#Free Your Mind... and Your Ass Will Follow

[reilemon]

♥︎Amore Immortale♥︎ Ch.3

Chapter Title ♥︎ Awakening The Muse ♥︎ ch. 1 𓂂 ch.2

♡︎ synopsis: The idea of leaving feels bitter - and not just for you.

♡︎ pairing: vampire!Xavier, vampire!Zayne, vampire!Rafayel, vampire!Sylus x fem!reader (separately and together)

♡︎ tags: a little bit of fingering

♡︎ word count: 8.6k

♡︎ a/n: I feel like i need to address the setting - this is set in a mix of Victorian/Regency era, and I'm just adding what I find most fitting into the story. Also, this a fanfiction with vampires after all.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @ cafekitsune

The gloomy light of late autumn morning filters through the thick curtains, barely lighting up the room. You blink awake slowly to the familiar chill of the room, a reminder of your usual morning discomfort. But today, there’s warmth—a solid, soothing presence pressed against your back, an arm draped around your waist.

Last night wasn’t a dream.

The realization makes your heart skip. The memory of Xavier’s lips on yours, the scrape of his teeth along your neck, his hips —it all rushes back in vivid detail. The ghost of those sensations makes your thighs press involuntarily. The small movement seems to rouse him. Behind you, Xavier stirs, his arm tightening slightly around your waist, his face nuzzling closer into the curve of your neck.

“Are you awake?” His soft, sleepy morning voice too disarming.

You nod, the sound catching in your throat as you lean further into him. His lips press a tender, lingering kiss to your temple.

“No fever.” he murmurs. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I feel good.” The truth slips easily from your lips. You feel more at ease, more alive, than you have in months. “But what about you?” you ask, your voice soft as you shift slightly in his embrace. “Are you in any pain?”

Xavier’s response is a low hum, his face buried in the crook of your neck, and any intent to press him evaporates the moment his lips graze your skin. He places a kiss, so gentle it feels like the brush of a feather - then another, and this time his tongue follows, wet and warm against your pulse point. A soft moan slips past your lips before you can stop it, your hips instinctively pressing backward against him. That’s when you feel it—his hard cock against the soft flesh of your ass. Your body stiffens for a moment, but the firm grip of his hands on your waist encourages you to move again.

His lips linger on your neck, sucking lightly, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. His hand slides from your waist to tease the curve of your side, skimming the silk nightgown that has bunched up around your thighs. His fingers toy with the hem, but you don’t stop him. When his hand slips beneath the delicate fabric, trailing slowly up your thighs, your breath hitches, the ache intensifying as his fingers glide over your damp underwear. You part your legs instinctively, granting him access as his fingers dip under the lace and find your slick folds.

“You’re so wet, honey.” he whispers against the saliva-slicked skin of your neck as his fingers glide slowly between your folds. “Tell me when to stop, okay?”

You nod weakly, your breath hitching as his fingers slide up and circle your clit. A soft whimper escapes your lips before you bite down hard to muffle it. Xavier’s hips grind against you, the thin silk of his pajama pants doing nothing to hide the hard length pressing firmly against your ass. His free hand grips your waist, holding you firmly in place, while his lips drag wet and hungry along your shoulder. Then his hand dips lower, before one finger slides into your dripping entrance.

“Xavier…” you pant, your hips rolling instinctively to meet his movements. His finger curls inside you, hitting that perfect spot while his hips grind harder, his cock rubbing against you through the flimsy fabric, making your mind spin.

But then—a knock.

The sudden, sharp sound cuts through the haze like ice water, and your body stiffens. Your legs clamp together instinctively, trapping his hand in place, your arousal replaced with the burning flush of embarrassment. Xavier stills immediately, his breath heavy against your neck. For a second, neither of you move, but then, Xavier groans against your neck. He reluctantly pulls his hand from your panties, the sudden loss of contact leaving you aching and flustered. But before you can catch your breath, he does the unthinkable.

“Come in.” he calls out.

Your heart stops. Pure, mortified panic washes over you as you scramble away from him, tugging the duvet up to cover yourself. Your cheeks burn, your mind racing for any excuse that could explain why Xavier is in your bed. The door slowly creaks open, Zayne standing at the doorstep, the ceramic wash pitcher in his hands. His eyes widening for a split second as he takes in the scene before him.

“Am I… interrupting?” Zayne asks as his gaze flickers between you and Xavier.

“Not at all!” The words tumble out of you too quickly, and you clutch the duvet tighter around yourself, wishing it could swallow you whole.

Zayne steps inside and sets the pitcher down on the small wooden stand by the basin, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. You can’t tell if it’s concern, judgment, or something else entirely. Your mind races as you try to fill the silence. The pitcher of rose water—a morning ritual since your arrival—had always been there when you woke. You realize now that it must have been Zayne, quietly tending to your room while you slept off the fever.

But this is the first time he’s caught you awake, and with Xavier no less.

Zayne clears his throat. “I brought the rose water, as usual.”

“Thank you.” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

Xavier, on the other hand, remains infuriatingly composed. He leans back casually against the headboard, his gaze flickering toward Zayne with a faint smirk.

“Anything else you need, Zayne?” Xavier asks, his voice smooth.

Zayne’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, but he shakes his head, turning his attention back to you. “I’ll let you know when breakfast is ready.” he says softly.

As he steps back toward the door, your eyes follow him, your heart still racing. When the door clicks shut, you let out a heavy breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You don’t speak. You look at Xavier with wide eyes and a nervous smile.

He meets your gaze, amusement flickering in his expression as he leans closer, his voice low and teasing. “Not mad at me, are you?”

You shake your head quickly. “Zayne would’ve come in anyway.” you mumble.

Xavier chuckles before leaning down and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, before he gets out of the bed. Just as he’s about to step away, he lifts the hand that had been between your legs, his fingers still glistening faintly. Your breath catches when you watch him slip one finger between his lips, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Sweet.” he murmurs with a faint smirk.

You’re too stunned to say anything, your cheeks burning as he puts on the silk robe, heading toward the door. Before he steps out, he glances back over his shoulder.

“I’ll bring you breakfast instead of Zayne.”

You nod, still clutching the duvet. “Thank you.”

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you alone with the storm of emotions. Your fingers move unconsciously to your lips, the memory of Xavier’s lingering touch and Zayne’s gaze playing over and over in your mind.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Xavier leans back in the armchair, his pajama shirt lies over the armrest, revealing faintly healing wounds and a few scratches. Zayne sits nearby on a wooden chair, a small tin of ointment and fresh bandages on a small table nearby. Zayne’s deft fingers work skillfully, peeling back the old bandages to examine Xavier’s injuries.

“You’ve been straining.” Zayne says after a moment. His gaze flickers to a small, reddened wound on Xavier’s abdomen. “This one especially—it’s not as far along as it should be.”

“Doesn’t hurt.” Xavier says with a small shrug.

Zayne raises an eyebrow, “Right.” he says dryly. “And that wouldn’t have anything to do with an unusual exertion this morning?”

Xavier finally meets his gaze. “Define unusual.” he replies lazily.

Zayne shakes his head slightly after a moment, going back to his work. “I’m not going to pry.” Then, he presses gently against the wound, earning a brief wince from Xavier, and the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “You should stop aggravating this.”

Xavier chuckles softly but says nothing, his gaze drifting toward the fireplace.

As Zayne finishes tying up the bandages, the silence stretches between them, interrupted only by the scrape of the chair’s legs as he moves to stand. Xavier’s voice stops him in his tracks as he’s about to approach the door.

“She likes it here.” Xavier says, eyes fixed on the low flames in the fireplace.

Zayne’s brow lifts, waiting for more.

“She deserves to feel comfortable.” Xavier continues after a beat. “That’s what matters. Not...who she spends time with.”

Zayne studies him for a moment. “And you’re okay with that?”

Xavier exhales a quiet laugh, though there’s no humor in it. His gaze finally lifts to meet Zayne’s. “I’m okay only because it’s you guys.”

The weight of that statement lingers before Zayne’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Even Sylus?”

Xavier lets out an exasperated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck, but then a soft chuckle follows. “Even Sylus.”

Zayne chuckles, shaking his head as he moves toward the door. “Good to know.”

Xavier watches him leave, his gaze returning to the flickering firelight as the door closes.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

You finish the last sip of tea, the clink of the cup against the saucer breaking the silence of your room. You meticulously gather the plates, stack them neatly, and pick at a few stray breadcrumbs on your lap, brushing them onto the tray on the bedside table.

The quiet gives you space to think, and your mind wanders - recklessness was never something you embraced—except once. And now, here you are again. Your gaze shifts toward the curtains, the weak daylight barely filtering through. The isolation of this mansion, the enigmatic men, their hushed conversations—it should all make you uneasy. Yet it doesn’t.

You feel a warmth spread through your chest as you think of Xavier, his soft words, and the way he held you. Your cheeks flush as the memory shifts to this morning—the way his touch set your skin aflame, the way your core was dripping for him, before Zayne knocked on the door. A sharp wave of embarrassment follows, and your hand flies to your burning face. Zayne. What must he think of you? Sharing a bed with Xavier after only a few days in the mansion.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Something about this place, these people, makes you want to stay. Even though you barely know them, the connection feels magnetic. It’s foolish, perhaps even dangerous, but it feels real.

You exhale slowly. You can’t sit here forever, hiding from Zayne.

Just get up.

You shuffle toward the wardrobe, fingers brushing over the few dresses. You choose a modest dress this time—something simple, something that wouldn’t draw too much attention. Pulling it on, the fabric glides over your skin, and you’re stunned how this one fits you so well. You tug it into place and turn toward the golden hand mirror on the bedside table. You hold the mirror up, angling it to catch your reflection. The bruise on your forehead is barely visible now, fading into a faint shadow of itself. Your face looks healthy, but you wish you had some blush and tinted lip balm with you. Your fingers instinctively graze your lips, wishing for that hint of color, but you can only shrug.

Then your eyes widen.

A faint mark rests on the curve of your neck. A hickey. Heat floods your cheeks as the memory of Xavier’s lips on your skin comes rushing back. The gentle sucking, the teasing graze of his teeth… You place the mirror down, hands trembling slightly. He did that. You go back to the wardrobe, and relief washes over you as your eyes land on a shawl of soft Kashmir wool. You drape it over your shoulders, carefully positioning it to cover the bruised side of your neck. It’s cold in the mansion, after all. You take a deep, shuddering breath and go to pick up the tray.

Just as you reach for it, a sudden knock startles you—a rhythmic, playful tap that’s far too casual to belong to Zayne. Hoping you’re right, you turn toward the door.

Opening it, you’re greeted by Rafayel’s vibrant smile. He tilts his head, studying you with an amused gleam.

“How’s our little patient feeling today?” he asks with the usual teasing lilt in his voice.

You can’t help but return his smile, his energy as infectious as always. “Much better.”

“Good, good.” he says, nodding. Then, his grin widens. “How about a little tour? Want to see my art studio?”

The unexpected invitation takes you by surprise, but your heart leaps at the chance to explore more of the mansion. “I’d love to!” you almost squeal. “But I should return this first.” You gesture toward the tray on the bedside table.

Rafayel waves a dismissive hand, stepping back into the hallway. “Don’t worry about that. Zayne will grab it. He’s the neat freak here.”

“But—” you start, glancing back at the tray.

He’s already walking away. “Come on, cutie,” he calls over his shoulder. “While we still have some daylight.”

With a small sigh and a lingering glance at the tray, you decide to follow him.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Rafayel steps inside first, “Welcome to my sanctum!” he says with pride in his voice as he holds the door open for you.

You step inside, and your mouth falls open. The room feels like an entirely different world from the rest of the mansion. It’s intimate, bright and bursting with vibrant colors. The curtains are drawn back from floor-to-ceiling windows, and despite the gloomy autumn weather, the room feels radiant. Your eyes flit over the artistic chaos—blank canvases stacked against the walls; brushes and palettes scattered on almost every surface of the room. The walls are a masterpiece in their own right, nearly every inch adorned with Rafayel’s works. In one corner stands an easel with a canvas you assume is still in progress, and across from it is a large, plush sofa draped in deep blue velvet.

“Messy, I know.” Rafayel says, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. He stands by the window, watching your reaction with a pleased smile, his arms crossed casually. “But every artist needs a little chaos.”

You can only nod, still taking it all in. As you move deeper into the room, you find yourself drawn to the paintings on the walls. You approach one – a painting of a tranquil moonlit cove, the waters calm, reflecting the moon and the stars shining above. Your gaze shifts to another piece nearby, this one completely different. The sea is wild and chaotic, its waves crashing against jagged rocks under a stormy sky.

“The sea feels alive in your work.” you murmur.

Rafayel steps closer, his hands tucked into his pockets as he watches you. “The sea has always been a muse of mine.” he says. “It’s unpredictable. Serene one moment, devastating the next.”

You nod, your eyes still glued to the artwork as you move along the wall. “I’ve never really had the chance to see it much.” you admit quietly. “There’s no sea anywhere near where I grew up. And now…” You trail off, glancing at the forest outside the windows.

“A pity.” Rafayel says. After a moment, a smile tugs at his lips. “Next time I visit the coast, you’ll come with me.”

The offer makes your heart skip. The idea seems almost too perfect. Your cheeks flush slightly, and you look away, unsure if he means it or if it’s just idle conversation. Still, the warmth in his tone makes you want to believe him. “I’d like that.” you say softly, finally meeting his gaze again.

His smile widens slightly. “Good.” he says simply before stepping aside, letting you admire the rest of the paintings.

