#Grace writes🗝️

[bunnylove1]

PUMPKINS

I’ll be getting to requests soon! I promise i will I’m very sorry for not being active recently I just haven’t had the motivation or energy recently

[thequeenskeep]

Key to Enlightenment🗝️

Retention

For the past 3 months, I've been riding the tides. High and low I've been with myself through it all. These past two weeks have been increasingly difficult. On the outside I hold it together; it seems like my life is magnificent and joyous. An unsuspecting passerby would see me and admire my sophistication and grace. Inside, however, I am an ocean; pushing and pulling myself in every direction flowing and crashing hoping that one day I'll pull myself onto shore. Consequentially, I've lost a lot at sea. They say treasure lies at the bottom of the ocean. What I discovered was my essence lying dormant, waiting to be cherished, realized, and utilized for a beneficial cause.

Life is a war; a constant battle within yourself represented by choice. The ability to contemplate and choose is a gift to humanity. Like all things in life, there exists a duality; two sides to a coin. Every choice made is the greatest gamble you'll take with odds erratic and unpredictable. This perspective amplifies fear and discomfort. The complete lack of external influence is enough to drive the most sane person mad. How do the mentally fortified maintain their composure when faced with reality?

Intentionality. The universe rewards authenticity; it is the treasure we reach at the bottom of the sea. The dive down is filled with choices built to develop a tolerance to the power and fragility of our soul. You are what you ingest. The preface to authentic living is intention. When faced with turmoil it's best to simplify life. Life is muddled with could'ves, should'ves, would'ves. Intentionality is a form of clarity. When you have a set goal it gifts you with purpose.

When you write out your life goals what do they all have in common? What is the root cause of your desires? One of mine is to be a student of life. My desire to learn and grow is a byproduct of my intention resulting in my actions becoming a reflection. Sometimes, when the waves are crashing and you're tumbling about it's best to stop reaching out for something to uplift you. Let the ocean take you, allow your body to become limp, fall into the flow of the waters, and eventually, it will guide you to shore treasure in tow. Embody what you desire and it will become of you.

[bits-and-babs]

🗝️

Commander Mills as an explorer/treasure Hunter/guide/expedition leader/bounty Hunter/whatever from a bygone era. Please and thank you :)

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐒 — 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒

TreasureHunter!Mills x Goddess!reader

summary: Mills is enchanted to meet you after stumbling across your temple in his journey to find treasure. He's desperate for a way to pay his daughter's medical bills and agrees to pay upfront for taking the golden offerings.

word count: 2k

warnings: 18+ MDNI, suspense, inference of threat, dub-con ((? (seduction through enchantment))) cumming untouched, fully clothed, grinding, forced worship, cumming in pants. Wanted to try something new for this one and really enjoyed writing it!!!

➛ mills masterlist | main masterlist | taglist

Rabid breaths heave from Mills’ chest as he hauls himself over the sheer cliff face. The chalky surface crumbles beneath his hands, the rope he had managed to throw and hook over a stone pillar holding the weight of his body. Adrenaline skitters up his spine as though he’s touched a live wire, every hair on his arms standing on end despite the baking heat of the setting sun at his back.

Buckling his leg over the edge of the drop, Mills pushes on the heel of his boot to pull himself over and away from the death drop below. He wheezes heavily, clasping at his chest with his palm, checking his heart is still throbbing despite how it practically slams up against his ribs. His blood rushes in his ears as he rests his head back on the dusty floor, staring up at the stalactites that hang menacingly from the cave roof. They remind him of the daggers of the local people who had threatened him for trespassing into their lands, and he lets out an incredulous laugh, eyelids slipping shut as exhaustion kicks in.

This entire journey had been treacherous from the very beginning, almost cursed. Mills must have somehow cracked every mirror in his general vicinity, receiving a perpetually multiplied seven years of bad luck. The plane had come down from the sky; he’d been attacked by a particularly overzealous tiger on his way through the jungle, kidnapped by local tribes– if he was fair, he could understand why they were enraged by his presence. But, of course, Mills couldn’t exactly claim he wouldn’t pounce on trespassers in his home, either. Regardless, peril had held a blade to his throat the whole journey, and if he hadn’t been at the mouth of the very temple he had been in search of, he would have turned on his heel and headed straight back home to the sanctuary of his bed.

