sick puppy…

“Fuck me like you love me Chris.”

Who has allegiance to the wrong owner.

“I do…I love you…”

Sure, you look like a dumb bitch, fucking and falling for someone who is off limits. Someone you shouldn’t even consider messing around with if you want to keep such a great friendship in tact. Because he is your best friend. You loved Chris unconditionally. But tell the story to anyone else and they’d all say the same thing: “Are you crazy?!” But in all honesty, you can’t think of the last time you felt sane. As much as you’re a crutch to him, Chris is to you as well, supplying you with just right type of attention to get your shit ex off your mind. You’d found some form of comfort in the midst of chaos. Plus the sex. Good God the sex…since she was hardly into anything, he exerted all that frustrated energy out on you. On top of that, the sexual chemistry between you and Chris was…immaculate. Which wasn’t ever a concern…but such a beautiful discovery the first time you two touched. The fuel to the madness and you guys couldn’t stop it no matter how hard either of you tried. Plenty of fights. Emotional breakdowns. Not speaking to each other for days until one of you caved, desperately running back to each other. Going absolutely nowhere.

But how could you be mad at yourself. So much of it felt completely out of your control. Before you knew it, you were swooning over his every word. Slipping. C’mon…it’s him. Goofy, lovable, good natured, effortlessly funny, fine ass Chris. Your potential demise in sight but you’re too blinded by his…everything.

Drowning. Damaging. So selfish. Immature. Fucked.

So no one else but Bri was aware of how close you were to your next emotional break. Not even Chris, and he’s usually hip to your feelings, which was weird if you think about it. Guess you were getting better at faking it. But there was no hiding your disgust when she was around. She really knew how to suck the excitement out of a room as soon as she walked in. The moment you could hear the collective grumblings from the group, you and Bri’s included, the vibes turned so sour.

“Fuck I thought she wasn’t coming out tonight.” You bitch to your bestie watching them cross the bar to where everyone’s seated. Lil lovesick pup in tow. Oh it’s going to be a long ass night. “Uuuggghhhh…look at them—,”

“We can go.” Bri offered it up quick because she’s been here too many times before. Seen how this night unfolds and she’d rather fucking not. “Please let’s go.”

“Hey girls!” Her shrill voice makes y’all’s skin crawl. Where did she even come from, you both grimace away from her. “Haven’t seen you two in forever.”

“Heeeey…” You and Bri turn to face her with flat smiles, doing your best to fake it but ugh. The hug was short and awkward and you wish you could take it back. But then Chris approaches and gives you one of those half assed, one armed, bullshit pat on the back type hugs, instead of his usual full teddy bear embrace, and it hurts. Couldn’t even look him in the eye as he pulled away, sighing back all the pain you feel. You fuckin hate when he does that shit to you in front of her. Hate it when he flips the little bitch switch.

“Seriously we can go. Right the fuck now.” Bri begs in your ear as the two of you watch them go talk to the others. She wants to save you but no matter how shitty you feel, you refuse to let them run you off.

Stewing, shooting daggers into Chris’s fit back, you slam back the rest of your beer and shake your head no as Bri groans in agony. She was hopeful…but she knew what was up.

“You’re on the clock.” She snaps her fingers to break your murderous stare off the spectacle. “We leave within the hour. Got it?”

Like an hour was going to save you. Anything can happen within an hour.

Beer after beer, you watch him treat you like the invisible man, and give her every ounce of his fake ass adoration. What’s it like living a double life? What’s it like pretending? Even his smile is falling, exhausted from pretending, but his brave face is strong. Your friends’ eyes exchange awkward glances the more she yakked on about absolutely nothing. Fuck she’s so boring, and phony. Phony ass couple. Each time you slammed down an empty bottle, another, full and uncapped, gets slammed down right behind it. Go on. Drink. Unravel because none of this shit matters. By the end of this charade, he’ll be texting you, asking if he can come spend the night with you. Not her.

“Hey can I talk to you for a bit?”

Jumping up in your seat, startled, she caught you completely lost in your thoughts, looking back at her with a confused brow.

“Sure?” You blink but unmoved so she takes an empty seat beside you with this unnerving smirk you’d love to slap off her stupid face.

“Look, I really just want to thank you for taking care of Chris.” She starts, almost placing her hand on your shoulder but your angered brow advised her against that. “You know, being there for him through everything. You’re a really good friend. I think you should know that.”

Of course you know that! And you didn’t need her bitch ass to tell you that! Clearing the animosity from your knotted throat, you shoot her a stale grin and choke, “my pleasure.” Because what the actual fuck are you supposed to say to any of that. She can go, her validation is hardly needed. Unfortunately for you, that’s not the end of her speech.

“We’re both really grateful to have you in his life.” Your brow pinches. “You keep him…occupied when I can’t. And I love you for that.”

Bri and Chris observe you two from their respected corners, wondering what she’s saying to have you frowned up like that. Ready to run interference just in case she jumps stupid or something.

You almost fix your mouth to ask her what she means by all that bullshit she just spouted off but you reconsider. She loves you for what exactly? Keeping him occupied? Like you’re his fuckin baby sitter or something? Is she serious? You really wanted to ask but you also didn’t want to have an actual conversation with her. You have no clue what to say…so she takes your dumbfounded silence as an opportunity to expand. Totally blindsiding you.

“I know y’all are hooking up.” The noise of the bar fades away. “I mean…I sorta encouraged it, ya know?” No you didn’t fuckin know! Your skin’s aflame with embarrassment and rage. “Sometimes I just need him from underneath me. So thank you.”

Her smile’s so joyful, like she really meant her gratitude towards you but in the back of your mind, she’s lowkey mocking you? Is this bitch mocking you?! No words. No thoughts. Stupefied. Is your hour up yet because you’ve got to get the fuck up out of here. Dropping your bottle back on the table, you’re up on your feet and booking it, unsure of where you’re going. You just had to get the fuck away from her stupid happy face. Chris stops Bri from getting up as he chases you out to the back patio, calling out to you when you’re both safe in the warm night air.

“Hey, hey, hey. What’s going on? What did she say?”

Spinning around to face him, you almost collide into his broad chest but you hold steady, pointing a sharp finger up at his nose. “What’d she say?! Are you fuckin kidding me right now?!” You snatch your hand out of his face, pivoting to turn away but you stop yourself, “Did you know that was going to happen? Did you two plan to ambush me?!”

Chris is thrown by that word. “Ambush you?! What?! No I’d never do that to you. What’s going on. What did she say.”

“How does she know about us Chris?”