Rafayel walks over to the easel and sets the canvas aside to dry, its vibrant red paint glistening faintly in the light filtering through the window. Meanwhile, your attention is drawn to a desk in the corner, cluttered with pencils, charcoal, and sheets of blank and sketched-on paper. You step closer, fingers hovering over the mess, your curiosity piqued. Amid the sketches, one catches your eye. A detailed portrait of Zayne, his sharp features perfectly captured while he’s deep in concentration, writing something.

Rafayel’s voice cuts through your focus, soft and amused. “Found my rare collection, have you?”

You glance up briefly. “Is this Zayne?” you ask, your voice tinged with surprise.

“It is.” he says, stepping behind you. “He was writing reports or something like it. Didn’t even notice I was sketching him until I was nearly done. He wasn’t exactly thrilled when he found out.”

You smile at the mental image. “I can imagine.”

Rafayel lets out a dramatic sigh. “It’s always the same with them. None of them will sit for me, so I have to catch them when they’re too focused—or too tired—to complain.”

Your gaze drifts to another sketch, and you carefully pick it up. This one is of Sylus. The bold strokes suggest motion; he looks almost alive on the page. His silver hair falls forward slightly, framing his features as his fingers rest on a piano perhaps.

“Is he playing here?” you ask.

“Yes,” Rafayel answers, leaning casually against the desk now. “He doesn’t like interruptions, so he made the perfect model that day.”

Your fingers brush over the edge of the paper as you marvel at the sketch. “You’re really talented.” you say, your voice soft with awe.

“Praise me more.” Rafayel teases with a smug grin.

You laugh lightly and set the sketch aside, your eyes falling on another. This one makes your heart skip. It’s Xavier, seated in a chair reading a book. You take a moment to admire the way Rafayel sketched his fluffy hair falling loosely over his forehead, dreamy eyes lost in the pages.

You clear your throat, hoping Rafayel doesn’t notice the way you linger on the drawing. “It’s incredible how you’ve captured... all of them.”

Rafayel steps closer, peering at the sketch. “They all have their moments.” he says, his tone more reflective now. “A person’s energy comes through when they’re completely at ease—or completely themselves.”

Your blush deepens as you silently agree, the image of Xavier feeling too vivid. As you set the sketch down, you glance back at Rafayel. “I always loved the old paintings of goddesses and mermaids when I was younger. They seemed so... ethereal.”

Rafayel tilts his head slightly, his interest clearly piqued. “But not the paintings these days?”

You shake your head with a small sigh. “Not really. They’re all so gloomy. And the subjects—don’t get me wrong, they’re beautiful—but they’re always so... proper. Layers upon layers of fabric.” You smile softly. “No more goddesses, no more mermaids.”

Rafayel chuckles. “Oh, I know what you mean. Believe me, I’ve tried to liven things up around here.” He glances at the scattered sketches on the desk. “I even tried to convince the others to pose for me. Nude. Purely for the sake of art, of course.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you can’t help but laugh. “What did they say?”

“Oh, they were mortified!” he replies, his tone dripping with faux disappointment. “I almost had Sylus. But then he changed his mind. I think he was messing with me all along.”

You laugh harder, imagining Rafayel going around the mansion and pestering the men to take off their clothes. But as the idea of nude paintings lingers in your mind, your cheeks flush a little.

Rafayel notices, of course, the way your laughter turns into a shy smile. For a moment, his gaze softens. “You know,” he begins almost carefully, “I’d be more than happy to turn you into a mermaid.”

The suggestion catches you off guard, your breath hitching. “Oh,” you stammer. “I - I don’t know -”

Rafayel quickly holds up his hands. “Only if you want to, of course!” he adds, his tone reassuring. “No pressure. I just think you’d make a stunning subject, that’s all.”

You bite your lip, glancing down for a moment as his words sink in. The idea is both enticing and a little intimidating.

“Well,” you say softly, meeting his gaze again, “maybe... one day.”

Rafayel grins, the easygoing charm back in full force. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Rafayel moves around the desk, his hands rummaging through the clutter. His lips press into a line as he searches, finally pulling free a worn sketchbook. “Ah, there we are!” he says triumphantly, holding it up. He turns to you. “Care to sit for me? I’d love to sketch your portrait.”

You blink. “Oh, um...” You hesitate, your hands fidgeting with the fabric of your shawl. “I can’t even remember the last time I had a portrait done.”

Rafayel raises an eyebrow, his playful smile faltering slightly. “Really? That’s odd.” He tilts his head, about to ask why, but quickly decides not to. Instead, he shrugs and waves a hand toward the large, plush sofa against the wall. “No matter. Sit down, get comfortable.” He flashes a reassuring grin. “We’re gonna fix that today.”

Grateful for his ever-light-hearted energy, you cross the room and sink into the sofa, smoothing your dress as you settle. Rafayel pulls the wooden chair from the easel and sets it across from you, sketchbook and pencil already in hand. He pauses, squinting slightly as he examines the light and shadows on your face. “Hmm,” he murmurs, gesturing for you to shift. “Turn your face just a bit. No, the other way. Chin up—.”

You follow his instructions, moving this way and that.

“Just a little more... turn your neck this way.”

You adjust as he asks, tilting your head, and for a moment, Rafayel pauses. His gaze lingers, catching on something just below your jaw. It’s faint, but there—a soft, blurred mark, blooming on your neck. Rafayel’s eyes narrow slightly, a hint of amusement tugging at his lips. A soft smirk forms as his gaze flickers back to yours. You don’t notice; you’re too focused on staying still, your gaze pulled somewhere to the side.

“Perfect.” he says. “Hold that pose for me.”

You nod slightly, oblivious to what caught his attention. Rafayel leans forward, the smirk lingering as his pencil begins to move, capturing you on the page. His eyes flicker to yours every few moments, studying the planes of your face, the slope of your neck, the way the light dances over your features. You try to hold still, focusing on anything to distract from how exposed you feel.

Your mind wanders to Xavier - what is he doing now? Is he still with Zayne, having his injuries tended to? The memory of his warm hands against your skin from this morning flashes in your mind. A flush blooms deeper on your cheeks, and you stiffen every muscle in your body to prevent yourself from fidgeting. You wonder if he notices the faint blush creeping over your cheeks.

He notices, of course. His pencil pauses mid-stroke, and he leans back slightly, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You know, if you stay that stiff, I’ll have to draw you as a statue instead of a person.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips despite yourself. “Sorry.” you murmur. “I’m not used to this.”

“I can tell.” he replies. “Tell me—have you ever taken painting lessons?”

You hesitate for a moment before nodding. “I did, actually. A long time ago. My skills are… very rusty now.”

Rafayel’s eyes light up with intrigue, his fingers playing with the pencil. “Well, I’d be more than happy to refresh your memory.”

The offer catches you off guard, and your eyes widen slightly. “Oh, I couldn’t.” you say quickly. “There’s no way I could afford someone as talented as you.”

He chuckles at your words, shaking his head. “Nonsense. Consider it my pleasure. I’d enjoy seeing you rediscover those skills.”

You’re still in disbelief. “You really mean that?”

“Of course!” he says, his smile widening as he glances back at the paper in front of him. “And trust me, it’ll be good practice for me, too. Teaching someone is an art in itself.”

The warmth of his words fills your chest, easing some of the tension you’d been holding. “I’d like that.” you admit softly.

He leans forward slightly, still eyeing the very rough sketch. “So… Did you grow up in the village?”

You shake your head, hesitating. “No... I moved there a year ago.”

“And before that?” he presses gently.

You bite your lip, unsure what to say, “I – “ you pause, searching for the words.

But Rafayel cuts you off, “What about now? What do you do in the village?”

You let out a small sigh of relief. “I work at a bookstore.” you tell him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It’s quiet, but I like it.”

He listens to you talk about how your day in the bookstore looks like, which books are your favorite, how you pester the owner to order some newer releases. When you steer the subject towards your favorite paintings and artists, he joins you with an amused smile, revealing to you their techniques and some gossip he heard from someone or read somewhere.

You don’t even notice how long the conversation went on for until he gets up and starts lighting the candles. The sun has almost set.

“Now, stay still, cutie.” He says as he sits back on the chair.

You follow his instructions, tilting your head just so. The tension in your shoulders has eased, and you’re no longer hyper-aware of every shift of his pencil. There’s a reliance to Rafayel, beneath the playfulness— something that draws you in like a moth to a flame. His charm, which initially felt almost too dazzling to look at directly, now feels more like a beacon.

Your gaze shifts to him, unable to resist studying him as he works. The slight furrow of his brows as he focuses, the way his wavy, dusty-purple hair falls into his face, how the soft light illuminates the delicate angles of his face. His lips, soft and plump, smile softly when his gaze locks with yours. It’s not fair how effortlessly captivating he is—how he seems to belong to another world entirely. Your eyes trail over his hands, the way his fingers grip the pencil. You wonder how many hours he’s spent perfecting this skill, how many pieces of himself he’s poured into his work.

Your think of Xavier – how his presence is so different—quieter, steadier, like a peaceful spring night. Both Xavier and Rafayel are intoxicating, but in completely different ways, and the thought of being caught between them is as thrilling as it is overwhelming. You shift slightly on the sofa, the weight of these thoughts pressing on you. It’s absurd, isn’t it? To feel this pull toward them both—and not just them. The other two occupy a quieter corner of your mind, impossible to ignore. You barely know them, yet you can’t deny the way their attention makes you feel alive.

A pang of guilt stirs in your chest. Is it selfish to want to hold onto the warmth of their attention?

Rafayel glances up, his eyes meeting yours with a flicker of curiosity. You quickly look away, heat rushing to your cheeks.

“You’re awfully quiet.” he teases gently, breaking the silence. “Lost in thought?”

His voice pulls you back to the present, the playful lilt in his tone making your lips curve into a faint smile.

“Something like that.” you murmur. Then you clear your throat and ask, “How did you get into painting?”

His hand pauses, the pencil hovering just above the page. Then he resumes, his tone casual as he replies, “Ah, well, I suppose I’ve always painted. When I was younger, it was my escape.”

You nod, encouraging him to continue.

He chuckles softly. “It was something I could control, you know? No matter what else was going on, I could lose myself in my work.”

You glance over at the easel, where the vibrant paint of the unfinished canvas glistens in the faint light. The brushstrokes seem almost chaotic, and you wonder what could have inspired such vivid intensity. Your mind flickers back to last night—their hurried footsteps, the tension in their voices as they returned from… wherever they’d been. Before you can dwell on it, Rafayel follows your gaze to the canvas.

“Don’t think about it too much, cutie.” His eyes glint with amusement before his focus is back on the paper in front of him.

You smile faintly, but the lingering weight of his earlier words doesn’t quite leave you. There’s more to him than the playful charm he wears so effortlessly—something deeper, something you feel drawn to unravel.

“Do you sell your work often?” you ask.

Rafayel hums thoughtfully, his pencil pausing again as he considers the question. “I don’t, personally. That’s where Thomas comes in. He handles the patrons and all the tedious business things so I can just… paint.” he explains. “He can be a headache sometimes. Always breathing down my neck, asking for more pieces. Thankfully, he’s off gallivanting somewhere far away right now. Blissful silence.”

You laugh softly, imagining a disgruntled manager trailing behind Rafayel with endless demands.

“You’re holding up well.” he says. “The sofa isn’t too unbearable, is it? I’m almost finished.”

Before you can answer the doors to the studio open without warning. There’s no knock, no announcement, just the sound of footsteps. Your head turns, startled, and your breath hitches when you see Xavier standing in the doorway. A blush creeps up your neck, accompanied by a fleeting pang of guilt—as though you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to.

Rafayel doesn’t even flinch, his ever-playful demeanor intact. “Ah, Xavier.” he drawls, straightening slightly in his chair. “You know, it’s polite to knock. What if I’d been changing?”

Xavier’s expression is serious at first, but it softens when his eyes land on you. His lips twitch into a faint smile as he greets you, his voice low and warm. “Hey.”

“Hi.” you manage, feeling oddly self-conscious under his gaze. “Rafayel was, um, drawing me.”

“Oh, indeed I was.” Rafayel interjects, rising from his chair with the sketchbook in hand. “And I’d say it’s a masterpiece, wouldn’t you agree?” He moves to sit beside you on the plush sofa, holding up the sketch like a prized trophy. Xavier steps further into the room, taking the empty space on your other side, the proximity of both men has your pulse quickening.

When Rafayel flips the sketchbook toward you, your breath catches. The likeness is uncanny—your features perfectly captured in soft pencil strokes, delicate yet precise. You look lost in thought, your gaze distant yet wistful.

“It’s... beautiful.” you say quietly, unable to tear your eyes away.

Rafayel smirks, leaning back against the sofa. “Naturally. You’re an excellent muse. We should make this a regular thing.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “You posing—or perhaps me teaching you how to paint again?”

His comment makes you glance at Xavier, whose jaw tightens ever so slightly.

You smile nervously. “Sounds good to me.”

Xavier shifts beside you, his thigh brushing against yours. Rafayel notices but says nothing, his playful smirk returning as he hands you the drawing, his fingers grazing yours.

“Thank you.” you murmur, as you stand from the sofa. Xavier rises alongside you, his hand brushing the small of your back, guiding you towards the door.

You step into the dimly lit hallway, carefully holding the paper, your thoughts swirling. Xavier lingers behind for a moment, exchanging a few quiet words with Rafayel, his voice low enough that you don’t catch what they’re saying.

Xavier steps into the hallway closing the door behind him. His very presence makes your guilt spike.

“I… um—” you begin, gripping the edge of your shawl, your steps faltering slightly as you descend the staircase. “About Rafayel—”

Xavier glances up at you over his shoulder. Before you can tumble further into an explanation, he shakes his head slightly, stopping in his tracks to look at you properly.

“You don’t need to explain anything,” he says. “You’re free to spend time with whomever you like. That’s your choice.”