Over the gasping breaths rattling his lungs and the whistling of the wind through the stone caves, Mills swears he can hear a voice. Sweet words whisper softly in his ear, the sensation of breath tickling his ear, causing a chill to run across his dusty skin.

It has been so long since someone graced my halls.

Lurching upright suddenly, Mills scans his eyes over his surroundings, taking in the pillars that held up the gargantuan temple carved into the rockface to his left. Despite what he could only assume was centuries of isolation, lost to time, the temple still holds a golden, flickering glow of torchlight. Flames dance from the wall brackets built into the stone, the miniature blazes casting a dancing orange hue across the floor.

“Hello?” He calls, his voice ricocheting off the walls. Mills speaks, and the same word repeatedly returns his address; Hello, hello, hello?

Stumbling to his feet and discarding the rope he had clung to as a lifeline. Brushing his hands over his hips, he feels for the handle of his gun in his holster, gripping the weapon tightly as he wanders into the temple, eyes scanning the walls. Ancient inscriptions decorate the walls, chiselled into the face of the brickwork with rudimentary tools. Mills could just about make out certain words, names for goddesses, warnings of dange-

I have missed the company of others.

The disembodied voice in his ear causes Mills to jump suddenly, eyes wide and panicked as he spins on his heel, searching the shadows for the source of the noise. Besides the rushing wind outside that brushes loose strands of hair from his face and the quiet skittering of small stones disrupted by his footsteps, he cannot hear anything more. He’s almost sure that he’s imagining things, that he may have unwittingly bashed his head off the side of the cliff on his ascent– until he spots you standing in the middle of the large open prayer room.

States of the old gods surround you, enshrined in ivory marble amongst the golden sandstone. You wear draping cloth, something akin to a toga, and it sways in the breeze that sweeps your hair from your cheeks. It takes his breath away, your ethereal beauty, his lips parting as he gazes at your enchanting face.

“Ah- Excuse me,” Mills addresses you cautiously, an inexplicable nervousness settling in the pit of his stomach. You are almost too beautiful to look at, the awe fixing in his bones and aching.

“Apologies are nonessential,”you smile politely at him, sandals silent as they walk along the textured surface of the ground. Mills gawps as he watches you almost float towards him, your eyes scanning over the length of his being. Is this a fever dream?

“Might I ask that you state your business?” You query him, and Mills’ hairs stand on end, that nervous energy turning his stomach over. He feels jittery, as though his instincts tell him his survival depends on how he answers your question.

“I- I have been ordered here in search of precious metals.” Mills chooses to offer a half-truth. Treasures were an honest response, yes. But no one had sent him here— no one but desperation.

“In order to pay for your ailing daughter’s remedy?” You hum softly in that voice as soft as silk. Mills’ heart twists, and he might have noted that he never mentioned Nevine if it weren’t for the stinging of tears in his eyes at the mere mention of her. He hadn’t seen her in many moon cycles, persistent on his journey in hopes of finding enough treasures to save her from the disease ravaging her body.

You nod, approaching Mills ever so slowly. Something in the very back of his mind, a whisper of instinct, warns him to retreat from you, but as your hand lifts to cross the small space between you both, he yearns to know what it would feel like to be comforted by you.

“I understand your pain, dear one. The agony and suffering of our children is a painful weight to carry,” Delicate fingers brush up the bare skin of his forearm slowly, the touch itself soothing and easing some of the emotional pain that grips his mind and blurs his vision. “There is bounty here that may ease that burden.”

Relief lurches up Mills’ throat in a sudden sigh of relief. It sounds a lot like a sob, emotions coming so easily to the usually steeled hunter in your presence. It’s almost startling to Mills how the tears spill down in cheeks so quickly, even with the overwhelming consolation.