The question slaps him upside the head, slaps all the words right off his drying tongue. Face falling with the reality of what was happening, he can’t even process what you just asked. Why would she…

“She…she doesn’t…” Chris blinks but that’s uncertain. “She…she shouldn’t…” He looks just as stuck as you, trying to playback any memory where he may have let it slip but nothing. He wouldn’t just come out and tell her something like this, right?

“She pretty much just told me she does!” You didn’t know what to do with your hands flailing all around your head. Really you wanted to hit him but it’d be pointless with all that muscle. Maybe you should go back inside and fuckin hit her! Because seriously, what the hell was that?! You don’t know what to make of this fuck shit. Chris didn’t know what to say, really hates to see you so upset so he goes to give you a hug but you push yourself out of his reach. You don’t want his comfort. “I’m—I’m so…I don’t know…embarrassed? Pissed off…like…what the actual fuck dude?!” You’re so mad you pace, not to be near him.

“I’m so sorry baby…” Sorry? Really? “I had no clue, seriously, I’m just as shocked as you are…”

How the fuck could he not have known that his girlfriend was going to drop this atomic bomb in your fuckin lap?! There’s no way that’s possible; they have had to talked about you and him before, had to have been asking questions because there’s no way this bitch was just holding onto a secret like this for so long. But then again she’s weird enough come up with a plan like this. And with the way he’d been acting all night? Something was up.

“Then why the fuck have you been treating me like shit?!” You shout with every ounce of negative energy brewing in the pit of your stomach, blowing Chris absolutely away with the sheer volume of your voice.

Thankfully the patio is empty. You and Chris shouting back and forth like this would definitely draw a crowd. Glaring each other down, huffing frustrated breaths into each other’s faces. Teetering between wanting to punch him or kiss him. This is what it’s like every time you guys fight.

“You know what I have to do to keep her in the dark.” His tone has dropped substantially, some of the fire extinguishing in the center of his beautiful eyes. “She was never supposed to find out.”

Shit maybe she was. Maybe this is what you needed to get the fuck out of this situationship because now it’s just creepy. She encouraged it? She loves you for it? The fuck kind of shit is that to say to someone who is fucking your boyfriend on the regular?! Behind all the beers and the overanalyzing you can’t think straight. You’re so done. Just…fuck this.

“Well you know what Chris, looks like you don’t have to do that anymore.” Hearing your exhausted tone has Chris panicked, afraid he’s about to hear exactly what he should expect after what she did. He’s starting to wonder if she did it on purpose. You refuse to look at him, just so upset with yourself for being so foolish. “And quite frankly, I don’t have to do this anymore either.”

Chris tuts with an annoyed brow. “No, c’mon, don’t do this.”

But you got to. For real this time. “She knows Chris…” How were you supposed to carry on with this knowledge. “We can’t. I fuckin can’t.”

It really should have hurt to say the words but you’re too numb, too fucked up to feel anything other than utter confusion. You’re officially out of time. This hour has to be up. Fuck how he feels, hitting you with them wide sad eyes you can’t look into because he’ll win if you do. You are legit completely crumbling internally and you’d rather him or his dumbass girlfriend not be a witness to this breakdown.

“Please…please don’t…” You have to ignore him as you head for the exit, snatching your hand and arm away from his reach. “Don’t end us like this.”

“Handle your shit Chris…” You toss a dismissive hand back over your shoulder, refusing to look back. You need to be strong this time around. You have to be, no matter how bad walking away is tearing you up inside. Already sniffling, blinking back tears of frustration and heartbreak, you pull out your phone to text Bri that you’re done. Done for the night and done with Chris’s bullshit.

But it’s not that easy. He never let’s it be easy for you to be done with him. Doesn’t even text or call, just appears at your door a few hours later with those glossy dazzling blue eyes, red and puffy, asking you to let him in. Yours, just as red and swollen, avoids looking directly at him, still trying to keep up the act that you’re done. But you can’t help but love that he came crawling back to you anyways. Sick little ego trip.

“Why are you here?” You hold tightens around the doorknob as you keep your gaze down at your bare feet.

Chris sniffles his pink nose, “I had to come see you…”

You can’t tell if that twinge in your chest is from ache or want, asking with a sad shrug, “For what.”

All he wanted was for you to look at him. “To make sure we’re okay.”

A weak smirk twitches over your frowned lips. “We’re so far from okay Chris. You know that…”

He’s trying to wait for you to invite him in, but when he sees a tear fall down your cheek, he shoves his way in, gathering you up in his big arms as he swings the door close. Holding you so close to his chest, your feeble cries are muffled into his shirt, slipping your trembling hands across his upper back. You can’t help it, and it’s the reason why you’ve been avoiding his touch anyway. He feels too good, too secure even when he’s the source of all your pain and confusion.

“Don’t cry. I hate when you cry.”

You hate how concerned he sounds. You bury your crying eyes deeper into his shirt, transferring your hot tears to his skin through the cotton. You hated how much you wanted him. Even right now…there’s no one else in the world you want to console you.

“Then stop making me cry.”

You both squeeze at each other, your soft sobs and his sniffles sound in the quiet space of your entry. Chris nuzzles his cheek against the side of your hair, working to suppress his own tears but it’s hard to hear you be so upset. Your heartbreaking whimpers shred his heart up but this is all his fault.

“I’m not trying to. I…I’m just as confused as you are baby trust me…”

“But…” you wipe your nose on his shirt before you lift your chin to show him all the pain you feel right now, how all the tears flow from your puffy eyelids, “this isn’t fair Chris…”

Brushing away a tear that slides down the slope of your nose, he agrees, shedding a few tears of his own. “Yeah. Yeah I know it’s just…”

Y’all can’t let each other go.

But you really had to try this time. For your sanity.

Closing your eyes, you breathe through a quake of emotions rattling in you heaving chest. Chris’s firm hold on your burning flesh makes you want to cry harder, his heavy shaky sighs—god this is too fuckin much. His twitchy thumb wipes away your drying salty trails. Chris is always so fuckin sweet and attentive in everything he does, but it was worse in the way he could just touch you. Made you so fuckin weak. Made you hurt even more.

“We have to. I can’t…it hurts too much…” your hand cradles his still clutching your quivering jaw. “This hurts too much Chris. I love you too hard and I just can’t—,” You take a big bite of your tingling bottom lip, your vision of his piercing sad eyes blurring, “I can’t carry on like this. This is fuckin torture.”

You can’t hold back this bout of oncoming tears if you tried. Just reflecting back on all the years you’ve been stuck in the exact same position with him…

“It’s not easy for me either baby please stop…”

Chris holds your wet cheeks with both big hands now, your fingers locked around his pulsing wrists. He’s do anything to take your pain away, to make you feel anything other than this. Fuck, the more you cry into his palms already soaked, the more Chris wanted to rip his own heart out and just hand it over. Let’s be real, you owned it, and you have for a long time but. Tired of seeing you such a blubbering mess, willing to do anything to get you to stop, he softly hushes you behind small kisses all over your damp face.