You blink, surprised to say the least. “I just—”

“Really,” he interrupts again. “As long as you want to spend time with me too… I’m happy.”

His words catch you off guard, a wave of relief washing over you at his reassurance. Yet, the faint vulnerability in his voice doesn’t make it easier.

“I do.” you murmur. “Want to spend time with you, I mean.”

He nods with a faint smile, the kind that makes your stomach flutter.

Then, right on cue, that same stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud rumble.

Xavier’s smile breaks into a quiet laugh. “Let’s go to the kitchen, bunny.”

You nod sheepishly, your stomach rumbling again in agreement. He leads the way down the stairs, the tension from moments ago melting as you descend toward the kitchen.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The cool air of the corridor shifts as you approach the kitchen, a comforting warmth greeting you before you even step inside. The faint clatter of utensils and the rich, savory aroma of something hearty and familiar makes your mouth water. Xavier gently pushes open the heavy wooden door, and you step inside.

The kitchen feels unexpectedly intimate. Despite the mansion’s grand size, this space is cozy—a large wooden table dominates the center, with chairs tucked neatly underneath. Before you can take in the rest of the space, your eyes land on Zayne’s broad back. He’s standing by the stove, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms as he stirs a large pot of potato stew. Then Zayne turns, his sharp features softening slightly when his hazel-green eyes land on you.

“Ah,” he says, straightening and resting the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot. “My apologies, I’m late on lunch today. I wanted to make something heavier for you now that you’re feeling better.”

The thoughtful gesture makes your chest tighten. “Oh, you didn’t have to go through so much trouble.” you say quickly. “I’d have been perfectly fine with just cheese and bread.”

Zayne shakes his head. “It’s no trouble.” he replies simply, turning back to the pot and giving it another stir. “Though, I admit... I might’ve forgotten how long a proper stew takes.”

The admission makes you smile. The sight of Zayne standing over a pot of stew feels strangely endearing.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you offer, stepping closer, eager to ease another wave of guilt bubbling inside you. “I’d feel better if I did something.”

Zayne waves a hand, dismissing the idea. “No need. It’s nearly done.” He casts a brief, pointed glance at Xavier, who’s leaned against the counter, arms folded, eyeing the pot. “Though... keeping him away from the stove would help.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. Xavier, unbothered, raises a hand in mock surrender. “I know, I know.” he quips, the teasing in his voice drawing a faint huff of amusement from Zayne.

The tension that had been lingering between the three of you dissipates slightly. You take a seat at the table, as Zayne busies himself finishing the stew. Xavier joins you, settling into the chair beside you.

While you wait, your eyes wander across the kitchen, taking in the details you hadn’t fully noticed before. The space is warm and inviting, the delicious aroma of Zayne’s stew providing you comfort. Yet, despite its coziness, the space feels... sparse. The countertops are almost bare, save for small jars of spices tucked into a corner, a bowl of pears, and a glass dome with cookies. There’s a basket with a few leftover ingredients from the stew—a couple of potatoes, a stray carrot and cloves of garlic—but no sign of the bustling fullness you’d expect from a kitchen in a household of four grown men. Especially men who look as fit and well-built as they do.

Your brow furrows slightly. Do they keep everything in a pantry somewhere? That explanation feels thin. And then there’s the absence of a cook - the mansion itself exudes a sense of wealth and status, even with its air of abandonment, therefore they would have employed one. Your fingers lightly brush the edge of the wooden table, the faint texture grounding you as your mind spins with questions.

“You okay?”

Xavier’s calm voice brings your swirling thoughts to a halt. You blink, realizing you’d been staring absently at the countertop, your wandering gaze betraying you. Your eyes meet his.

“I’m fine.” you reply quickly, offering a small smile as you push the questions to the back of your mind. “Just... thinking.”

Xavier tilts his head slightly. “About what?”

You hesitate for a moment, then decide on something safer. “I was wondering about your wounds, are they healing?” you ask, your gaze flickering briefly to his bandaged hand resting on the table.

He shrugs “They’re fine.” he says with a small smile. “I just needed a long nap after sleeping all night.”

The nonchalant way he says it draws a soft laugh from you. “A nap?” you tease lightly. “You must have the miraculous ability to heal in your sleep.”

He chuckles. “Something like that.” he replies, his fingers drumming softly on the table.

The lightness in the kitchen settles again.

But it doesn’t last long.

The door swings open, the chill from the outside air cutting into the cozy space. You look up, startled, as Sylus strides in, his long coat still draped over his broad shoulders, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. His eyes land on you first, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he utters your name. “You’re looking well.” he says, his voice smooth as ever.

“Thank you.” you reply softly, before his gaze shifts.

“Xavier,” Sylus says, his tone sharpening as he addresses him. “We need to leave. Now.”

The urgency makes your stomach twist. You glance at Xavier, hoping for some kind of explanation, but his expression darkens, his brows drawing together in irritation.

“Right now?” Xavier asks, though it’s less a question and more a resigned statement.

Sylus nods once. “Right now.”

Your confusion deepens as you watch the exchange. Whatever’s happening, it’s clear it’s serious—serious enough to pull Xavier away.

Xavier exhales a quiet, frustrated sigh as he stands up. He glances at Zayne, who turns from the stove and meets his gaze, offering him a slight nod. You swallow hard, unsure what to make of the silent communication between them. Whatever it is, it leaves you feeling more like an outsider than ever.

Xavier looks at you then, his expression softening slightly. “I’ll be back soon.” he murmurs, though the warmth in his voice can’t seem to calm you this time.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, a mix of disappointment and unease swirling in your chest.

Sylus waits by the door, his eyes briefly meeting yours again, but he says nothing more before stepping out into the hallway. Xavier follows without another word, closing the kitchen door behind him.

The space feels emptier now, despite Zayne’s presence. The sound of the stew bubbling on the stove should have been comforting, but instead, it feels distant. You stare at the table, your fingers absently brushing over the polished wood as the silence stretches. Disappointment lingers at Xavier’s abrupt departure, and the silence that follows only amplifies your awkwardness.

Being alone with Zayne feels… different.

He had shown you nothing but care and kindness since you arrived, tending to your health with a skilled, no-nonsense efficiency. You owe much of your recovery to his tinctures and teas, and yet, sitting here with him feels almost stifling. Maybe it’s his presence—steady but imposing, his broad shoulders and stoic expression giving him an air of authority, that makes you feel exposed - like he’s dissecting every move you make and judging every word you say.

Or maybe it’s the memory of this morning, the way his eyes lingered just a second too long when he saw you in bed with Xavier. Your cheeks heat at the thought, and you shift uncomfortably in your seat. He hadn’t said anything about it, but the weight of his gaze had been enough to make you feel like a child caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“I - ” Your voice falters, and you quickly close your mouth, unsure of what you were even about to say.

Zayne turns then, his eyes flick to you, unreadable. “The stew is done.” he says, his voice even.

You nod. “It smells amazing,” you manage, your words feeling clumsy in your mouth.

He hums in acknowledgment, turning back to the stove.

You lean back in your chair, willing yourself to relax. He’s just Zayne, you remind yourself—the same man who checked your fever every morning and left rose water by your bedside without fail. There’s nothing to be nervous about. And yet, as he moves to ladle the stew into a bowl, the silence between you is thick, each second stretching longer than the last.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

As you finish the last spoonful of stew, your gaze drifts to Zayne, who’s busy tidying up the counter. When he served you earlier, you’d asked if he was going to eat too, but he’d simply mentioned having already had a meal before turning back to clean.

You clear your throat softly, feeling the need to show your gratitude. “I could… make dessert, maybe? To thank you—for the stew.”

Zayne turns, his eyes meeting yours. For a moment, he looks like he’s about to refuse, but then his lips twitch into a faint smile.

“Dessert, huh? What did you have in mind?”

Relief washes over you, and you straighten a little in your chair. “Something simple. Maybe a simple cake or a quick pudding? If you have the ingredients, that is.”

Zayne lets out a soft chuckle. “We have the basics.” He nods towards the cookies in the glass dome. “You’d be doing me a favor - the cookies we have now are barely sweet enough for my taste.”

His rare warmth eases some of the tension in your chest, and you smile. “Well, then, it’s settled.”

Zayne moves toward one of the cabinets, opening it to reveal a few neatly arranged jars of flour and sugar. “There’s no cookbook, though. Probably buried somewhere in Xavier’s library.” he says.

“That’s not a problem for me.” you reply, already standing and accept the apron he hands you. You tie it around your waist as your gaze sweeps the kitchen, landing on the bowl of pears. “How about pear bread pudding?”

He nods. “That’ll do. I’ll grab what you need.”

Together, the two of you begin peeling and slicing the pears. Your eyes drift to Zayne’s hands and forearms, noting the way his muscles move while he deftly peels the pears. The movement is steady, almost hypnotic, but then something catches your attention—the faint, pale lines scattered across his skin. Scars.

These aren’t the kind of scars you’d get from a slip of a knife or an accidental burn in the kitchen. They crisscross his toned arms, etched into his skin like mementos of past suffering. You can’t help but wonder what kind of life could carve such marks into a person.

The question lingers on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow it down. You turn your attention back to the loaf of stale bread in your hands. Zayne doesn’t seem to notice your moment of curiosity—or if he does, he doesn’t let on. He peels another pear, the blade gliding easily beneath the skin.

As you carefully measure the sugar, your apron slips loose around your waist. Before you can fix it, you feel Zayne’s presence behind you.

“Hold still.” he murmurs, his deep voice so close to your ear. His fingers brush against your sides as he reties the apron, the knot tightening securely at your back.

“Thanks.” you say softly, glancing over your shoulder. He doesn’t step away immediately, his eyes dropping to the bowl in front of you.

“You might want to add another spoonful of sugar.” he says, his tone deadpan.

A small laugh escapes you as you scoop up another spoonful, sprinkling it into the mixture. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“Just a preference.” he replies, his attention lingering as you start to stir.

You’re becoming acutely aware of his close proximity, as he leans slightly over your shoulder. Your hands falter for just a second before you glance up at him.

“Do you always supervise this closely?” you tease, though there’s a sprinkle of nervousness in your voice.

His eyes glint with amusement. “Only when sweets are involved.”

Your heart skips a beat at the way he says it, but he steps back, giving you space. You shake your head with a small smile, focusing on the task at hand. It’s hard to connect this version of Zayne—the one standing close enough to tighten your apron and fuss over sugar—with the intimidating man who tended your wounds with a detached manner.

As the preparation continues, the conversation flows into lighthearted topics. You and Zayne chat about desserts, where he shows a surprising level of enthusiasm while talking about his tastes. You’re amused to learn that his sweet tooth is much stronger than you expected, and he listens intently as you share your fondness for pastries and puddings.

But the talk of desserts sends a quiet pang through your chest, your thoughts drifting to your kitchen back home. You’d spent hours there, experimenting with recipes or simply baking to pass the time. It’s been four days, you realize. Four days since you left your little house unattended.

As Zayne crouches near the brick oven, tending to the fire, he glances your way. You’re quiet now as you arrange the bread and pears in the pan, your shoulders slightly slumped.

Before he can ask if something’s wrong, you break the silence.

“I think I should probably leave soon.” you say softly, not meeting his gaze. “Maybe even tomorrow. I’m feeling much better now.”

Zayne pauses, stunned by the suddenness of your words. But his expression remains composed when he straightens.

“You’re more than welcome to stay as long as you want.” he says. “You’ve barely had time to fully recover, and you’ve already done so much today. Tomorrow might be pushing it.”

You glance up at him. “I don’t want to impose. You’ve all already done more than enough for me.” you murmur, your fingers brushing a crumb off the edge of the pan.

Zayne’s jaw tightens, but his gaze softens. The words hang between you, both of you acutely aware of how much you’ve come to enjoy each other’s presence, even in such a short time. You let out a breath and shake your head slightly. You carefully hand the pan to Zayne, who steps forward to take it from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he does.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The kitchen is quiet save for the gentle clinking of spoons against plates. The spiced, sugary aroma of the pear bread pudding lingers in the air, and each bite feels like a soothing balm to your soul. Zayne is seated across from you, his expression soft as he savors the dessert, clearly pleased with the outcome.

“This is...” he begins, pausing as if searching for the right word. “Perfect. Definitely better than those disappointing cookies I’ve been settling for.”

His praise warms you, and you smile shyly. “I’m glad you like it.”

Zayne nods appreciatively, finishing his plate and leaning back slightly. His green eyes flick to you, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in a rare, genuine smile. “If this is what happens when you’re in the kitchen, I think you should take over from now on.”

You laugh softly, but it feels bittersweet. Moments like these—a quiet, shared meal, the simple joy of baking for someone else—are rare in your life. The thought of leaving the mansion, leaving Zayne’s sweet-tooth satisfaction and the newfound connections, settles like a rock in your chest. Your mind drifts to Xavier, how he lit up when he talked about the library. And Rafayel, with his infectious energy, promising to teach you how to paint again. A soft sigh escapes your lips before you can catch it.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his eyes catching the change in your demeanor.

You nod quickly, offering a small smile. “Yeah, I just... I’ve really enjoyed being here. It’s been very different than what I’m used to.”

Zayne’s expression softens. “The place has felt different too.” he admits. “You’ve brought a lot of life here, more than you probably realize.”

The blush creeping to your cheeks makes you drop your gaze to your plate, your thoughts swirling. Could you really leave this behind so soon?

Zayne stands up and places his empty plate in the sink. “You know,” he begins, leaning against the counter, “this place is big enough for you to stay longer. No one’s rushing you out.”

You glance up at him, your heart fluttering.

“And from a medical perspective,” he continues with a faint smirk, “I’d say you should rest more. Maybe even ask for more time off—head injuries aren’t something to take lightly.”