“I just request something in recompense,” you whisper, your breath brushing across his cheekbone and warming his skin like a summer breeze. He melts into your affections as you continue to stroke at his bare skin despite his better judgement, body seemingly craving the solace it finds in your connection. “Something that may atone for the loss of my most prized possessions…”

“Name it,” he murmurs, eyelids heavy as he watches your eyes alight with mischief, the glow in them not unlike the flames that light the surrounding room. “I’ll do anything for you..”

The words sounded odd coming from his lips, not quite what he had meant to say. Mills opens his mouth to correct himself; ‘for my daughter’. But, instead, a gasp of pleasure pushes past his chapped lips. Your eyes scan across the pinch in his brow as Mills’ body throbs with an overwhelming sense of bliss, his jaw falling slack as you gently tuck strands of his ebony hair behind his ear.

“What is-” He chokes out, leaning slightly into your touch despite his internal drive to push away. Instead, the very atoms of his being pull towards you, fear and ecstasy twisting in the pit of his abdomen as you hold his gaze, your perfect brow arching in query.

“Is?” You urge him to continue, but Mills’ mouth fails to form around the words- or do they dissipate in his mind before they even fully form? He has lost the ability to speak entirely, eyes rolling back as arousal flits from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. His cock strains against the seam of his trousers, twitching and pulsing.

“I do enjoy how delicate people are,” You whisper to him, voice as soft as cotton, “You break apart with my touch, burst at the seams at my command.”

Mills’ knees buckle beneath him at the sound of your mirthful chuckle, moaning pathetically at how the seam of his trousers’ crotch presses against his throbbing balls. Already his cock is weeping precum through the tan fabric, leaving a dark, wet stain.

“Mhmm,” you smile to yourself, lifting the skirts of your toga as you bend at the knees, balancing on the balls of your feet. Mills, grinding his hips against the fabric of his trousers, looks up at you. His eyes are stinging with tears, the immense arousal. “Is it pleasurable? Does it engulf you, that heavenly feeling?”

He wants to shout stop, wants to beg you to release him from the enchantment you seem to have cast upon him, but instead, his head tilts forward in a nod, body seemingly working against his mind and prostrating before you in an act of worship. He can feel your eyes on the back of his head and can practically sense your prideful smirk as the pleasure grows significantly.

“Ohh–” Mills whimpers and it’s pathetic. Almost like a wail, the sound bounces off the smooth walls, a dissipating melody of his own whinings. He tries to spread his legs wider, hoping it will relieve some of the building pressure, but his hips have a mind of their own and begin to rock against the inseam that lays flat against his cock. The friction itself causes a gut-wrenching groan to burst past his lips.

“You may give it to it,” he hears you advise from above, “This is your reparation, the promised payment for my treasure.”

All at once, his arousal surges, and Mills finally releases any and all reservations. It floods his body, the almost unbearable bliss that rocks through every nerve. He can’t help but fall victim to the burn and the sting. He has no doubt he looks utterly pitiful at your feet, hips rocking against the air and body trembling as his balls pull up tight.

“That’s it,” you whisper, silky smooth voice running down his spine, pooling in the pit of his stomach and poisoning his sensibility, “That is perfect.”

And it is, God, it is. Mills is entirely pliant as the darkness takes hold of his mind. It seeps in, creeping into his consciousness and chasing out the light. As his cock drools and his hips pick up their pace against the tightness of his pants, his eyes roll back into his skull. Oblivion swallows him whole, blissful pleasure utterly obliterating his cognizance. It’s an inferno, blackening his insides and charring his skin with a devastating heat as he cums in his pants.

When the obscurity releases him, there is no sense of self or mindfulness. Instead, he’s completely detached, his body trembling and alight with enormous sensation, and his mind inundated by you. You, only you. Your pretty fingers clutch his chin, and you stare adoringly down at him as you push his hair out of his face again.

“You are a treasure, yourself, my dear,” you whisper to him, shaking your head as you pout slightly, “I can’t find it in myself to release you.”

In himself, Mills also can’t find it in himself to leave. He couldn’t remember why he had entered these hallowed halls. Had he even come from the outside? As far as he could recall, he had always been here, on his knees before you in worship.

And that’s where he intended to stay. Anything else would be sacrilegious. He wouldn’t dare defy his Goddess in such a way.