“Chris.” You huff, wishing you had the power to fight him off but you love the feeling behind each one. Suddenly your stumbling over your bare feet as Chris backs you up against the nearest wall, accomplishing what he set out to do. Your breath hitches for a different reason now. Hitting the wall with his extended arm first, his hips securely press you into the cool flat surface.

“No baby,” he whispers, lifting your chin so you can taste your tears off his pretty pink lips, “not yet…” A small sigh of relief leaves you as your lips lock with his, licking away your sadness just as he breaks away to say, “let me love you okay?”

Within a second, your legs are wrapped around his hips and his tongue is down your throat with a desperate whine. He can’t help but feel like…like this could be the last time he’d ever be this close to you so he had to feel you, taste you, hear you passionately yell out his name. Kissing so hard but slow, gripping your thighs with all his might. Your fingers slot all through his fluffy strands. The ache still so present in your chest but the more Chris pushes your lower back into the wall with those little hungry moans, the more it dulls. Just for a moment but you’ll take it. This is the problem. The addiction. It’s the passion, the raw emotions. This is the why.

“Fuck,” you whimper into his open mouth, trying to regain your senses after such a make out but you’re fading. “Don’t say that…”

“What.” His hand fiddles between your midsections, working to unsheathe himself, staring intently into your eyes still red but soften a little by lust. Reading the heartache, neither of you spoke a word, just listen to the movement of Chris manipulating his cock out and aiming the tip at the crotch of your shorts already moved to the side. Upon initial contact, your slit salivates anticipating his weight for she’s just as addicted to him as the rest of you. Just as you feel the tip slip its way inside, you bite back a rough groan, tightening your hold around his broad shoulders. It’s too easy, too perfect, the way he fills you up.

“Don’t say that you love me.” You’re gasping for air, fighting your eyes trying to roll back into your head once he’s all the way in. Keep your focus on his conflicted stare. His cock wildly throbbing against your walls spasming all around him pumping you. Using his mighty hold on your ass, he bounces you up and down his girth. Whimsically gazing up at you moan with each stroke. Really trying to etch this image into his memory because you’re so damn beautiful when he’s fuckin you.

“But I do…” but you reject him with a shake of your head, “I do love you baby. Hey.” You pop your burning lids back open. Breath completely stolen by his glossy baby blue eyes cutting you open. “You feel me yeah? Feel how much I love you?”

Chris can feel how much you love him. In the way you intently watch him, the way fist the neck of his shirt, the way your persistently dripping all down his cock.

“Yeah,” a sharp gasp interrupts; his dick aggressively nudges up against your spot, “yeah Chris I feel you.”

He kisses your chin, still effortlessly fucking his feelings inside your clenched walls. “Then you know…you know it’s you…”

But it’s not you, and that breaks you even further, pursing back a sob as the tears flow again. If it was you, this wouldn’t be so horribly sad. This wouldn’t feel like a fuckin breakup.

“You’re full shit.” You sputter behind a combination of moans and sobs, a brutal shudder quakes down your spine. How is it you when he’s never chosen you. “You’re lying.”

He can’t take another damning word, or how your tears pool on the edge of your pretty lashes so he takes your salty lips again. Frenching back all of your cries, digging his fingerprints further into your flesh, Chris grinds and rolls his hips, determined to prove himself to you. But it doesn’t matter how hard he fucks you or makes you cum. When he leaves here, he’s not breaking up with her. You know it. He knows it. His fluffy hair completely disfigured from your hands pulling his hair at the roots, loudly grunting into each other as he picks up the pace. Your locked legs shaking you’re so close and you’re thankful. God you love the shit out of him but you hate him for making you feel this fucked up. It really doesn’t matter. None of this. Grabbing two fistfuls of his hair you tear him away and sorrowfully shake your head. No more.

“Okay baby.” His words inflicted with his heartbreak Chris licks his pouty pink lips, clears the cries climbing up his throat. “Okay…”

You’re gonna miss him.

“I’m…I’m so sorry baby.” Chris kisses his favorite spot on your neck goodbye, lingering there because he loves your fragrance, loves the way you sigh his name each time. He’s going to miss your warmth. You’re so much warmer than her.

You hug him so close, smell his hair, his cologne. A chill prickles your skin. “Me too love. Fuck.” You’re so fuckin wet, ready to fall apart for him for the last time. The twister of memories and emotions spins your brain all around, absolute chaos intertwined with the euphoric bliss that’s about to take over your wrecked body. Tears of relief.

Chris can’t decipher what aches more: his heart or his cock that’s about to combust. It shouldn’t happen this way but he’ll take this depressing fuck over fighting with you. He’ll take whatever he can get because he deserves nothing. Doesn’t deserve you but deep down, he’s thankful that he did.

“Oh! Aw fuck…shit…I love…”

Just one more…

“Good god…Chris…I love you…”

Just one more moment…

CHRIS HEMSWORTH Marvel Studios' Assembled The Making of Thor: Love and Thunder

(requested by anonymous)

This series should have much more recognition, it's one of the best I've read in a while and I've read a lot of stuff.

She clings to whatever little relief she can get for her rest and at least now he is willing to learn how she likes it. The fact that he stopped makes me think he would stop completely if she asked him to. And about her leg, i'm afraid of a worse infection or something, i need her to heal soon.

Mission Control 21

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, 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 ❤️

Indomitable. Of the man words you would use to describe the soldier. So it is that there is no resistance left in you. 

The buzz of your struggle for your very life slakes away and you’re left depleted. As if to balance the scales, he helps you wash away the blood. You maneuver around your foot in an effort to keep the bandage and wounds dry. By the end, you can barely hold your head up. 

He carries you to the couch. His avoidance of the bedroom is noted. Your mind tiptoes back inside, the gruesome sight etched into your brain.  

He covers you in a blanket before he builds a new fire. The crackles eases you. You wallow as you are, body ensnared in a shell of agony and shock. Your eyes close without meaning to. 

His shadow moves around you in the din of subconscious. The black tides ebb and flow, swirling in your head, lifting you into the flicker of the room and plunging you back down. His footsteps pace through the distortion of your fatigue. 

The fires snapping and cracking stays constant. Then there’s something else. Thumping, scraping, sounds that blend together into a grating drone. 

You wake to a pang that throttle your voice in your throat. You lurch and try to pull your foot away from the snare. The soldier clamps onto your ankle and keeps your feet in his lap. He rewraps your foot and calf in a fresh length of bandage. 