You hesitate, unsure of how to respond. Part of you wants to leap at the idea, to stay longer, to give yourself more time in this strange, enchanting place. But another part worries about imposing, about overstaying your welcome.

Zayne seems to sense your reluctance. “Just think about it.” he says, his tone softer now. “I’m not saying it lightly.”

The sincerity in his voice makes you realize that someone like Zayne doesn’t say things without meaning them. As the warmth of the dessert settles in your stomach, so does the thought of staying just a little longer. Though, this morning's worries linger—you've been reckless, diving headfirst into an unfamiliar world. Each moment with these men draws you deeper into their orbit, like a storm you can't escape.

But the recklessness… doesn’t feel bad.

Even if reason screams that staying is foolish, you want accept the offer. Then, you’ll at least get to know them better, and that makes it less reckless… right?

Still, the thought of your lonely house, being unattended for days now, tugs at you. And then there’s your job at the bookstore; the vacation you hastily took won’t last forever. If you’re going to extend your stay here, you’ll need to figure out both.

Your gaze returns to Zayne.

“I… I’d like to stay,” you say softly. “but I need to go back to the village first. My house has been empty for days, and I need to stop by the bookstore. I’ll see if I can get more time off.”

Zayne’s calm demeanor remains intact—but there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes. Relief, perhaps.

“I understand.” he says. “I can accompany you tomorrow.”

You hesitate for a moment, before nodding. “Okay.” you agree. “Thank you.”

A small, satisfied smile crosses his lips. “Good. Finish your dessert.” he says, motioning toward your plate.

You take another bite, warmth spreading through you that has little to do with the food. For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel so alone.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

@verynormalsstuff @eliasxchocolate @haal07erlj @libriomancer @howvoiceless @celestialforce @tbaluver @zaynesjasmine1 @ladyparamount @xxfaithlynxx @totallytaurus4 @s-ugu @evil-mei @whatarewe-choppedliver @imeverycliche @blackwell-ninja @secretkiseki @kaya-nets @stellablobboo @ssetsuka @celestemcbrim @hanamanefateris

[avonnimimi]

Can you write a parallel story of making sevika jealous. How would she react? 😏

of course i can pretty girl😉

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Hers

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a/n: Here you go anon<3 I hope you enjoy, and i switched it up a little ;) I tried to make it extra special since you’re the first to send an ask ☺️ also i’m a firm believer that sevika has a daddy kink. MEN AND MINORS DNI

content: dom!sevika, mean!sevika, strap-on-sex (r!receiving), cunnilingus (r!receiving), face-sitting, overstimulation, semi-public sex, finger sucking, throat fucking, choking, two pussy slaps, degrading, name calling, daddy kink, bratty!reader, multiple + forced orgasms. lmk if i missed anything!

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Ordinarily, you wouldn’t have dared to be so bold, but Sevika had been a really mean to you today. First, she told you no when you tried to get three large ice creams from the truck. Then, she shut you down when you wanted to buy those $300 heels you’d been obsessing over online. And last, like the cherry on top, she hit you with; “You can’t always get what you want.”

It burned. So, you decided to be petty.

Tonight was one of your once-a-month traditions: a night at the club with Sevika. She was already at the bar, ordering her usual drink. You didn’t even wait for her to turn around before heading to the dance floor, your mind made up.

You scanned the room, searching for your victim. It didn’t take long. Dark eyes met yours from across the crowd, already locked on you. He was watching you like he’d been waiting all night. You smirked, letting your hips sway as you walked toward him, the hem of your mini skirt riding higher with every step. When you reached him, you grabbed his hand, pulling him closer until your ass pressed firmly against his crotch. The music pulsed around you, but all you could hear was the sound of your own heart pounding.

You started to move, grinding against him. His hands gripped your hips, guiding your rhythm. You felt him harden against you, and for a second, nausea twisted in your stomach. But you swallowed it down. This wasn’t about him. This was about Sevika.

Your eyes flicked to the bar. There she was, sitting with her drink in hand, her gaze fixed on you. She didn’t look mad. She didn’t even look fazed. If anything, she looked…amused.

The heat of embarrassment flushed your cheeks. You were doing all this to get her attention, to rile her up, and she didn’t even care. You watched as she downed the rest of her drink, set the glass down, and stood. Your heart dropped. She wasn’t coming to you. She was walking toward the bathrooms.

The sting of rejection hit harder than you expected, twisting your chest tight. You pulled away from the guy without a word, ignoring his protests, and followed her. The anger bubbling inside you felt like it was about to spill over.

You pushed open the bathroom door, ready to confront her, but before you could even call her name, a strong hand yanked you inside, slamming you against the tiled wall, the door clicking shut behind you. The sound of the lock turning made your stomach flip.

It was Sevika. You didn’t need to see her face to know. Her scent, smoky and electric, was unmistakable. Her body pressed against yours, her hips flush with your ass. You gasped as you felt the hard bulge in her pants press against you. Your knees almost buckled.

“Tryna make me jealous, trouble?” she asked, her voice low and deadly, the amusement in it making your thighs clench.

You didn’t answer, biting your lip to keep the words at bay. That only made her laugh, a deep, throaty chuckle that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Cute,” she murmured, before her hands grabbed the hem of your mini skirt and yanked it down your thighs. The fabric pooled at your feet. Then, she spun you around, her hands firm on your shoulders as she pushed you down to your knees.

She unzipped her pants, and her strap sprung free, thick and heavy. Your mouth watered at the sight, but you didn’t move. You just looked up at her, wide-eyed and defiant.

“Open,” she growled, her voice sharp and commanding.

You shook your head, a small, “No,” slipping from your lips before you could stop yourself.

Wrong move. Sevika’s hand shot out, grabbing your face and squeezing your cheeks hard enough to make you cry out. Then, with no warning, she shoved her cock between your lips, pushing it deep into your throat.

You gagged, your hands flying to her hips in a weak attempt to push her back, but it only made her thrust deeper. Tears pricked your eyes as she fucked your throat, her pace merciless. Your body betrayed you, heat pooling in your core as the wetness between your legs grew.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she groaned, her voice rough. Her boot shifted, the toe pressing against your clit through your soaked panties. The pressure made you moan around her cock, your hips instinctively grinding against her boot.

“You know what to do,” she taunted. And you did. You bucked your hips, grinding down harder, chasing the friction as you sucked and licked at her tip. You could feel her watching you, her dark eyes burning into you. “Look at you,” she sneered, her voice dripping with condescension. “Such a pretty little bitch in heat.”

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not until she pulled back, her cock slipping from your lips with a wet pop. You whined at the loss, your hips stuttering as you found an angle that dragged against your clit perfectly.

“Pathetic,” she muttered, grabbing your arm and hauling you to your feet. She dragged you to the sink, bending you over the counter. The mirror reflected your flushed face, your lips swollen, your eyes glassy. Sevika’s hand ran down your back before hooking into your thong and tearing it clean off.

She spread your legs wide, one hand gripping your hip while the other slapped your clit hard. You yelped, the sting sharp and sudden. But before you could recover, her cock was rubbing against your soaked slit, teasing you.

And then she shoved it in.all of it.

You screamed, your hands flying to the edges of the sink to hold yourself steady. She didn’t wait, didn’t give you time to adjust. Her hips slammed into yours over and over, her cock hitting so deep you thought you might break.

“Look at yourself,” she growled, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head up so you were forced to meet your reflection. “You see what a nasty little fucktoy you are?”

Your lip trembled. You wanted to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, but all you could do was whimper as she fucked you harder, her hips snapping against yours with brutal precision.

“You think that little boy out there could fuck you like this?” she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain.

“N-no, daddy!” you cried, your thighs shaking, your body already teetering on the edge.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she spat, her pace quickening. “Now cum. Cum all over this dick, trouble.”

Her words sent you spiraling. Your body tensed, then shattered, pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense you couldn’t even think. Your pussy clenched tight around her cock, your moans echoing in the small bathroom.

But she didn’t stop. Her thrusts stayed relentless, pulling you from one orgasm straight into the next. Tears streamed down your face, your body trembling from overstimulation.

“Aww, poor baby,” she cooed mockingly, her hand pressing against your stomach, right where her cock was buried deep inside you. “Too much? Or do you love it, slut?”

“Yes!” you sobbed, nodding frantically. “Love it, daddy! Fuck, I love it s’much…”

Your words only spurred her on. She slapped your ass hard, the sound echoing around you. “Good girl,” she growled. “Now cum again.”

And you did. Harder than before, your body writhing as you squirted all over her cock. You were a mess, completely undone, but Sevika wasn’t finished. She pulled out, spinning you around and sitting you on the counter, immediately dropping to her knees.

“Lemme taste,” she said, her voice rough with need.

Her tongue found your clit instantly, sucking and flicking it with no mercy. Your thighs twitched, your body jerking as you cried out, the pleasure almost too much. She didn’t stop, didn’t let up, her tongue dipping into your cunt before returning to your clit.

Your hips jerk up, desperate, fucking yourself against her tongue until she growls and forces your hips down, sucking your clit so hard you can’t stop the scream tearing out of your throat as you cum again. “F-fuck, daddy!” Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling, holding on for dear life as your body grinds into her face, completely out of control, lost in it.

Sevika doesn’t even give you time to recover. She’s up in an instant, her hand wrapping tight around your throat, pinning you to the mirror as two of her thick fingers slam into your dripping cunt. You gasp, legs spreading wider, chasing the stretch, the pressure. “You wanna cum again?” she growls, and all you can do is nod, your voice gone. You need it, fuck, you need her so bad it’s making you ache.

Her fingers curl, hitting that spot inside you like she’s mapped you out, like she owns you. You sob, your hands clutching at her wrist, thighs trembling as she works you open. “Please,” you whimper, sounding pathetic and raw, but you don’t care. She’s fucking you so deep, so good, you’d sell your soul just to keep her there forever.

“God, I love when you’re a brat,” Sevika groans, her voice low and wrecked, her thumb swiping over your clit just to watch you twitch. “Gives me an excuse to ruin this pussy, stuff it full, make it mine.” Her lips curl into a smirk, her eyes dark as she leans in closer. “Look at me.”

You try, you fucking try, but your eyes roll back as your orgasm claws its way up, your walls fluttering around her fingers. The pressure is unbearable, and your body’s trembling so hard you think you might shatter. “Fuck, Sevika—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” she hisses, watching your body give up to her. Her grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your head spin, and then she’s pulling you into a messy, brutal kiss, her tongue dominating yours, kissing all the air out of your lungs. You cum hard, your whole body locking up as you squirt all over her hand, soaking her wrist, the floor, everything.

She doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, until you’re gasping for breath. Pulling her fingers out, she doesn’t even hesitate before shoving them against your lips. “Open,” she demands, and you obey immediately, sucking them clean, tasting yourself on her skin. You’re still trying to catch your breath when her other hand comes down, slapping your oversensitive pussy, making you yelp.

“Good fucking girl,” Sevika mutters, her voice thick with pride as she leans down to kiss you again, stealing the last bit of air you have left.

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this is my original post, please don’t repost, translate, or plagiarize my work ;)

©️avonnimimi 2024

[will-0-w]

mdni- dirty talk, rough nanami, public teasing, ass slapping, use of the word ‘slut’, hair pulling, (this was rushed, please excuse if it’s not that good)

nanami kento was usually always a very composed man, barely anything could make him tick or loose his temper, well.. that was until you decided to tease him aimlessly while you were both having dinner with your friends at some fancy restaurant

as he sat across from you at the table you decided to, at first, subtly trail the tip of your heel along his leg under the table. sure it was innocent and subtle at first, and nanami paid no mind to what you were doing until the subtle traces became not so subtle and the tip of your heel inched higher, higher and higher to his groin. nanami visibly tensed and you revelled in that, a small smirk formed on your lips before it disappeared as quickly as it came

nanami shot you a warning look before turning back to everyone else who were too immersed into conversation to notice anything. you decided to test the waters and this time pressed your foot fully onto him. that made him finally tick but he quickly composed it by excusing the both of you with a reason that he said was ‘a home emergency’

that was how you ended up in this position, face pressed into the pillows, ass hoisted up as nanami stood behind you. he bunched your dress up to your waist and practically ripped your black panties off to shreds, letting the material fall onto the sheets under you. running his large, warm palm on the plush of your ass before striking that same hand onto the supple flesh causing you to yelp in surprise

“think you can pull a stunt like that and get away with it?” slap! “acting like some cock drunk slut” slap! “you’re just begging for it, aren’t you?” slap!

you’re quickly a moaning and whining mess as he delivers the sharp blows to your ass, tears prickling your eyes, but god, you’re just so wet from his degrading words and slaps. “you’re enjoying this, hm?” before you could respond he lands a final harsh slap and you cry out in pure pleasure

the unbuckling of his belt fills the room and soon he drops his trousers, letting them pool around his ankles as he slips his boxers off after. he’s already hard and aching to bury himself into your cunt but doesn’t give you the pleasure of thinking that you have the upper hand. “you’re such a slut for my cock, aren’t you? enjoying teasing me and seeing me loose my cool” nanami then slides his cock along your soaked folds, pushing the tip slightly past your entrance before pulling away just as fast causing your hips to chase after him

he tuts in mock disappointment as he runs his hand across your backside again, running his fingers through your folds instead before finally bringing his cockhead to your entrance and slipping in halfway, he groans at how your pussy sucks him in, never getting tired of the feeling as he fully sheaths his entire length into you. nanami barely gives you any time to adjust before he’s mercilessly pounding into you from behind, your fingers gripping onto the bed sheets, eyes rolling back in ecstasy, waves of immense pleasure filling your body and mind

he gives your ass a couple more slaps before reaching for your hair, gathering as much as he can to form a makeshift ponytail, pulling you backwards causing your back to arch sinfully towards him, your moans were borderline pornographic as you called out his name like a broken plea. “taking my cock so well, my cock slut” his crude words only seemed to fuel the flames rising in your lower belly

nanami’s free hand snakes forward to roughly rub at your pearly clit, your own hand clawing at his wrist, “na-nanami!” your high pitched voice only made his thrusts more erratic and fervent. your impending orgasm approached you sooner than you expected and the next second you were gushing all over his cock, white hot pleasure rippling through you in waves

nanami followed soon after causing thick, warm ropes of his cum to release into your cunny though he didn’t stop there. looking down at the creamy ring of combined juices around his base made him groan directly into your ear, “nanami s’too much..” you whined and tried pushing away from him. “you can take one more can’t you? my good little cock slut” a low laugh rumbled deep in his throat before he started his series of rough thrusts

“just one more” nanami kept telling you for the next hour as he pounded away at your poor abused cunt.