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[suiana]

this empty chest would be a fitting refuge for him; protected by flesh and bone, he and i could become one.

the blood that flows through my veins awash with the scent of him as my tendons pull him closer.

i'd build a temple for him within my chest; a domain for him to reside. a sea of hopeful endeavors and creatures derived from holy expertise, it would all be created from adoration. if he'd allow me, i'd mend my secrets with his own and allow him to see the darkest parts of me.

i'd introduce him to the cavern beyond the walls i've built; the tendencies and experiences i'd carefully hidden away. i'd allow the mask to fall, the curtain closing if he so desired. i'd pull my stagnant heart from the cloth i have buried within infertile soil and will it to beat once more. 

if it was what he desired, i'd air out the most depraved corners of my mind and allow my god to craft me a new vessel. only for my god would i rebuild everything i've ever known.

as i write this, i can envision the blessed taking refuge within flesh and bone-

hearts stitched together;

flesh mending flesh;

mind becoming one;

and the holiness of my god bestowing his grace upon my sinful existence.

-from 🗝️anon to yan!stalker and yan!poet

"oh..! so sweet... thank you for this honey :)" -your stalker

"oh the metaphors, the literary devices, sentence structyres... they all flow together so well that my heart is racing from just reading this once! I wonder how I'll feel once I go and analyse this piece of perfection~! thank you for this my muse!" -your poet

[manor-tea-time]

LeRoy could hear an anxious knock behind his door along with the sound of paper shuffling, as he opened the door it was almost as if he could see a certain redhead quickly turning over the corner of the long corridors, when he looks down, he finds a single white rose along wih a envelope, outside it read "I'm sorry beloved, this was the only flower I could find that looked as beautiful as you." and inside it, once again he could see familiar handwriting and the signature he had grown acquainted to.

I found him by my destiny, standing in the middle of the meadow, governor of whoever passes, of the one who speaks to him and who sees him. And he said to me: "Go up the mountain. I never leave the meadow, and you cut my white flowers like snow, hard and tender." I climbed the acid mountain, I looked for the flowers where they albean, between the rocks existing half asleep and awake. When I came down, with my burden, I found you in the middle of the meadow, and I was covering it frantically, with a torrent of lilies. And without looking at the whiteness, you told me: "You carry now only red flowers. "I can't get past the meadow." Climb the sorrows with the deer, and I looked for flowers of dementia, those that turn red and seem May they live and die from redness.

-Allan Crowell. <3

"Hello?" LeRoy peeked open the door, watching the letter and rose fall to the ground in a strange grace. He grinned as he picked the two back up, pushing the door open further to glance between the different ends of the hallway. "Oh drat, it seems as though I just missed them." He sighed, redirecting his attention back to the flower. He needed a new spot to put this one, didn't he? He turned back into his room, bringing the door closed behind him. He supposed he could use the vase he'd recently received to good use.

"Ah, my dear sonnet, you always leave me such pretty flowers!" He gave the flower a small sniff before placing it into the vase. It completed the other flowers he'd picked earlier that week perfectly! LeRoy chuckled a bit at the front of the note. Ah, his sonnet could be quite silly. Any flower would be more than enough to get his heart fluttering.

He happily sat himself down and began to read the poem, rereading a few of the stanzas and muttering to himself happily as he did so. "This one reminds me of a story! Like the tales of people searching for their loved ones within treacherous conditions." He hummed as he folded the letter and placed it into a pocket in his jacket. Briefly frowning for a moment as he realized something; the ending. "I wonder if they will ever escape the meadow? Or if either of them will remember...." He paused for a moment. "I suppose I'll have to ask next time I see Mr. Crowell!"

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Later that day, a small knock was heard at Allen's door, the faint jingle of keys only being heard as a small envelope and bouquet of forget-me-nots were left in whoever was there's place. On the outside of the envelope, it simply reads "Allan C. :)" Inside, a small rough sketch of a fox is neatly folded with a short letter.

Dearest A. Crowell,

How have you been? I hope it is well! I've been meaning to visit you, but matches and the festivities for this season have had me preoccupied. The air outside has gotten so much chillier! I'll need to think of more things I can send you once the flowers are out of bloom for the season. (Hence the drawing of the fox, it reminded me of you.)