You whimper and whine as he secures it. He hushes you through his teeth. He trails his hand up your leg and rests it on your knee. He looks at you as you fall back and pant. 

Fuck. The pain never quite went away but its more unbearable than ever. Your body will never be the same again. It will never be yours. 

You pull your feet off his lap, a strangled grunt forcing its way from your throat. You turn onto your side to face the back of the couch in an effort to hide your grief. Hours ago, maybe longer, you were happy to be alive. Now you’re back to dreading your existence. 

The couch shifts with his weight. He stands on the groaning floor and his shadow ripples in the glare of the fire. He touches your back, nudging you, and brushes his hand down to your hip. He clutches you as he angles himself down behind you. 

You don’t move. You let him move you. He crowds you into the couch as he lays himself flush to you. He hooks his arm around your middle and nestles in under the blanket. His warmth, despite his unwelcome, is a comfort. More than the pain, you loath the cold. 

He tickles along your stomach. You shiver. The heat of his body clouds around you as his fingertips explore your body. You have nothing to hide beneath but the blanket and he’s invaded that.  

He fondles your chest. There’s a curiosity in his touch that keeps you from fighting. That and what you know for sure. It’s all futile. All of it. You may have fought for your life but without him, it was a losing battle. He holds your life in his hand just as he holds you. 

His thumb rolls around your nipple as he feels it harden. He flicks it, circles it, pressing against it. His touch grows firmer as goosebumps graze your skin. 

His fiery breath plumes into your hair and his hand crawls back down your stomach. He flutters over the soft flesh of your stomach, lingering on the cushion there. It’s not so much as it was only weeks ago. As his hand drifts lower, you tremble. 

He traces the lines of your pelvis and pets the curly tufts of hair. He combs through the wiry strands and twirls them around his fingertips. His breath grows jagged. He grunts as he presses against you. 

You close your eyes. He pets you until your flesh is hot. He slides his fingers down and prods until your part your thighs. You murmur as he curls his fingers and slips between your folds. You bite your lip as he presses against your clit roughly. 

You wince at he pushes hard, rubbing you until the friction scalds. You close your legs against him and reach to stop his hand. To your surprise, he stops. He tenses. You won’t make him stop, but you can’t let him hurt you anymore.” 

“Softer,” you whisper, “nicer.” 

Your turn your hand to stretch over his large one and extend your fingers along his. You guide his fingertips and rock his hand gently. You lift your leg again and arch into him. You might not want it or have asked for it but the thought of release is the only relief you can imagine. 

He moves to your whim. You feel his muscles relax as he gives over control to you. Your body responds despite being whittled away in the shadow of the last days. You slicken against his touch. 

“Like that,” your hand falls away. 

He keeps the slow, steady motion. You sigh. You give in entirely as he keeps going. Your nerves tie around his fingertips and a cluster thrums in your core. You sink against him and hum. You focus on the climax, letting the rest of this twisted world drift away. 

yeah!

english isnt my first language btw so when u read my posts in ur head I want u to mispronounce at least one word in it and add a really heavy accent

Will this girl ever have peace? Not that she is at peace, trapped in captivity and invalid, but it is impressive how things can get worse for her. I don't know if it's Bucky or Brock, but the Captain has to come back in time to cause a bloody tragedy with this guy, don't mess with his doll, the doll that is injured.

Mission Control 18

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, 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 ❤️

You pant as your body shakes uncontrollably. The pain is unbearable. The monster keeps your foot raised as he wraps a new bandage around it. The throbbing eases slightly though the sting remains. Your screams still echo in your skull. You passed out at least once as he cleaned the wound. 

He pins the dressing and lowers your leg tenderly onto the pillow. He stands and pulls the blanket up to your waist. You catch your breath as you wipe the beads of sweat from your forehead. 

The last day has been torture. You don’t know how much more you can handle. He stares down at you with chagrin woven into his expression. He bows his head and turns sharply. You can do nothing but languish as he stomps around. 

He opens the armoire. You shudder. He takes out black boots and a jacket. He closes it without retrieving the shield or his body armour. 

He comes back to the bed and sits to tie his boots. You push yourself up on your elbows. 

“You’re going somewhere?” You ask. 

He glances at you, then the night stand. He leans over and swipes up the pill bottle. He rattles it. 

“You’re getting more?” You guess. 

He frowns then shakes his head. He looks at the label then once more at you. He points to the bruise around his eye. The one he inflicted himself. 

“Pain killers?” You can’t help the eagerness in your voice. He nods. “Oh, but...” you glance around. He extends two fingers and moves them back and forth quickly. You have to guess again, “you’ll be fast?” 

He confirms again with a tilt of his chin. You lower yourself back to the pillow. He focuses on tying the laces, the leather straining as he does, then rises again. 

He pulls on the coat and leaves the room. You listen for the front door but instead, his footfalls approach once more. He brings in a glass of water and bag of trail mix. He puts them beside the bed and steps back. 

“Thank you,” you utter. 

He twists on his heel and marches out. Despite not wanting to grow used to his place, his staunch lack of response is more and more familiar. At least when he is placid, he is manageable. You only worry about that other side of him. The one even he seems afraid of. 

The front door opens and closes. The wintry air flows through and you slip further beneath the blankets. You shift onto your side and settle in. You can’t sleep any more but you find yourself drifting into a state somewhere between waking and not. A sort of trance that has you etching each knot in the wood walls with your eyes, trying to memorise them all, trying to see faces or fantastical scenes in the dark markings. 

The winds bellow without, beating the walls, whistling and wailing. You fold an arm over your head as the constant nose starts to itch in your ears. You turn onto your back and sit up to have some water. The antibiotics make your stomach heavy. You make yourself eat a handful of nuts. 

The edges of the covered windows soften with the rising darkness. You while away the time by counting the stitches in the trim of the patchy quilt. Fatigue slowly creeps into your eyes. 

Your head begins to droop as you lean back against the bed frame. You’re too lazy to slide down, instead slumping uncomfortably. Your mind sinks into itself as the billowy undertone fades. 

Click. The subtle but decisive noise of the front door rouses you. You blink and rub the sleep from your eyes. You look at the bedroom door expectantly, waiting. 

You can hear footsteps but they don’t come to you. What is he doing? You listen as they pace around; through the front room, slow, measured. Something is different about them. 

You sit up as much as you can and stare at the door. You see the shadow before the stranger. You know by the silhouette it isn’t him. Your eyes flick up to meet the dark pair that come to peer into the bedroom. 

The man’s lips slant as he looks you over. He scoffs as he steps into the room. He nonchalantly walks the parameter as you sit in silent horror. You can tell by his demeanour that he isn’t a friend. Yet how did he find this place? How did he get inside? With all those traps, he wouldn’t just stumble upon you. 