[my-stories-vault]

Chapter 2 ~ The Supernatural Wars.

Pairing: Dean Winchester X Y/N L/N

Blurb: When the residents of this Earth found out that they were but a draft in God's numerous stories, they decided to make noise in hopes that their creator would return. Nothing can be louder than the begs of the powerless, the cackles of the ruthless, or the unending destruction left in the wake of the most merciless wars any universe can ever see—here the bloodshed never ends. So, tell me how can two young soulmates, then, find love's shade of red under all this crimson gore?

Warnings/Trigger Warnings (18+): Language, gore, voilence, major and minor character deaths, thoughts of suicide (not graphic), substance abuse (alcohol and cigarettes), mentions of wars (I mean, it's in the name).

{ Series Masterlist ; Main Masterlist }

Chapter 2: Marriages Need Sacrifices.

Education has been an adventurous endeavor for you. Most people disagree that books can give you a great travel experience, but books have been ninety percent of your education. You are great on the field of war, don't get you wrong, but you've always gotten a secret thrill in books. Learning about alternate universes, and their alternate lives. Following different spells, symbols, lores. Most importantly, you can apply it all in real life.

No knowledge goes to waste, your father would say. It's one of the rare places where you can find positivity, wallowing in knowledge. For you, it's akin to meditation.

While on the ship, you have been a few of the first to wake up for the morning training from the very first day, the crack of dawn every day. It would be from five to eight before all of your people were shooed into the lowest deck of the Bloody Princess. It was less training than what you wanted, but at least it was something. An energetic start to your days, you believed. After which, you would spend your hours cleaning the lower levels. Rarely would you be found sitting with your soldiers who all had been given three hours of recreational time in the day.

This routine took your mind off of the politics you hadn't stopped playing since the wedding; you would still have more meetings and strategy sessions, map-reading time, and so on, but at least it wasn't all you were thinking of.

As the vampires grumpily sludged through half-assed explanations, in the few days since the crash course had begun, you had learned to stitch leaves together as sails. Different uses of wood for different parts were taught to you; here, at least you were handy with a knife when it came to shaping up the pieces for a good and sturdy structure of the ship. And ropes - oh, there were so many things to do with ropes.

You realized quickly enough that to these monsters, efficiency mattered the most - you could understand that, even come to respect it. To them, the outward appearances mattered not, nor did hygiene. While you agreed to compromise on the first one, you still tried to maintain basic sanitation for yourself and your crew.

You had also found something that you absolutely sucked at.

It was climbing.

For the love of you, you had never been able to climb trees, let alone these long structures on this large daunting ship that stood so tall that they seemed to be caressing the sky. They didn't even have a lot of handholds or footholds that you could support yourself with. They had a long rope that danced with the wind, and you would have to hold it as you pulled yourself up.

You may be the best markswoman the world has seen from this generation, but your upper body strength was a joke for a climb this challenging. Which is exactly why you spent most of your free time on the ship scaling the longest and thickest pole of the ship.

Some nights when your mind was exhausted from the long talks with your team of the select five that you had, you would sneak out to the upper deck after bedtime and squeeze in a few more rounds with the toughest mast of the ship.

Since you were falling often, you had arranged for yourself the assistance of a vampire who was so passive that it would be a miracle to get a full sentence from him. He was named Scully, a fat immortal who was as powerful as ten men. He started catching you when you fell from tall heights.

Even with that precaution, your medic, Selina got so frustrated with your harmful rendevous that she started tagging along with you to heal your hurts - but mostly to try and talk you out of it.

'If the Captain spots you, it'll be our end!'

'You've always given people far too much credit, Ms Doll,' you whispered back, trudging up the last few steps to the higher level where the mast protruded. It was the second-highest level on the ship, only second to another upper deck where the wheel of the ship stood. There was a watch tower atop this mast that you wished to see the sea from one of these days.

The view would be the most breathtaking, you had to gather.

Scully was already waiting at the bottom, he grunted when you greeted him. Selina skirted around him, still as afraid of vampires as the first day she'd seen them.

You gripped the rope in your stinging palms - your rope burns were the worst injuries from this activity besides all the blows that had been delivered to your back when you'd fallen.

Scully placed himself near you, and the proximity tensed you, but you wouldn't be as overt as Selina about it. You placed your foot horizontally on the wood, pulling yourself up. Your muscles smarted as you took one step after another, walking vertically upwards to your goal. You made sure that your steps weren't too far apart, lest they throw off your balance.

Your highest mark yet had been eight feet.

In this round, you barely touched halfway when your right shoe lost its grip. Your hands tried to cling to the rope, but your skin was irritable against the rope's hold. You were free-falling next. You had the sense to curl up and turn mid-air to your side so that it wouldn't hurt as much.

Scully's hold never came, and there was a short scream that tore from Selina. You hummed your pain behind pressed lips as the wood groaned under your weight.

You were used to this by now.

'Why didn't you catch her?!' Selina rushed to your side, but you were brushing her concerns away.

'He doesn't dignify breaking my fall unless it's from really high, Ms Doll. You know that.'

Scully shrugged in response. You'd come to understand his mind enough to know that if you fell too soon, he would think that you deserved to get hurt. You'd come to terms with it.

'Still—'

'Please. I want to try again.'

Fuming, for she knew your decision was impossible to change, she drew herself to the side.

Your rise and fall continued for a while.

By the ninth time, something new happened: your hands started bleeding. And you fell from seven feet. Scully caught you. 

'Fuck,' you muttered, your body jolting when it hit his arms.

Scully sneered at your hands, and you scrambled to get out of his hold. He was further pushed away from you by your doctor who forgot her fear of vampires for a terse minute. Selina took your hands in hers. She wore a bumbag around her waist. Small vials of medicines and gauze were in it.

'I told you!' the scold left her. 'What were you thinking—stupid, stubborn, reckless—unbelievable . . .' and so went her mumbles under her breath as she hurried to patch you up. The skin around the wound was angry and red. The antiseptic burned against the already prickling area. The cut wasn't too deep, but stinging enough that it would slow you down in a fight.

You had only glanced at your hands for a second after which your eyes had gone over Selina's shoulder to stare down Scully whose face was the most expressive you had ever seen - he looked starved, as if it had been centuries since his last meal. To your right was Selina, so you tensed your left foot in case you needed to kick down Scully.

'Why ain't I surprised that you're a rule-breaker?' came the drawl of the vampire you had come to dislike the most on the ship.

He was the only vampire on the ship who could think—you disliked that in your potential enemies. The rest of his crew was pure brawl. While he hadn't done anything personally to you, you hated his guts for the same reason he didn't trust yours—the history of generations: the Supernatural Wars.

He threw a pair of gloves your way that you grew wary of.

'Those might help,' he said. He patted Scully on the shoulder who had a vein working in his forhead, barely stopping himself from pouncing on you. Having the permission of his Captain, he scurried of, probably to the food supply.

'Captain!' said a flustered Selina. 'We're, uh—didn't mean to insult your rules. We just, um—'

'You should be more careful, it's been a while since we tasted fresh blood.' His eyes were fixed hungrily on your palms that were quickly being wrapped in the gauze. He'd ignored (or hadn't heard) Selina.

You noticed Selina stifling a panicky expression, trying to focus on her job. You shook her off when she'd weakly knotted the bandages, pushing her subtly behind you as you bent down gingerly to pick up the weathered leather, keeping eye contact with Benny so you didn't appear to him as exposed.

'What do you want?'

'Consider it a gift,' he said, sincere.

You choked back a mirthless laugh. 'You're not serious?'

'You don't have the monopoly on truce offerings,' he said.

Your last truce had been met with the dust of his cabin floor. He must've noted the challenge in your eyes for he amended his words.

'Let it be a belated birthday present. Or whatever. I come with good conscience.'

You conisdered his "gift", a lance of suspicion trilling down your spine.

Yet it would make a good addition to your survial, help you reach the top of the mast as you've been craving. The gloves were fingerless, the leather was brand-new and they would slide smoothly over your palms, adjustible by strap belts near the wrists.

You couldn't take a long time to make a decision; you donned the gift and tightened it; nodding a thanks in the Captain's direction.

'You ain't heard of the witch, Rowena?' Benjamin posted.

You assessed him for his suddenness but you kept up the gossip. 'The Scottish-bred witch. Heard her son, Crowley's been lusting after the throne of Hell.'

'It keeps getting empty,' Benny said. 'Do you know why?'

The Harvelle legacy had the reputation of being the family that had killed most of Hell's Kings. None of the Harvelle ancestors held a candle to the latest Leader though, the Firstborn of South America, wife to a Celeste Middleton who went by the name of Charlie Bradbury for personal reasons.

Somehow you doubted Benny's intention was to praise a Human Leader.

'I have a feeling you will tell me,' you said.

'Rowena, tired of all the fighting, cursed the factions that ousted her. Said the humans had the decency to see grey areas, they were the only ones who treated her nice—she lent them a boon that an era will come where all the Leaders—'

'—will finish the world of all their enemies,' breathed out Selina, her eyes slightly wide with fear and curiosity. 'They're just myths. Rumours. There's no prophecy as such.'

'Then why do you think Rowena won't let her son ascend?' he countered.

You chose to believe your teammate over the vampire. 'Is there a point to this fable, Captain? I would think a rational mons—man,' you caught yourself, 'would know better.'

'I do know better. Just thought I'd let you know why I'm in your corner,' he said, raising his hands meaningfully. 'Even if I'm only a monster.'

Your eyes flared when he called you out. But you focused on what he meant: that he would help your faction asever he could.

The prophecy was the tale of woe of the witch that was currently the most powerful one in the world. Ages old, when she'd been starting out in dark magic, people and factions had kicked her about, inflicting various cruelties on her. Only some humans helped her. Rowena swore vengeance. When she grew into her witchiness, she formulated a prophecy that was never written down, only heard, and in the chinese whispers of these repeated lines, it was highly unclear what had been said. The gist was: twelve Leaders of a time would be successful in ending the other factions - it would be the era of the wars ending. But it would come at a great cost, at the cost of . . . well, that part had never been clear.

Before you could scoff to Benny's ridiculous gesture, you were interuppted by the call of your name. Climbing up the steps, huffing and puffing was your publicist. In tow—you frowned with annoyance—was her wife, Aurora - a hunter who enlisted for your little army to be with her only living family, Layla.

'It doesn't boost the morale of your entourage if you break rules!' she began with a scold. It was her belief that breaking rules would provoke vampires, and cause a fight.

Your annoyance deepend. 'If you'll please excuse us, Captain.'

Benny walked away, more out of respect, you felt - for all vampires had heightened senses, it was moot to wish to not be overheard on a ship infested with that kind. Unless, of course, you found some soundproof hideouts.

'Mrs Stun,' you addressed Lay with a forced smile, 'it's too hard to please you.'

'Not if you try,' Aurora muttered.

Lay was lightly tanned, but Aurora had a bit of a darker complextion. Lay was closer to your age than her wife was, and in the eyes of Aurora, you were still largely a child to be given the reins of an entire continent.

Aurora had been a loyal soldier of your father's. Her only motif to have joined your (far less important, according to her) ranks was to be closer to her wife. Short-distance relationships barely functioned in this dog-eat-dog world, long-distance fell out of question for most couples. Hell, you could probably count the number of couples on one hand's fingers that functioned on long-distance here. Soulmates were a far more common concept than that.

Love for her wife didn't stop Aurora from hating your methods though. Or your age, or attitude, or face . . . everyone gets the picture.

Lay warned her wife with a glance. 'Forgive her, Lady Y/N. The sea makes her crabby.'

'No mind paid. Mrs Stun,' you said, turning to Aurora, a bit stiffly. 'Would you be a dear and escort Ms Doll back down? I feel she's had quite the nightly adventure, don't you? Your lovely wife and I will probably just be talking shop.'

Aurora pursed her lips. She hated you, but she couldn't defy your direct orders. You waited till they trailed out of earshot.

'Is there any reason why you are out of safety, Mrs Stun?' you asked.

She threw a glance around, and took you to the edge of the ship, on the starboard side. She lowered her voice to a whisper. 'They declined our invitation,' Lay was indignant.

Your brow hooked upwards before a smile of understanding and mischief spread. 'Leaders, Winchester?'

'You don't have to be so happy about it,' she said, glaring lightly.

'I can try,' you said, although you made no effort at all to hide your grin.

She sighed. 'I know you like to do things your way, and you don't like being marketed as marriage material, but ties with the older Winchester might seal you a permanent spot.'

'Shut up.'

She frowned, 'That's no tone to take with your—'

'No, I mean it, Mrs Stun, shut up.'