I am getting ahead of myself again I am afraid. I wanted to write to thank you for the poem and rose. They were both lovely as usual! I'm curious to see how the story within your poem ends though. Do they ever escape the meadow together?

Much Care,

LeRoy

-🗝️>(⊖▼⊗´)•ζ

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

[titleleaf]

sticky fingers 💎⛰️🎭, clothed with flesh like fire 🗝️📈, sour herb of grace 🎢📜

sticky fingers - Trust 2018, Primo/Angelo, 4.1k, Explicit

💎- What was your favorite part?:

It was really funny to write about the Plutarch Caesar anecdote while writing about actual Julius Caesar in another Scrivener tab, I'll tell you what. I also had a fun time with the ending and Primo kind of poking Angelo right in his most vulnerable spot -- that Angelo does fully have feelings for Paul that would ordinarily be altruistic and liberating. (And that I do think end up that way in canon, Primo just cuts that whole possibility short.)

⛰️- What was the hardest part?

This is a diabolical thing to ask because you fully know -- I had a hard time making the internal characterization of this fic feel organic and coherent rather than running it on porno logic, which is easy for me to fall into. I don't think I fully achieved this, either.

I also struggled to find a plausible time in the timeline of canon for this scene to take place -- there are some canons where I play fast and loose with that, but the more I canon-reviewed Trust the more anxious I got about straining plausibility.

🎭- What was the feeling or mood you were going for?

I really love the drowsy summery feverish feeling of those episodes set in the mountains, and how almost pleasant it seems, with Primo as the main wild card. Sometimes... an erotic summertime gay awakening in the Italian countryside with a sexy older man... is worse.

clothed with flesh like fire The Wolfman 2010, Gwen Conliffe/Lawrence Talbot, 1.9k, Explicit

🗝️-What were you thinking when you wrote it?

I was thinking "oh my god... I love this wolfman so much..." but I was also thinking about wanting to thread the needle between recognizing all the reasons why Gwen and Lawrence don't really physically consummate their clear desire for one another, and allowing them to physicalize that desire in a way that didn't jump DIRECTLY to sex. (In an earlier draft of this fic Gwen and Lawrence fully bone on that bookcase.) I've never been good at writing slow burn romance -- I'm much more comfortable writing characters having sex early on and then slowly realizing they have real feelings for each other -- but despite the shortness of this fic I had a lot of fun trying to play in that register since Gwen and Lawrence have such outrageous chemistry in this film.

📈- Was there a clear character arch u wanted____ character to go on?

I really wanted the focus to be on Gwen's own erotic experiences and her moving from a kind of inchoate desire to something more fully realized -- she has her own history with the other Talbot brother, which we have no reason imo to believe wasn't genuine, and I wanted to honor that but also all the stuff that makes Lawrence compelling and exciting to her.

sour herb of grace Shakespeare's Histories, Henry IV/Prince Hal, 1.9k, Explicit

🎢- Were there any scenes you were nervous about? For audience reception or otherwise?

Whew, ok, audience reception with this series is basically my main anxiety -- I don't blame anyone who otherwise reads my Histories fic for not touching these but knowing that people get those updates, look at them, go👀👀👀 and then have to carry on their day is hard. I've enjoyed writing these stories a lot but out of everything I've ever written they are easily in the top five for darkness.

📜-Do you want to write something like this again in the future?

There's a third part of this series that's still in the works and that section of the storyline will hopefully leave Hal in a very different place (in terms of interpersonal tactics, at least, if not trauma, there's not really any catharsis or satisfaction) -- it's almost entirely finished at this point but editing this series is a weird ass-kicking.

[bunnylove1]

update on my hand

found out I have arthritis, not a surprise it runs in the family, everyone thought I was being dramatic today but I’m not lying when I say I can feel my bones rub together and like someone’s pulling my knuckles out one by one

okays that’s it love you darlings!

[bunnylove1]

update!

I’m finishing up the lute x reader request so be ready for it!, it’s my favourite smut I’ve written so far