His dark hair is pushed back from his face, a shadowy stubble around his jaw, and his shoulders are broad and set straight. His boots scrape the floor as he goes to the corner and looks down at the shelf. He touches one of the pictures and laughs. 

“Hello?” You croak at last, “who are you?” 

The man turns and chuckles again. He crosses his arms and approaches the bed. You don’t know if you should hope he can save you. The void depths of his eyes is terrifying. There’s no light in them. 

“I should ask you the same,” he sneers. “But I can guess what you are.” He teethes his lip and angles his head arrogantly. “So the automaton found himself a pet. How precious.” 

“Please, I’m not—he took me--” 

You choke on your words as he grabs the blankets and rips them off of you. You squeal and instinctively bend your legs. You press your heels into the bed and roar at the agony it lights in your calf. He tosses the blankets away as he gives another sinister laugh. 

“I don’t care about any of that,” he snarls and reaches for your bandages foot. He latches on and you shriek as he drags you down the mattress. “That... thing doesn’t get toys. So, I’ll just have to break you so he can’t play no longer.” 

You cry out and thrash as the man crawls onto the bed. Fuck, fuck, fuck! 

I'm so happy i got an update on this series, it's in my top 3 favorites of all time. Rafe continues with his monstrous and domineering nature, i can't help but wonder how he sees this "love" for her in his head, he knows he's doing it wrong and yet he continues to go deeper, if possible, just to have her. Will he ever really try to make things better for her? Let her travel? loosen the bonds he created? I wonder if he doesn't want a girl because he thinks that if boys idolize their mother, the girl will idolize him, but "a little princess for my princess" changed my mind. Anyways, WTPO!Rafe never disappoints.

Pity Party

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: NON-CON/DUB-CON (+ mentions of), toxic/abusive relationship, mentions of manipulation, dad!Rafe, established Rafe x reader

➥ While this can absolutely be read as a stand alone piece, it is also the much requested follow up to my WTPO series. I hope this doesn't disappoint!

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics

summary: You became the envy of every woman in Kildare County the day you became Mrs. Rafe Cameron.

⭑

You slid along the floor using your knees, hand occupied by an even tinier one as your son unsteadily put one foot in front of the other. Your lips were pulled into a smile as you watched him, your free hand hovering behind his back for when he very likely would fall. Your other son was occupied with a snack, and when—as expected—the youngest one’s legs gave out, you scooped him up with a giggle.

“Look at you,” you cooed. “You’re going to be sprinting by this weekend.”

His cherubic face smiled back at you, lips wet with drool, and you wiped his mouth with a smile. Your oldest—now done with his Goldfish—was currently tugging on your dress, and when you looked down at him, he had a wide grin on his face.

“I wanna play with him…”

His soft voice had your own expression softening, and you quietly told him ‘okay’, taking a seat right on the floor where you were formerly standing. You emptied your hands, letting your son crawl around and slap at the ground as his brother followed him, face so close to his as he whispered things to him that he didn’t quite understand yet. You let your mind wander, warmth blooming in your chest as you thought about how…sweet they were.

There had been a time where you feared they wouldn’t be.

…and as you stared at them, you almost felt bad for ever thinking they could be anything less than angels, but it couldn’t be helped. They were children, and there were very few things in this world that were more innocent than children. They both came out squirming and pudgy and perfect—screaming their heads off and only calming once they were in your arms. They came into this world looking at you with the kind of eyes that had never experienced or done a single bad thing in their life.

They were children…babies…

…but they were Rafe’s babies.

And as much as you would like to, you would never be able to forget how they both came to be here. Fighting off Rafe Cameron was hard enough when you were going through a tumultuous breakup, but it became damn near impossible once he managed to get a ring on your finger and a prison around you in the form of a fancy house. You looked down at the large rock, a pang going through your chest at the sight of a simple gold band below it.

The wedding had been the grand fanfare it was expected to be, serving it’s purpose of making you the envy of every woman in Kildare County. Your oldest son—having been an only child at the time—was pulled down the aisle in a wagon with a pillow in his lap that contained the rings. Rose had gushed over you in the dressing room, long having convinced herself no woman would ever marry Rafe and she’d never get to experience this. Your father had cried as he handed you off to your husband to be, and tears had kissed your own eyes but just for an entirely different reason.

Your dress was made for a princess, and your veil was made for an angel, and your makeup was made for a doll. Everything was perfect, everything going off without a hitch. Absolutely nothing—not a single thing—had gone wrong, and even though by that point you’d slowly started to accept your fate…something in you had hoped. For what? You weren’t entirely sure.

You’d hoped that some crazy ex girlfriend of Rafe’s would stand up and object. You’d hoped that your brother would go against your wishes and drag you away from it all. Hell, you’d even hoped that someone would choke on their spit and require an ambulance. Deep down though, you’d known what you really hoped for.

You had hoped that Rafe would do the right thing…and let you go.

It was a silly hope. Rafe Cameron had gone through entirely too much trouble to ensure you’d never leave him, even going as far as threatening to take your son away from you. He—both of them—was the only good thing to come out of this. From the first moment you laid eyes on him, you’d wanted him all for yourself and far away from Rafe. The brunette simply didn’t deserve him, and you had no doubt that Rafe would agree, but his selfishness outweighed any thought of doing what was right. That had always been the case.

You didn’t know why you thought your wedding day might be any different.

Rafe moments away from chaining you to him forever? There was no shot in hell of him walking away from that, and you sighed at how naively hopeful you’d been that day. The sound of your oldest son’s laughter pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked over just in time to see him jump to his feet, promptly sprinting towards the foyer. You weren’t worried, knowing exactly who it was that could elicit such a reaction from him.

You swallowed at the sound of Rafe’s voice, taking your 11-month old into your arms.

“...and how were my boys?”

He came into view as he said that, the messy haired little boy upside down in his arms as he kicked his feet and laughed.

You knew the question wasn’t meant for you.

“I was bad,” your son told him, and you fought back a smile, knowing why he said that.

Rafe’s gaze met yours, and the smile that threatened to ghost over your lips was gone. He merely smirked at the sight, rolling his eyes and turning his attention back to the boy in his arms.

“Bad? Oh no,” he chuckled. “Why were you bad?”

“I accidentally spilled juice on mommy’s dress.”

Your son’s words came out small, slurring together a bit with his slight lisp. You’d told him that it was fine—accidents happen—but you knew why he was so hung up on it. As awful as Rafe treated you behind closed doors, he treated you a million times better for the whole world to see. He was smart that way, and the whole world included your children. They saw their dad treat mommy like a princess—none the wiser to what the true nature of your relationship was really like—and so they followed suit.