Even from this distance, you could hear it. Your eyes grazed the sky, but it was a no moon night, just the black beauty that was littered with endless untouchable angelic stars. Your eyes scanned the horizons next; on the port side, it was just a smidge from here, but it was growing in size. Mrs Stun followed your orbs to the black outline. And she heard it then too—the howls. Strong, blood-stirring, snarling and snapping howls. You gripped her arm, gentle but firm.

'Alert the troops. Prepare the battalions and wear your armours. Bar the civilians somewhere safe. Do not engage until I tell you to - I'll see if the vampires can scare them off.'

Lay rushed before you, almost sprinting across the deck and disappearing below. You ran up to the other side, up the topmost deck, where you'd seen Benny retreat, at the ship's wheel. He was flanked by two soldiers who were chattering nervously.

'Captain—'

'I see them,' he said grimly, cutting you off. 'Purebloods. Rare to come by, but rarer would be the ships that live to tell the tale.'

'Any way we can outrun them?'

'They are the elite. Better ships, more knots. They'll catch up eventually.'

If you couldn't have flight . . . 'So we fight.'

His lips curled into a sneer. 'We?'

Your eyes flashed in anger. 'They are elite purebloods, do you think they'll leave you when they hear that you've been sheltering humans? Elite hates accomplices as much as their criminals.'

'We did it for the blood supply,' he explained. 'No skin off our neck.'

A thrill of horror crossed your features, but it was masked by anger. 'Mark my words, Captain - even if one of us survives, which we will - they'll take down the whole bloody ship. Some of you may die by the werewolves - all of you will die at our hands.' You squared yourself, eyes glittering with malice, 'Besides, if you really want to be on the "winning side" from the prophecy, earn it.' You turned about on your heel, hearing him curse under his breath; you throw over your shoulder, 'Tear pieces of your cloth and tie them around your right wrist - that way my kind would know not to kill you!'

Flying down the stairs, you took a sharp turn, through the door. The soldiers had filtered out into the corridor waiting for further instructions. Boa, your burly and taciturn personal bodyguard handed you an azure napkin, the color of Europe. You tied it around your right wrist, armoring up with Boa's aide.

'All right, Hunters,' you said. 'Werewolves. Purebloods. Silver. It is our job to make sure none of them reach the Commons.' (It was the slang your lot used for civilians.) You inserted the silver magazine in your gun that Boa had carried up. He also handed you a bow and a thick set of arrows, all headed with silver. Lastly, you were given two long silver daggers that you tucked against your ankles by tying them with a thin wire.

'Try to not be cornered against the ship walls,' the chief of your army, Baz, said. Baz had always been a people's person.

Boa was the one with a long scar running down from his shoulder to the tips of his left hand's fingers. It was how you usually distinguished between the twin brothers.

'Werewolves can swim, so throwing them overboard will only buy you time,' Baz revised.

'Pass around three vials of silver to the close-combaters - poison for last resort,' you said, gazing at the back of the crowd that was near the back door. The last woman there nodded and headed back down for the poison.

'Do we have a number?' grunted Boa.

You shook your head. 'But the vampires seemed scared.'

'Great,' Baz muttered, meaning it. The man thrived on danger. It was one of the reasons why you chose him.

'They're good for nothing,' the surlier twin said. 'Kill them, too.'

You gave him a look. 'Not unless they aren't on our side,' you tapped your cloth. 'Check for their loyalties. Furthermore, I would advise an element of surprise but—'

'Those dogs have probably already sniffed us out,' Boa completed. 'Do we have access to the cannons?'

'You have permission to collaborate with them on it, and take over if unhelpful,' you said.

Baz ordered a handful of soldiers to do that, they left into an adjacent room where the servant quarters were.

'Remember the aim isn't to win,' you affirmed, 'it's to get away. Do everything in your power to survive.'

Thirty vampires, many scores of werewolves, and about a hundred humans. Yet Mathematics failed you - it must be taking revenge for not being your favorite subject in school. Purebloods would not have been how you first introduced the new members of your army to the world, surely not one who seemed to have two centuries' worth of ancestry to back up their bestial habits.

The wolves were ripping into the skin of any human they could sink their teeth into, gobbling them up because they thought that converted werewolves were a disgrace. And from the carcasses, they took bones to play - as if it was some reward for "cooking" their own food. It disgusted you how much saliva they had brought to the ship's floor in just under half an hour.

One of your guns was already lodged in a werewolf that was now being stamped under furious and sparring footsteps. It was after you took a good six and a half down with its bullets.

You were shooting arrows from your vantage at the werewolves trying to get on the deck with the mast where you are, with nine other sharpshooters weeding out the tougher werewolves from a distance.

At least the vampires had worn the indicative cloths around their hairy wristbones.

Benny was dropping heads right and left, in the centre of the war on the level below you. Scully was ripping off heads with his bare teeth, a fearsome sight.

You notched three arrows to kill three on the other end of the ship, it was aimed a little higher to account for the wind. The bowstring went taut, and you released them, not waiting to see if they hit - knowing already that they had, if not killing, at least maiming - saving an eighteen-year-old on your team.

Your bleeding palms may hinder your close-combat, but they wouldn't fail you in your shooting.

You were taking one such aim when the floor under your feet slipped out with a large blast. You jumped to grab the railing as the wood under your feet crumbled and caved into the lower level.

Fucking cannons.

You strained to pull yourself over the railing and to drop on the other side of it - right on top of a werewolf that was trying to scramble away from the falling floor. You didn't have time (or courage) to see how many soldiers had been lost to that blast. You plunged the arrow in your hand through the brain of the monster, landing on your feet as it fell dead on its knees, between your legs.

You had to unsheath your daggers since you'd fallen where the close-combat was taking place. You aimed for their kneecaps, dodging their claws and teeth, even if your hair and shoulders did get snagged a fair number of times.

You soon realized that the werewolves weren't subsiding - no matter how many you killed. Your eyes found a plank and several ropes had been brought as connectors between the ships. Any vampire who tried to thwart that bridge was instantly overpowered by a group who stood guard on this ship, welcoming more of their members that never seemed to end.

You knew that if it weren't for the humans, the vampires would've easily lost by now.

'Boa!' you yelled. You signaled for the bridge, asking for cover.

He came to your side to swiftly slash the werewolves who came at you. You firmed your feet in your place, shooting at the five guards at that distance. As you killed the first two, and severely injured a third - the remaining two dodged out of the way. When they noticed you, they ran for you.

You ducked under a sparring couple of a vampire and a werewolf, sidestepped a dead human, and then used your momentum to strike your dagger through the left arm of the fourth guard, and into his heart. The last one tackled you to the ground, its jaws snapping way too close to your face.

The stench made you cringe, there were bits of skin in his bloody teeth. You locked your arms to keep his torso away from yours, struggling to keep him away with your weaker upper body even if the monster on you was only of a medium build.

Boa saved your ass. He swung his weapon in a powerful swing, and it was all you could do to shut your eyes and mouth tightly as the blood poured over you. You kicked the body off you, taking your bodyguard's hand to stand upright before he had to leave you to combat another wolf that threw itself in your direction.

You proceeded to the bridge to finish your job. You slaughtered the wounded guard. You kicked the bridge away, causing the four wolves on it to flail, and make a wide grasp for the ship. Two fell into the ocean, one caught the ledge, the other hanging onto the first one's pants.

The wind knocked out of you when a wolf threw itself on your back and your ribs must've bruised under the force with which you slammed into the ship's edge. Your remaining dagger followed the two wolves into the water, disappearing between the churning of the two ships. You bent forward on reflex when its breath came too close to your neck, his chest was to your back.

The heel of your shoes pinned through the right foot of the werewolf who yowled. Your elbow hit his chest, then his nose. It was thrown off of you. You extracted your first dagger from the werewolf guard you'd previously killed, in which time the one attacking you now, advanced on you again. You lodged your weapon in its ample belly that spurted blood. You coerced the knife up to his heart.

A new hand grappled for your shoulder, and you were pulled against the ledge again with a grunt. This time, your kidneys took the hit. The teeth of the wolf that had managed to halfway pull itself up the ledge was next to your ear. You whipped out an arrow and slammed it down into his hand. You bent down to pick your bloody dagger from the werewolf corpse and whipped around to plung it into his heart; following that you pulled the arrow holding him to the ship back out again.

The two hanging werewolves fell. The live one let loose a loud whine.

'Dogs,' you rolled your eyes.

Cannons had been blasting at regular intervals from both sides. The aims from their vessel was abysmal, and your team of humans had had a better chance of hurting their ship more, so there would be no chase when you got rid of these monsters.

But they did have a few good hits.

This particular one, which was just blasted, hurtled across the night sky with the faintest of whizzes and crashed into the tallest mast that you'd been trying to climb earlier.

Your eyes widened, and a gasp left the wolf who had you in a deadlock. You used its distraction to your advantage. You head slammed the bitch, and left her strong arms that had been choking you. You took two arrows out and speared both of her thighs. This didn't happen without a jarring blow to your stomach from her punch that brought blood to your mouth. But her shriek hid your groan.

You didn't have time to catch your breath. You had to jump out of the way of the mast that was careening your way, ready to bury you at the sea. Your legs were saved by inches when the thing toppled over the side of the ship. The bitch you'd maimed at the thighs wasn't as lucky and was made into a pancake.

Almost everyone aboard was lucky that it didn't fall on the inside of the ship where most of the battle was (you were sure that had been the intention of the werewolves when they had aimed for the mast) - it damaged a bit of your ship, yet it mostly, and most joyously, fell towards the other ship; the lovely irony: their ship was naturally lowered in height, making the mast tip in that direction, and in your favor.

Their ship buckled with a satisfying crunch of wood. The mast now forming the new bridge between the two ships. You hoped your soldiers would blast it soon so the werewolves stop coming over.

Before you could slide over the round wood, and back into the main fight, a large dog headbutted you. You fell on your butt, close to where the railing had been before it got destroyed, thanks to the fallen mast. Your left elbow absorbed most of the impact, the sea spraying your face when you came close to dropping off the edge.

Your attention was more fixated, however, on the actual wolf.

It was true that pureblood werewolves could access their powers anytime, but to turn into an actual wolf was a rare gift.

It pounced; you rolled away and onto your feet.

The mast had created a separate slice of battle. Only two other pairs were fighting here except you: Mrs Stun versus a werewolf, and a skinny vamp who was clawing out his werewolf's heart.

The vampire, noticing the wolf, sneered in hatred.

The wolf was distracted from you for a second. The vampire launched itself at the animal who cleverly sidestepped and caught the vampire's waist betwixt its maws.

Your mouth actually fell ajar when the wolf bit the vampire so hard that its body snapped into two. Color you surprised, this was something extremely hard to do. You knew wolves like these were powerful - it didn't induce you with confidence upon witnessing just how much.

It didn't bother to eat the vampire, gagging in disgust - they mostly had a taste for humans, and vampires who were technically dead humans, might've tasted like decaying food to it.

Its yellow lamplike slitted eyes turned to Aurora, the hunter wife of the Stun family; before it turned to you. With your left elbow injured after that fall, your hand hadn't stopped quivering; you had one arrow aligned which weakly skittered away to the mast's side because the wolf dodged it without much effort.

It used that jump to keep speeding towards you. It couldn't sink its teeth in you as it had planned because you had swayed your weight onto your right leg as you swiveled, barely keeping your balance; its claws did scrape superficial wounds on your skin, across your left hip though.

You re-slung your bow, no point without your useless left hand; and went for your quiver. Your hand clasped around four arrows - all that you had left. You took one out, gripping it tight in your dominant hand.

You knew you couldn't battle this one for long - it would take too much energy. Attack wasn't an option either if that vamp was a good example. Yet defense took too long sometimes - you could be dancing around with this beast till God knows when.

You took a step in the opposite direction for every step it took towards you. The prowl of the animal seemed casual, almost lazed. Then, it did something that almost made you drop your weapon out of shock.

'You must be the head bitch,' he talked.

You scoffed with false bravado. 'Great. A talking fucking wolf - just when I thought you dogs couldn't find more ways to whine.'

Its lips twisted into a smile that was surreal on a wolf. It must be a Pureblood Alpha with a fucking gift of shapeshifting. Alphas can talk in their wolf form, you knew, but you'd never seen one. The rumors had been from so long ago that you thought that they were just that - whispers of the fucking wind.

'Mock all you want,' the deep mesmerizing voice purred. It both fascinated you and frightened you. 'I can hear that heart pounding away like a friggin' hummingbird's - it'll be so delicious with all those hormones.'

'Creep,' your nose scrunched, walking in circles still. As you often did, you changed topics. 'Tell me, how'd you even find us out, huh? It's not like we didn't do a damn good job of concealing ourselves.'

'You don't know who you are, do you? The final piece,' he spat, an almost grimacing smirk fixed on his face. 'Couldn't let you preside Europe and ruin the world, could we?'

Your brows furrowed. 'Did Captain Laffitte call you?' you asked the most pressing question, though you had many.

The answering snarl meant "no". 'That vampire is a traitor to our faction,' it growled, its claws digging into the strong wood threateningly. 'Transporting humans, what a crime! I'll kill him when I'm finished with you.'

'Boy, do I feel special,' you smiled sarcastically, stopping in your tracks. 'Though, you won't be able to keep your word—you won't live past me, dude.'

As expected, his ego was hurt - you can expect that from a person so gifted, who felt so invincible. A person who was egoistic enough to underestimate you, and give you time to think.

It pounced once more and you didn't duck down until it was inches away. You had walked enough so that the mast had been against your back; the werewolf's snout crashed into the wood.

You had turned on the balls of your soles at the last minute so that your back had been to his front. Your hand had shot up and the arrow nicked a long line along his chest and down to the crotch. When he fell due to gravity, the arrow snapped in half, and the lower half of its body took you down with it. Your quiver dug painfully into your back - it wasn't your biggest problem though - you were suffocating under its heavy abdomen.