An offense against you—no matter how small—was especially heinous.

“Oh that is bad,” Rafe murmured, setting him down on his feet. “Guess we’ll have to buy her a new one, huh?”

He ruffled his hair, and your son beamed at the thought of going shopping.

You avoided Rafe’s gaze as he neared you, an impressive feat when he came to kneel down before you. Your youngest was squirming in your arms—babbling—and you swallowed when Rafe reached out to lightly squish his cheeks. He pressed his lips to his tiny forehead just as his hand landed on your own cheek, and only then did you look at him.

Rafe stared at you for what felt like a long time, expression unreadable. Your oldest was going on about something behind him that neither of you were giving too much attention to. His blue eyes looked between yours, studying you, and you could smell his cologne. After what felt like too long, his pink lips finally curved into that haughty half smile you were used to seeing.

It never not made you want to smack it right off of his face.

“...and how was mommy today?” he quietly asked.

There were a thousand things you wanted to say to him.

You wanted to say that mommy cried in the bathroom because she still had thoughts of leaving sometimes even at the loss of her own children, but then she’d remember how much she loved them and couldn’t live without them and the guilt would set in. You wanted to tell him that mommy’s thigh still hurt from where he’d sank his teeth into it the night before for daring to tell him she still hated him sometimes. You even started to tell him that mommy had rare moments here and there where she’d momentarily forget their history and find herself content in this big house with her children and fancy ring until she remembered how her children got here and what said house and ring represented.

You didn’t say any of that though.

Instead, you merely blinked at Rafe, and told him what you always did.

“Mommy was fine.”

The vase narrowly missed Rafe’s head, his quick reflexes making your heart sink with disappointment. Your own quick thinking had you frantically looking around for something else to throw at him, but his feet moved faster than your brain, and he was nearing you before you made up your mind. Unable to stomach being around him, right now, you hurriedly sprinted to the other side of the room. You paid no mind to the way he called your name, a blend of anger and exasperation there.

“Are you done…?”

You didn’t look at him, keeping your angry gaze on the floor. Besides, you didn’t have to in order to know what he looked like. You could imagine it perfectly—steely blue eyes cold and intently focused on you, hands on his hips and jaw clenched so hard you’d swear it was about to break. When you finally did glance at him, you were proven right.

“This little…” he waved his hand about. “...tantrum. You’re finished?”

“Fuck you,” you whispered.

You couldn’t hold in your tears, and they spilled over without your permission. Rafe sucked his teeth at the sight, and when he took a step towards you, you made to leave the living room completely. Your sons were with your mom—they would be the whole weekend—because that was the plan. They would stay with grandma for a few days while you went to Charlotte to visit Pope at school. Rafe was supposed to be handling business with Ward, anyway.

He was not supposed to be sabotaging your plans and canceling car rentals and flights and ruining your entire weekend.

Rafe stopped you before you could get far, and you didn’t even attempt to get away, too defeated and upset to smack him square across the face like you wanted. His fingers dug into your skin, and you wondered if a light bruise would be there in the morning. You could tell by the way he held you that he was upset, but you didn’t understand what he had to be upset about. It had been four years since Rafe started this fucked up dynamic he called a family and over two since you’d reluctantly said ‘I do’. You even gave him another son…and yet…

It was clear now that he still didn’t trust you.

Sure, you had the stray thought or two here and there about escaping, but when it was all said and done, those were just thoughts. Your children meant too much to you to just take off, and even if you ever got to that point one day where you’d happily sacrifice their chance to grow up with a mother just to have your own freedom, Rafe would never let that happen. Your fate was sealed from the very moment he’d decided you were it for him.

“I haven’t seen my brother in months. It’s his last year of school, and I didn’t want the next time I see him to be at his Goddamn graduation,” you spat, lips trembling. “You said you were okay with it!”

“Yeah, I was,” Rafe replied in a tone that hinted at more to come.

You were right.

“...but then I remembered that this would be the first time we’d be apart for a distance more than thirty miles and how way up there in Charlotte you could disappear to wherever you wanted and-.”

“You wouldn’t have to worry about any of that if we had a normal relationship,” you cut him off, a sneer on your lips. “You wouldn’t have to worry about the possibility of me running away from you if you’d never hurt me and raped me and damn near threatened me into marrying you.”

At those words, Rafe let you go as if you burned him, and you reminded yourself how much Rafe hated to be reminded of why you were really here. You were positive he sometimes convinced himself that this relationship was as real as it could be—the perfect parents with the perfect children and the perfect marriage. After all, it was what everyone on the outside saw when they were looking in.

The difference between the two of you it seemed was that you knew it was all pretend.

Rafe liked to believe that it wasn’t.

“All of that aside…do you really think I’d leave them?”

Your question came out whispered, and you didn’t miss the slight twitch in Rafe’s face. Leave them…not leave him. Rafe was smart in knowing that knocking you up would be the only thing to truly prevent you from leaving, and yet he absolutely hated to be reminded of it. To be reminded that it was not—and never would be—him keeping you here.

His expression morphed, a shadow passing over his features as he glanced away, shoving a hand into his pocket.

“I can’t take that chance,” was all he said, making more tears spill over. “Pope’s not going anywhere. You can always see him another time.”

You pulled your lip between your teeth in anger, and when he reached for you, he was stopped by a harsh slap to the cheek. Your lips wouldn’t stop trembling, and you just stared at him as he rubbed his face.

“You have taken so much from me, Rafe,” you mumbled, rolling your eyes at him. “If your goal is to make sure we’re both absolutely miserable…then keep it up.”

You turned away from him, refusing to spare him another look as you made your way upstairs to unpack your suitcase.

Most days in your marriage were okay. They weren’t awful, and they weren't’ exactly anything you’d jump at the chance to relive. They were simply just…okay. On those days, Rafe would wake you up with a kiss, sometimes more than that, and you’d start your day—usually something that consisted of preparing for your children to wake up. They made those days stand a chance at being somewhat enjoyable, and you thought to yourself that maybe one day when they were old enough, you’d tell them how much they did for you without even knowing.

On the days where your marriage wasn’t okay, you were usually overcome with how you really felt about Rafe. Those days didn’t come as often as they used to—a fact you didn’t like to let your mind linger on—but when they did, they usually ended in your tears.

…and Rafe pinning you down and just taking what he wanted.

Rafe had felt entitled to your body long before he put the ring on your finger, but after you took his last name, his entitlement went to an entirely new level. You recalled a day where you had the house to yourselves and how silly you’d been to think Rafe would respect your wish to be alone.

“Do you know what this means?” he’d harshly asked, squeezing your left hand as he held it up for both of you to see.

The 4-carat marquise solitaire glinted under the bright kitchen light.

“It means you’re my wife, it means you’re mine,” he’d hissed, getting in real close and touching your nose with his. “Do you get how patient I’ve been? How patient I am?”

You’d shrank away from him, wincing at the slight pain in your left hand.

“I know this hasn’t been easy for you, but it’s been years,” he’d told you. “There’s a ring on your finger and two little boys walking around with my face. You need to suck it up!”

The counter had been harsh against your stomach as he bent you over it.

The good days in your marriage were even more rare, and even those ended in you feeling sad for yourself. It was usually a whole day of your boys keeping a smile on your face, the feeling so infectious that even Rafe couldn’t make it go away. And that’s how you’d find yourself smiling at him and playing with your children together and actually acting like a family. Only…on those rare days…it wasn’t acting. For just several hours, everything that Rafe was and everything he’d done would be so far from your mind.

You’d find yourself bathing your youngest together—your oldest only listening to you when it was time to wash behind his ears—cooing over the baby that was just shy of turning one years old. You’d let your son run into your arms as he hid from the ‘tickle monster’, playfully pushing at Rafe’s chest as you protected the three year old from him. Sometimes you’d even fall asleep with your head so close to Rafe’s lap as he read to them, your son begging you both to stay until he fell asleep.

Of all the days in your marriage that you’d anticipated being the hardest, the ‘good’ days were not among them. Reality would set in during the morning, sometimes even that same night, and your chest would ache as you held back tears because what you and Rafe had was not real. It wasn’t a real marriage, and you weren’t a real family, and on those days where you forgot that, the truth just hit so much harder. All of the anger and disappointment would come back…and then the fear would set in.

It scared you how easily you could slip into that headspace and live in some alternate reality where Rafe was a good husband and your children hadn’t been the product of rape and you didn’t have errant thoughts of what it would be like to be free of him. It scared you how good it felt to forget it all, how a day might come where instead of finding yourself slipping into that mindset, you just…chose it.

It would be so easy.

…but you felt like you owed it to yourself to hate him forever.

Sometimes he made hating him so easy…and then other times so, so hard.

“They’re so sweet to you,” he murmured in the low lighting, both of your kids fast asleep in their room. 

You’d been trying to find sleep of your own, but Rafe’s phone call with Ward left you both up long after you wanted to be. You were unfortunately wide awake when slid in beside you, and your unopened eyes didn’t fool Rafe in the slightest. He knew you were awake.

“I would hope so,” you murmured, staring at the back of your eyelids as he lightly traced patterns into your satin covered stomach.

Your husband chuckled to himself.

“I mean they look at you like you hung the moon,” he quietly continued. “Especially your shadow…”

He was referring to your oldest.

“I’m barely there for him whenever you’re in the same room,” he whispered. “He’s happy that I’m home and he hugs me, but then it’s straight back to mommy.”

You slowly opened your eyes as Rafe’s hand became flat against your stomach, gently rubbing it.

“He treats you like a princess…”

You met his gaze at that, and you couldn’t quite place the look in Rafe’s eyes.

“...and I’m especially happy about it on days when I don’t.”

You sighed at that, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m glad that he’s nothing like me…”

You remembered Rafe saying something similar years ago before the boy in question had even been born, and you blinked as he leaned in, gently ghosting his lips over your cheek. You were tempted to push him away, but then you asked yourself if you wanted to start a fight so late in the night. Instead, you turned your head to face Rafe, your lips a hair’s width away from his own.

“I’m glad he’s nothing like you too,” you whispered.

You didn’t miss the way his face fell at that, a tick in his jaw that told you your words had the desired effect. Instead of saying something along the lines of what you both knew he wanted to say, Rafe merely heaved a sigh, still gently rubbing your stomach. He suddenly pushed himself up onto his elbow, looking down at you.

A smirk ghosted over his lips.

“I want another baby.”

Those words were the last thing you’d been expecting, and your eyes widened just a tad.

“...what?”

“Let’s try for a girl this time,” he suggested, and realizing that he was indeed serious, you sat up.

His hand fell away from your stomach.

“This time?” you murmured, more to yourself than him. “I don’t recall trying for anything the previous times.”

The mention of what he did to you had Rafe going silent, and when you looked at him, his nostrils were flaring.

“It can be different this time-.”

“How?” you wondered, frowning at him. “How will it be different this time? The only time I touch you is when I’m forced to, and I don’t know, that sounds pretty fucking familiar to me.”

Rafe’s hand had circled around your chin before you had time to react—he was sitting up now too—and you both just cooly stared at each other. He looked like he wanted to hurt you, and you stared back, just waiting for him to prove you right. He seemed to be toying with the thought, and after a few moments, he slowly exhaled through his nose.

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, his blue eyes following the action.

A million thoughts were racing through his mind, that much you could tell by the emotions that flickered over his features. Eventually he settled on one, pulling his lip between his teeth.

“You’re not always unhappy…”

It was said like a statement, but there was a lilt there that told you he wanted an answer.

“No,” you eventually responded, honestly. “Not always.”

He nodded.

“...but I’m unhappy more than I’m happy.”

He closed his eyes at that, and you swallowed.

“What did you expect, Rafe? Sure, four years is a lot, but it’s also not when I think about everything you did to me.”

He dropped his hand and pushed himself to his feet. You watched him stand there, staring at the wall with his hands on his hips.

“...and what makes it worse is that you’re not even sorry. I know how much you want me to ‘just get over it’, but how am I expected to get over it when we both know you’d do it all over again so long as it got you the same result?” you choked out. “You’re not sorry for any of it.”

You blinked away tears.

“...and now you’re mad at me so much because I won’t roll over and play house.”

You saw his shoulders heave, and you could tell how much this conversation was frustrating him. Rafe really hated to be reminded of his own actions, hated to be reminded of the fact that your relationship was where it was because of him. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You were the one trapped in this gilded cage…not him.

“So, if you want another baby…” you quietly started. “...either something needs to change…or you just embrace the beast we both know you can be.”

His eyes snapped to yours at that, and as much as it made your heart skip a beat, Rafe rarely scared you anymore. You’d seen him and experienced him at his absolute worst. There really wasn’t much he could do to you anymore that would shock you…and he knew it. 

His baby blues glinted dangerously, and you bit your tongue.

He did the opposite of what you expected, and you watched him turn away from you to leave the room. You didn’t relax, knowing he’d come back, but you did heave a tired sigh, telling yourself that sleep couldn’t come fast enough.