You punched at its legs and joints (the weakest points) vigorously till it rolled off you, and trembling, stood to its feet.

He snapped its teeth at your face. Your hair missed his bite by inches. The twig in your hand which had been the lower half of your arrow, you shoved it into the monster's mouth - it stuck painfully between his teeth even if he snapped it like a toothpick.

It gave you time to put some distance and retrieve another arrow; one seemed to have slipped out of our quiver when you were getting up, so only two were left with you.

Even weakened due to heavy bleeding, the Alpha of this pack was quick to attack. It swiped at your legs; you came down with an elbow to its brain which seemed to hurt you more than him because it was your left one. You twirled on the ground with your uninjured hand and jabbed the arrow in its left eye.

It howled in pain. Maybe you imagined it, but it felt like the voices of the battle seemed to slow down at the sound - as if the wolves sensed something was wrong with their Alpha.

Your intuition proved right when, out of your periphery, you saw heads turning in your direction - for which some wolves got killed.

You stamped the arrow down further in its face, gritting in effort. Even then, the wolf wasn't dying.

You pulled the arrow from his eye to make it painful for him and then swung a foot over its prone form, straddling it's back; you were facing the rest of the ship this way, and it was almost as if your enemies were holding their breath for your next move. You pulled the wolf up by its ear, his fur matted with claret; it was with struggle, bringing him into a chokehold with your throbbing left hand, your arrow poised at its heart for everyone to rue their day about.

'Whine, won't you?' your British accent curled your words into a certain menacing sweetness. 'I'll allow it this once.' Your arrow pierced his heart, the crimson fluid spouting from his chest and flooding into your palm.

The wolves howled as if it were a military salute.

You slumped as all of them ran like rats from the ship, using the mast to cross over because you heard people from their ship shout orders about retreating. The humans slouched back, relieved; so did the vampires. (Boa tried to stab as many as he could with his silver sword as they were trying to flee.)

You dragged yourself away from the fallen mast. Without imminent danger, your body started screaming about all the pains it had endured, that it had kept quiet about till now. Like pangs, your brain was being sent impulses of all the places that hurt, and all the degrees that it hurt in.

Broken ribs, sore back, left hand and elbow throbbed, cuts on hip, bruised stomach, bloody mouth - and so many more little tales your body had to tell. You were also tired - you needed water and sleep.

You took a deep breath, compartmentalizing all your pain, and already prioritising the order you would take care of yourself in. This was a habit you picked after having been through many wars like this before - never so intense, but wars nevertheless.

You also glanced around to take stock of your people; making plans in your head for the next few hours. Selina and her small group of doctors would have their work cut out.

Speaking of, the civilians were meekly peeking out.

You used the broken railing behind your back to slowly pull yourself up but almost fell back down when you heard a scream of dismay.

'AURORA!'

Her yell seemed to set everyone in motion. With cries, people started rushing to their deceased family members or the wounded ones.

You blinked in surprise as Lay came running, pushing her fellow humans aside - and that's when you finally see it.

Mrs Stun was being dragged away by her leg by the werewolf she had been fighting. She was being viciously stamped on because of all the hurried footsteps and the mad struggle. The werewolf who carried her was weak, and you saw the symptoms of being poisoned on his skin - the werewolf was avenging its posioned self by dragging an unconscious Aurora away. (At least you hoped she was unconscious.)

A coil of guilt made itself known, and you mentally cursed yourself for not paying attention to her when she'd been so close to you. She had been on your side of the mast.

You leaped to your feet, using your last arrow to aim. Your hand shook violently; you gripped the round bodice of your bow that much tighter. With careful aim, and ignoring the cries of Lay Stun who was being held back by the twins now, you shot your very last shot.

Your heart fell as your arrow fell into the ocean - missing its mark by inches. Still, there was a surprised bark from the poisoned wolf, and you noted one of your soldiers - Rory, also an archer - hadn't failed unlike you. The poisoned wolf toppled off the mast.

With a distressed yell, Lay broke free of her binds, and climbed the mast, pushing the werewolves into the sea - whoever came in her way - not that they were paying her much mind either. They all just wanted to escape to their ship before it left without them, all of them were mindless now with their Alpha gone.

So, there, in the middle of the makeshift bridge, Lay kneeled next to her wife.

There was another horrible blast, and a cannon had shot through the centre of the mast - it had been one of your shooters, probably hoping to break the mast in two and let the deadweight fall into the massive waters.

Sure enough, with the distance between ships growing, the hole in the mast was splintering into something larger as well. At this rate, the Stun family would either fall into the ocean or sail away with the werewolves.

You jumped onto the mast, your heels clicking loudly. Boa and Baz came after you. You all were effectively standing above the ocean as the wood cracked quickly under your feet - an ocean filled with werewolves who were trying to either swim to their ship or simply stay afloat. Even if your side of the mast was steady, you found yourself worried for Lay.

'Lay!' you yelled over the terrible sound of wood breaking. 'Give me your hand!'

'We have to bring her, Y/N!' she sobbed, holding the face of her lover in her lap. 'She still has a pulse.'

Almost unwillingly, your eyes darted to the multiple bite marks on the leg that Aurora had been dragged with.

'She needs help!' Lay didn't seem to be getting it.

'Please come over,' you urged. 'We'll see about her!'

'What do you mean!?' she shrieked. 'I'm not going anywhere until you help her!'

Boa, uncomfortable, mumbled to you. 'Aurora's infected, Lead.'

Your lips pursed. You extended your intact arm, 'Lay, please. The mast won't hold long.'

Her eyes wildly scanned yours. 'Take her, then! I'll come after her!'

'Lay, your wife made a choice. For this continent,' you said. 'For these wars! Let her sacrifice not be in vain—'

'What do you know about sacrifices?!' she screeched. Your lips parted in surprise; you'd never been talked to like that, not by Layla. 'What do you know about love!? You either take her, or you leave me!'

You took a step forward, hands raised placatingly. 'Lay—'

With a terrifying lurch, the wood gave away. You didn't think when you jumped forward, letting Boa figure out how he was to keep you alive - your outstretched hand grasped Lay, more than half of your body hanging out. But you were anchored. Your thighs were pinned under someone's weight - and you had a feeling that it was Boa, who must also have been held by several people behind him.

It was a good thing too because you wouldn't have been able to stay aboard under the weight of both the Mrs Stuns; Lay was clutching Aurora by the wrist.

'We can't hold long!' came a yell from Baz. 'It'll fall soon.' True enough, the mast was dangerously teetering on the edge.

'Lay, reconsider!' you said. 'You'll lose your life! Do you think she'd want that?'

'Stop talking about her as if she's dead already!' she growled, much like the wolves had been. You could see her straining, hanging like that, her lover's hand slipping slowly because she wasn't strong enough, and another hand stretched painfully in yours. She was clinging to your azure cloth, her long manicured nails digging into your skin painfully.

You saw her do another thing you never had: Lay Stun was crying.

'Lay—!'

'You don't,' her breath hitched. 'You don't know what she wanted!'

The ship groaned, tilting with the mast. You reinforced your grip, aided with your smarting left hand.

'And you don't know what I want,' she sobbed.

'We can talk about this, back on the ship!'

'No!' she yelled. 'You don't get it . . . y-you don't get—!' She gasped when her slick hands slid further out of your leather gloves. The azure around your wrist grew an unsteady knot.

'I love the work, Y/N,' she said, determined. She met your eyes. 'Pardon me if I couldn't marry it.' It felt more like an accusation than an admission.

She wildly jerked her palm away, your azure cloth unhinging from your wrist and falling with both the Mrs Stuns.

You were pulled off the mast to safety (you couldn't put up much fight against Boa), the mast was pushed into the sea by a hoard of vampires who had survived - before the mast could take you all down into the treacherous waters.

You felt dazed, glued to the starboard side of the ship, watching as the monsters helped the mighty ocean drown your teammate and her family by eating them.

The war had shown it's true colours again; you couldn't help the anger as you watched the blood infested waters getting smaller and smaller in the distance. You had left your friend, quite literally, to the wolves.

Selina was slammed; her group of doctors and the civilians aided her. About sixty humans fell under urgent care, the rest were managable for a while, twenty were dead (inclusive of the ones Boa had to execute because they were bitten). All the vampires were on standby (only eight of them died) - because, well, they were self-healing - they would be seen after the humans were taken care of, if they would even need it then.

You were an orange case. Betwixt the code red and the look-after-yourself-because-you-know-that-much group.

So there you sat, doing a mediocore job of bandaging the wound on your side, and making a sling for your left hand that could be a good joke for the team of doctors some day who were giving you a distressed side-glance everytime they saw you now. To be fair, they were giving everyone in your orange group that look.

You didn't stare back, unable to care about your state right now. Your eyes were fixed on your thoughts where the scene that conspired tonight was playing on a loop. There was a lump in your throat which was as heavy as the mast must have been - the reality seemed as unreliable as climbing that fucking pole.

'Lady Y/N,' called the grave voice of your chief of army. Baz awkwardly stood to the side, his voice low for your ears only. 'Um, do you want to address the crowd? The grievers? Um, Lay would usually, uh—' he shuffled uncomfortably. 'I can do it, but it's better if it comes from someone of higher in the hierarchy.'

You ran a hand through your hair which was a guise to press your palm into your eyes so that it could absorb the tears that were welling up.

I love the work, Y/N, her voice bounded within the confines of your head.

You stood up with a deep breath that pulled you straight on your heels, fully composed - yet with an empathetic mask that the survivors will want.

'Of course,' you said. 'This job shall fall on my shoulders.'

Pardon me if I couldn't marry it, Lay had blamed. Yeah, well, fuck that.

She doesn't have to marry the work because you already have. And marraiges need sacrifices - Lay and Aurora would have to be the first morsel from your personal life to this burning pyre that is your planet. 

A/N: Talk about a toxic relationship, eh 🫤? Ah, anyways, who's ready to get their Dean on in Chapter 3 👀?

Tag List.

@hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @globetrotter28

[fulminare-aeternus]

*reeking of cat piss, box wine and despair...

[jamesmassino]

George/Bootsy/P-FUNK

[infinitysisters]

“The first thing to notice is that the student in the video pretends to be asking for the teacher's opinion but is in fact probing to find out if his teacher has the right opinion. That is, he's trying to find out if his teacher is part of "the people" or an "enemy of the people."

Bc of the power dynamic (the student is alone, particularly), he's unlikely to be able to initiate a struggle session, though he could deliver "criticism," in line with Mao Zedong Thought by accusing his teacher of being out of step with "the people's standpoint" on the issue.

His opener, though, where he pretends to be interested in the teacher's take or opinion is actually a test as to whether or not criticism needs to be delivered for having a wrong opinion. In other settings, it's the basis for shunning and even outright struggle sessions.

Struggle sessions were a form of psychosocial torture used by Maoist activists to humiliate and shame people who had the wrong opinions, trying to force them into conformity or into a process of thought reform ("ideological remolding"). Alternatively, it would just destroy them.

It's crucial to understand that this video opens with the student probing to find grounds to initiate criticism and struggle against the teacher. Had this gone differently, it's possible the teacher would face MANY students going after him later bringing vicious criticism.

You will find that with Maoist activism, the style is often to seem to probe what you think as a justification to rain opprobrium (struggle) down on you if you don't think what they want. It's very Hundred Flowers: let people speak so you can crush ideological enemies.

The Hundred Flowers Campaign (baihua qifang) was a time in the late 1950s when Mao encouraged free speech against his regime for a while then rounded up everyone who outed themselves as an "enemy" and sent them to be reeducated or die in the countryside (gulag).

The next thing to notice from the video is that the student hasn't formed his opinion about JK Rowling on the basis of any facts. It's what other people are saying. He's in the "outer circle" of the cult, like most people. He's locked in socially and emotionally ONLY.

You can tell this is the case for three reasons:

1) He presents it as such, lacking any substantive evidence;

2) He doesn't actually agree with the people's standpoint perfectly himself but defers to it;

3) He cannot articulate (intellectualize) WHY she's "transphobic."

If he were intellectually committed in addition to socially and emotionally locked ("inner school" of the cult), he would have been able to spout off any number of BS rationalizations for how Rowling is "transphobic" by stating the reality of sex. He can't, though.

This is important to recognize when it happens because people in the "outer school" of a cult are the most rescuable, as we see by the end of the video. They believe it because their social and emotional identities depend on it (so, hijacked psychosocial valuation schema).

A psychosocial valuation schema, by the way, is a method by which people evaluate themselves as good people (psycho-) or good members of a community (social). It's a fascinating subject, but Maoist "unity" through criticism and struggle (peer pressure) hijacks it, as seen here.

In short, the student is perceiving that if he has the wrong opinion about Rowling, he'll be a bad "community member" (ally), which means he's probably a bad person, worthy of shame, guilt, and exclusion, demanding he "do better." This dynamic is crucial to the cult brainwashing.

The teacher skillfully picks apart that this "outer school" cult member student doesn't know why he believes what he believes and forces him to think for himself, breaking him free from the Maoist psychosocial valuation schema for the duration of the exercise.

The next thing to observe is that the student later confesses to the fact that he personally sees nothing wrong with the statement but can see how others would find it problematic. That is, the psycho- part is breaking away from the -social part of the evaluation schema.

What he's expressing there is actually that he has adopted "the people's standpoint," as Mao called it. Wokes would call it "positionality" or "the standpoint of the oppressed" (yes, for those who know, "standpoint epistemology"). He knows he's supposed to see the world that way.

Psychologically for the student, this is the most dangerous and most important moment, and kudos to the teacher for effecting the deprogramming well. The reason is because the Maoist brainwashing program of "self-criticism" depends on the psycho- and -social being out of step.

The guilt and shame cycles in Maoist brainwashing, together with "leniency" or "love bombing" when people uphold the "people's standpoint" and criticism and struggle when they don't, are most powerful when the psycho- and -social parts disagree, not when they align.

The dynamic is to make the target feel like they're the only person who doubts "the people's standpoint." The student, in the wrong setting, would immediately feel alienated, alone, and ashamed that he knows "the people's standpoint" but secretly disagrees with it. This is key.

Maoism as a psychosocial brainwashing phenomenon requires "milieu control," such that the social group around you all publicly seems to perfectly hold to "the people's standpoint" so that each person believes they're the only one who thinks it's probably bogus.

In that state, you will "self-criticize" because you think something must be wrong with you. Indoctrination is external criticism. Conversion is self-criticism. Now note Robin DiAngelo saying "antiracism" is a lifelong commitment to self-reflection, self-critique, and activism.

In the end, the teacher breaks through, and the students sees not just that he was relying on "the people's standpoint" (psychosocial valuation) instead of his own critical thinking, and the teacher gives him space to feel accepting of "feeling like an idiot." That's very good.

In the Maoist environment, so with Woke teachers, the "people's standpoint" is pushed from the top, the interrogated "student" is urged to confess his sinful private doubts with increasing sincerity, and the social environment reinforces it all (to avoid their own struggle).

After breaking people down psychosocially this way and getting them to half-adopt and fully profess "the people's standpoint," the process enters another phase, xuexi, which means "study." That is, "outer school" cultists are pushed to become "inner school" cultists.

The point of "study" is to lead psychosocially locked people into intellectual rationalization, where the student would have been able to rattle off a litany of robotic-sounding theory (thought-terminating cliches and rationalizations) for how Rowling IS "transphobic."

That not only keeps them hermetically sealed (iykyk) in the cult, making deprogramming FAR harder and rarer, it also creates a demonstration for "outer school" members who can be convinced that their beliefs have intellectual foundations they just don't understand yet.”

- James Lindsay

[rastronomicals]

12:12 AM EDT March 17, 2024:

Funkadelic - "Funky Dollar Bill" From the album Free your Mind And You Ass Will Follow (July 1970)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

[fulminare-aeternus]

[fear-is-truth]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐓, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑

— charlie mayhew x nun!reader. | mdni

tags: mature content 18+・blasphemy・fem!reader・unprotected p in v・not proofread

a/n: i’m sorry

FATHER CHARLIE MAYHEW sits back in a wooden chair, dark eyes following you closely, but not with the sanctity expected from a priest. he’s holding a bible in his hand, fingers idly brushing the worn edges, but the words that come out of his mouth have strayed far from the expected teachings.

“celibacy,” he declares, “is a widely misunderstood concept. it’s not about abstaining, but about control. mastery of the flesh, not rejection of it.”

you’re sitting across from him, hands folded neatly in your lap as you tried to maintain a composed front. you don’t bother to mask the skepticism in your tone. “is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, father? that indulging a little bit isn’t breaking your vows?”

the soft mockery didn’t deter him. if anything, it fueled him. his expression does not falter; in fact, he smiles wider. “ah, but sister. did christ not spend forty days in the wilderness, surrounded by temptation, and come out stronger? his words are laced with arrogance, each one delivered as if it were irrefutable truth. the towel around his waist slips just a little, revealing more skin, but he makes no effort to adjust it. his gaze never leaves yours, and the audacity of it all strikes you.

“is it not written that to know sin, one must overcome it?

under current circumstances, charlie mayhew is a man of contradictions—utterly confident despite his obviously flawed reasoning. it’s impossible to tell if he truly believed what he was saying or if he simply liked bending the truth for his own purposes.

“so what you’re telling me,” your voice carried a soft lilt, lips curling as you meet his gaze, “is that celibacy is… negotiable now? sounds a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

slowly, you rise to your feet, deliberately turning away before bending down. the slit in your black habit parts slightly, revealing fishnet stockings, the round curve of your ass visible through the thin fabric.

“indulgence is sin when it lacks discipline,” he replies without skipping a beat, but there’s a new, raspy quality in his voice now.

“but when it’s controlled—when you allow yourself to feel something and rise above it—that’s where true strength lies. that’s power. that’s faith.” he’s idly stroking himself, slow pumps of his hand around the throbbing length. taking your own sweet time, you made a show of adjusting the strap on your high heels and allowing him to see the red lacy thong underneath as the slit falls open a bit more.

“besides,” he continues, “what’s the harm in understanding sin—up close? is it not our duty to learn the limits of our restraint, to test our strength?”

not answering, you simply sashay toward the priest, heels clicking softly against the floor, until you stop directly in front of him. his eyes follow your every movement as you free yourself of your garments, though the smirk on his lips never falters. you reach down and tilt his chin up with one finger,

“for someone who preaches so much about temptation,” you purr, “you sure don’t seem eager to resist it.”

he raises a brow, but before he can respond, you swing a leg over his lap, straddling him with deliberate slowness. your hand slides down his chest, fingertips brushing against smooth skin. his breath catches as one of your hands grazes over his toned abs, while the other squeezes his face with a teasing pressure.

“tell me, father.”

leaning in, you press your lips to his. when he doesn’t pull away, you deepen the kiss, gently pulling his lower lip between your teeth. his breath shudders as you release him, eyes scorching with lust.

“is this what you had in mind when you swore to be devout?”

a stretched groan escapes his lips when you guided the tip of his shaft between your slick folds. carefully, you sink down onto him, relishing in the tight, hot stretch—inch by glorious inch. your eyelids momentarily flutter shut as you were fully impaled on his cock, and just when you thought he’s about to kiss you again, charlie dips his head down. you gasped when you feel his tongue tracing slow circles around the areola before finally wrapping his lips around your nipple.

“ooh,” you manage to breathe out, and you immediately feel him smile against your breast. charlie starts to thrust up into you, his girth stretching you out to the extent that you can practically feel every ridge and bump of the veins that scattered along his length dragging against your walls. ripples of pleasure course through your body, the cross pendant you wore around your neck bouncing between your breasts with the motion.

the small room is soon filled with the slapping sounds of skin on skin, coupled with the wet suction of your pussy swallowing his cock, occasionally punctuated by your whimpers and his moans.

it doesn’t take long for the hot coil inside of you to snap. a powerful orgasm tears through your body, inner walls convulsing around him. within seconds, his seed is spurting into your womb, triggering aftershocks that left you trembling like a leaf in high wind.

charlie’s head falls back to rest against the wall behind him, as his cock continued to twitch deep inside you, residual spasms in sync with the weak fluttering of your pussy around him. your body is still tingling, a pleasant, dizzy warmth spreading through you.

“jesus…” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop them. he chuckles dryly, the sound rumbling through his chest as his hand lazily trails up your back.

“no, sister.” he murmurs, toying with a strand of your hair, gently tugging.

“it’s ‘father charlie’ to you.”

masterlist

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[cameronsprincess]

p!link thinking about… stripper!reader pulling the condom off blue collar!rafe mid-fuck😮‍💨

CW: smut! 18+ only! blue collar!rafe, stripper!reader, protected turned unprotected piv sex, ass slapping, degrading.

daydreams

it was the way he had you bent over, palms planted on his leather couch while his own large, calloused hands harshly gripped at your hips. the pace in which he fucked his long, thick cock inside you had your sweaty palms slipping against the black leather of the couch, loud moans and whines followed by the lewd sounds of your soaked pussy bounced off the walls. you’d never had anyone fuck you this good before.

“ffffffuck, r-rafe!” you moan, the feel of his swollen head repeatedly hitting at your g-spot sending your mind into a hazy state.

his right hand releases your hip, a harsh slapping sound ringing through your ears and your ass cheek stinging from the slap he’d just given it. you feel his cock swelling inside you, his thrusts beginning to grow sloppy.

“r-rafe! want… want you to cum inside me!”

he chuckles, his hand slapping at your ass again and again. “such a dirty fuckin’ slut, yeah? wanna let a man you just met fill you with his cum?”

your bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, biting down so hard you’re surprised you don’t draw blood. nodding your head profusely, you whimper out a small “yes.”

rafe slowly pulls his cock out of you, leaving just the tip inside before he removes himself completely. you crane your neck, finding his intense blue eyes and then his dick. you lift your right hand, reaching back and pulling at the condom that squeezes at his thick member. you finally free his cock from the condom, smiling back at him before turning and placing your right hand back on the couch.

you hiss in a breath when he begins sliding the head of his cock through your slick folds. “mmm you’re so wet, darlin’. fuckin’ soaked. you gonna be a good little whore and make a mess on my cock?”

“mhmm.. please? please, rafe. fuck me.”

“yes ma’am.” he rasps while shoving his cock back inside you, filling and stretching you. you lift up onto your toes, letting a soft moan slip from your lips.

his hands make purchase on your hips again, his pace brutal. your pussy clenches around him, begging to be filled with his cum. “fuckfuckfuckfuck! please, please!” you cry out.

that warm, euphoric feeling washes through you as your pussy continues to clench and unclench around rafe’s cock. he mutters curses under his breath, the raspy sound of his groans and his balls slapping against your clit send you tumbling over the edge.

“‘m coming! goddamn…” you moan as the wave of pleasure swallows you whole.

“right behind you, goddamn your pussy feels perfect wrapped around my cock, fuck!”

rafe’s dick swells, pulsing inside you as he comes with a groan, his cum filling you in long, hot spurts.

i was.. horny.. saw that p!link and yeaaaaah…

[fulminare-aeternus]

🖕😎⚡️

North Carolina realtor is processing grant money of Hurricane Helene victims and shows victims who lost everything are only getting $3,500 from FEMA

Also LAND GRAB CONFIRMED. North Carolina and FEMA offering buyouts of victims properties.

This needs National Attention...

You Know What To Do 🤔

[yawnderu]

A one-night stand with Simon completely ruins you for any other man.

His hands are forever tainted with blood and sin, yet despite the callouses adorning the rough skin, Simon’s touch is uncharacteristically gentle for someone his size, nearing a dangerous softness that has your heart beating faster by the second. 

His grip on your hips tightens, pulling you down onto his thick, hard cock, the flared tip slamming into the depths of your cunt, every single sensitive spot stimulated, the sound of flesh hitting flesh echoing through the dimly lit room, mingling with your moans.

“Look at you.” His deep voice is thick with approval, tired eyes tracing the line of your collarbone, the swell of your tits, the curve of your waist, admiring you like you're nothing short of a work of art. So fucking perfect, and all his for the night. 

“Fuckin’ beautiful.” More than death’s instrument, Simon Riley is just a man, unable to resist temptation— unable to resist the pleading look in your eyes, silently begging for more. His grip on your hips falters, one of his hands trailing up your sweaty, warm skin, pulling you down until your face finds shelter on the crook of his neck, your soft lips hovering over his pulse, a silent display of trust given with such ease to a complete stranger. 

He pulled back and thrust inside you again, setting a less brutal rhythm, nothing in his hazy mind but the goal of making you cum first.  He couldn’t help but reach between your bodies, applying light pressure on your swollen clit as he fucked you deeper, his thick tip ramming against your cervix over and over, his breath hot against your skin with each groan leaving his lips.

His free hand comes up to grasp your jaw, fingers lightly digging into the skin as he captures your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue tangling with yours in a primal dance of lust. The bitter taste of tobacco and bourbon in his saliva makes you whine, your soft hands coming up to cup his cheeks, half-lidded brown eyes meeting your gaze when you pull away.

“Fuck… gonna cum.” Simon’s breath grows heavier at the pure hunger in your eyes, dancing along a vulnerability he wasn’t used to. Amid the pleasure coiling in your stomach, your hips begin to move to match his intense pace, meeting his thrusts halfway. Simon’s thumb presses harder against your swollen clit, circling it slowly, your walls tightening around his aching cock, dragging a quiet, muffled moan out of him.

“That’s it, sweetheart, cum for me.” Simon’s voice quivers as he lets out a low groan, his free hand going down to grab a handful of your ass, the fat and muscle seeping through his fingers when he squeezes. He pushes deeper into you, trying to reach that blissful peak you both crave. His thrusts grow more desperate, a familiar tightness in his lower stomach threatening to make him cum, using your body as leverage to fuck into you harder, deeper. 

“Oh… oh, fuck.” His cock twitches at your whiny moans, your walls growing even tighter around him, eyes rolling back as you finally collapse on top of him, heavy breaths leaving those soft lips he has grown to adore. Simon follows right after, unable to hold himself back, burying his cock inside you as deep as possible. Ropes of thick, hot cum paint your insides, marking you as his, even if only for that night. 

“You okay?” He tucked your face into his neck, allowing you to breathe in his scent— cigarettes, gunpowder, and the faint smell of licorice. He leaned down, pressing tender kisses all over your forehead and cheeks, not minding the thin layer of sweat coating your skin. His hands are warm and gentle, running up and down your back as you both catch your breath, giving you time to recover. 

“Mhm.” He pulled out of you slowly, tugging you into his side, his hand drifting down to your belly, rubbing circles on the tender skin to soothe you, his other hand pulling you closer, the aftermath of your passion lingering between you. Your fingers linger on his side, hesitantly running up and down, feeling the multiple bumps from old scars, gently rubbing a particularly bad set over his ribs.  His breath hitches, yet he remains quiet, allowing you to have all of him.

[rastronomicals]

6:09 AM EDT September 6, 2024:

Funkadelic - "Funky Dollar Bill" From the album   Free your Mind And You Ass Will Follow (July 1970)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

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[lewdlucidity]

Free your mind and your ass will follow ❤️‍🔥