Rafe’s hand tightened around your throat as he kissed you, the alcohol on your tongue making the kiss taste sweet. The world was moving so slow around you, and every place that Rafe touched felt like you were being gently electrocuted. Deep in the crevices of your mind, you knew that something was wrong. You hadn’t kissed Rafe like this in years, not since the early days of your relationship when you thought you might have loved him, and butterflies were in your stomach at one look from him.

You recalled the sight of your empty wine glass on the carpet, the rest of the red wine you didn’t drink staining the white fabric.

Your kids were asleep and the house was quiet and you were kissing your husband like you used to—back when he wasn’t your husband. Rafe had your back to the wall just barely on the inside of your bedroom, your hand struggling to reach out to the door. Rafe grabbed it, threading his fingers through your own, and you made a slight noise of protest.

He made a shushing noise into the kiss.

“Just relax…”

Relax.

That word triggered something in you, and you pressed your other hand to his chest. You were far too relaxed to be sober, and considering you only had one glass of wine, you knew that other substances were at play here. You recalled Rafe voicing his desire for another baby just the other day…and you recalled the slight back and forth it’d created. You expected one of two things out of Rafe, but neither of them included a scenario where you were too inebriated to properly fight back against him.

There was something especially sinister about Rafe creating this false sense of consent.

His lips traveled down towards your neck as he bent his head, and you felt like you didn’t have control over your body as you threw your head back. You shakily exhaled when both of his hands descended towards your waist, lifting you and forcing you towards the California king. When he settled you both onto it, all pretense was gone.

“Don’t you want a little girl?” he whispered against your skin, his fingers dancing along the place from where your shirt had ridden up. “Hmm? I know you get sick of being with just us boys.”

You made a noise that was unintelligible even to your ears, pushing at his head, but it was of no use. Whatever he slipped into your drink clearly wasn’t in his, Rafe having all of his strength and wits about him as he pinned you down. He kissed you again—slow—as his hands circled around your wrists. It took your breath away, and your lashes fluttered when he descended.

“A princess for my princess…”

You reached out to place a hand on the bed to steady yourself. Although you knew it was the room spinning, not you, and so focused on that, you didn’t even realize what Rafe was doing until the cool air you’d briefly felt against your core was replaced by his mouth. The action made your back arch, and—against your will—you reached down to press your hand against his head.

He hummed in between your thighs.

“You never let me do this anymore,” you heard him whisper, his breath against your skin before he dived back in.

To be fair, you never let him do anything, but especially this. It was too intimate, too loving, and those words were so far from the true nature of your relationship it wasn’t even funny. After all, Rafe was now at a place where he had to drug you just to get you to stop fighting against him. You found it interesting because he never minded the fight before. In fact, you’d even say that some part of him enjoyed it.

You wondered what had changed.

His head moved back and forth between your thighs, and it made you squirm. One of Rafe’s hands reached up to dig into your leg, holding you still. The other found your hand, and you were unable to remember that you didn’t like holding his hand. Another gesture that you felt was too intimate, something Rafe always liked to pretend that your relationship was.

Just when you were on the brink of coming all over his tongue, your husband pulled away, but not before pressing a quick kiss to the inside of your thigh. With stars just barely floating in your vision, you laid there, eyes falling closed as you fought to regulate your breathing.

A voice in your head told you that you didn’t want this, and that you needed to get up…but you couldn’t find the strength to.

When Rafe’s hands were on you again, they were pulling away every piece of fabric they touched, and you couldn’t help the tears that kissed your eyes. Being forced to feign compliance in your own assault somehow hurt a thousand times worse than if Rafe had simply grabbed you and held you down. You wondered if this made it easier on him, and you thought about how much Rafe hated being reminded of the things he did to you.

It was like it hurt him to remember it that way, to acknowledge it for what it was.

When he slid into you, you couldn’t help the small whimper you let out, eyes rolling as he stretched you out. Rafe’s hands were on you, pulling you closer, and as if your arms had a mind of their own, you threw them around him. His chest was pressed to yours as he thrust into you, and you pressed your face into the crook of his neck. He cursed when he sank into you again, and your toes curled.

“You’re so mean to me, you know that?”

One of his hands tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck.

“...have to drug my own wife just to get her to fuck me…”

Your nails dragged along the expanse of his back, and Rafe hummed at the feeling. You’d forgotten what it felt like to lie beneath him and just let him have his way with you. It felt like so long since he hadn’t had to force you down and take his cock despite what you may have wanted. Although, your current position wasn’t all that different, but you couldn’t ignore how relaxed you were from whatever he’d slipped you.

Rafe shifted, hands pressed into the mattress on either side of your head. His blue eyes glinted in the low lighting, and you blearily blinked up at him as he gazed down at you. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours while still holding your gaze. Your lips parted at a particularly hard thrust, and the corner of his lips curved upwards at the sight.

Deep in the back of your mind, you knew you didn’t want this, but it was for so many reasons that you were struggling to remember. For the time being, all you could focus on was the curve of his cock as he repeatedly pushed it into you and how good it made you feel. One of your legs hooked around his waist, and Rafe’s perfect teeth winked at you as he grinned.

“I missed this, beautiful,” he whispered. “You know that?”

The bed jostled from your movements, and Rafe glanced down between you to watch himself disappear into you. 

“I can’t wait to fill you up,” he told you, making your heart skip a beat and reminding you of how and why you’d found yourself in this position in the first place. “Can’t wait to see you swollen and round again and fucking glowing.”

You murmured his name, but you couldn’t tell if it was in protest or not.

Your mind was all over the place, and when Rafe’s hips curved into yours again, you arched your chest up into his. Sweat clung to your frame, and you briefly wondered how made you would be at him in the morning. You knew this wouldn’t be his only attempt—Rafe always proving to be more than thorough when trying for a baby—and you now weakly wondered about having to be cautious of the food in your own house.

You could tell when he was close, his thrusts becoming sloppy and his breathing picking up. He started  to kiss you more, each kiss becoming  messier and more open mouthed than the last. In your inebriated state of mind, you kissed him back, alarm bells going off deep within your bones. Your own breathing was labored, like you couldn’t get air into your lungs fast enough.

When Rafe came the first time—and you knew that it would be the first of the night—he grunted in your ear as he spilled into you. Your nails were trailing along his skin as he plunged his cock into you, not even stopping when you felt him start to soften, lazily thrusting into your folds. Your own climax was just around the corner when he spoke.

“I will fuck you all night,” he whispered against your cheek, his tone vaguely threatening. “I will fuck you as many times as it takes until you give me what I want.”

He leaned back a bit, his nose touching yours as he tilted his head, eyeing you in a way that made your skin grow cold.

“...and I will do whatever I have to to make you…” he looked between your unfocused eyes. “...agreeable.”

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

Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader

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

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies 

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…”