#Lift Thine Eyes

[lolipoptheclown]

My phone is gonna die so I gtg after I post this but uh

We had to do blackout poetry in English today and I made this

"It is god, god had rejected me." Is what that's supposed to say

Also Eyes is supposed to have colored eyes too but it's hard to see:

[youraverageaemondsimp]

“Made for me.” // Aemond Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Thank you everyone for 1K followers, I am so grateful for all the support I've received for my fics, it's kind of an emotional moment for me cause I never thought I'd get this far, so here is the fic from this poll! this is short since I did not have much time and I do not want to delay my 1k celebration fic further! <3

MDNI // DD:DNE // reader discretion is advised.

Summary: As far as Aemond can remember, he had liked you, not in a way a brother loves his sister, no, in a way a man loves a woman, finding out that you were soon to be betrothed to a Tully for alliance, he feels devastated, until he decides he can prevent it, by ruining you.

WARNINGS: heavy noncon to dubcon, mindbreak, mindfuck, canon typical incest, creepy aemond(?), possessive aemond, dark!aemond, jealousy, obsession, breeding kink, tiddy sucking, virginity loss, mentions of blood, purity culture, medieval age standards (no smut until 18+), cum eating, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, porn with little plot. + not proofread.

block the tag #MAE:DARK!CONTENT to avoid seeing dark content from me.

WC: 3k

For as long as Aemond can remember, he had always been smitten with you, his little sister, someone very dear to him, he had loved you since the moment you were born, immediately becoming someone he swore to protect.

He was rumoured to have some romantic feelings for helaena, which wasn't entirely false but if anyone were to look closely, they would realise that the longing gaze he holds for helaena is nothing compared to the one when he looks at you.

As he grew into a man, these feelings developed further, and as he watched you grow into a woman, desire managed to get a hold of him. He remembers the first time he felt carnal attraction towards you, it was your sixteenth nameday, you had worn a beautiful green dress that showed a little cleavage, something his mother would've been against but she let it slide that time, he remembered as you bent over in front of him to get something from the table, giving him full view of your tits which he immediately looked away from.

That night he had rushed back to his chambers as fast as possible to tug on his length at the thought of you.

He was never the same after that, every touch ignited a fire in him, when you would lay on his thigh as you both sat beneath the godswood while he read, he had to fight the urge to take you right then and there, taking your maidenhead in front of the gods to bind you to himself forever.

As the years passed, his feeling for you grew stronger and stronger.

“Aem!” There was your sweet voice calling him once again, his gaze lifted from the book on the table to your form which stood a few metres away from him, you smiled when you noticed his gaze was on you, walking over to him so you stood next to him, peering down on the book he was reading.

“What are you reading?” you ask curiously, voice leaking with inquiry, he looked down at his book before glancing up again, “Just a book about our history, valyria.” he tells you and you lean down slightly over his shoulder, your platinum blonde locks falling over and curtaining the side of his face as you read the text.

“Would you read it to me?” you inquire and he nods, before you shoot him the bright smile that never seemed to leave your face, and pull the chair beside him, causing the wood to make a noise as it glid against the floor, and sitting down on it.

He began reading and you listened to him for quite a while, before your eyes started becoming droopy and closing as sleep tried to overwhelm you, it wasn't because you were not interested in the history, no, it was due to the fact that your older brother's voice was extremely comforting.

He chuckled when he tried your efforts to keep yourself awake and closed the book, “Sister, you must not fight when sleep finds you, go to thine chambers and rest.”

“But brother! You have just gotten to Aegon's conquest.” you pout, and he chuckles, “I shall read it to you tomorrow, now go rest.” he manages to convince you and obey his word.

Aemond sighs as he watches you walk away, you were the Apple of his eye, everyone knew, he had been protective of you since you were younger, though he developed certain type feelings, the kind that a brother shouldn't develop for his sister, but alas, targaryens have queer customs, after all, his elder sister was married to Aegon, their older brother.

It was only time until mother betrothed you both, and he would wait patiently for that, he would often imagine how married life with you would be, it would be perfect.

But all those dreams were crushed when he finds out that your mother was planning to betrothed you to a tully, to get their alliance in case of Aegon's claim for the throne. Angry was an understatement, he was extremely pissed off, and what did you do? You gladly accepted it, even managing to look happy at the proposal.

Just then he remembers his elder sister's words. ‘If one possesses a thing, the other will take it away.’

He could not have that.

He can not have you be taken away from him, that too by an undeserving house such as tully.

You knew something was extremely odd when Aemond came to your chambers at night, he never did that, always deeming it inappropriate for a lady and a man to be together after the moon has risen unless they were husband and wife. So it was extremely shocking as to what he was doing in your chambers, knowing he took the secret entrance since the guard did not mention Aemond at all when you entered.

“Brother? What are you doing here so late?” you ask as you approach him, he is sitting on the chair near the fireplace, turning his head to the side as if to acknowledge your presence, the light bouncing off his face making his features look much more angular and intimidating.

“I have missed you, dear sister.” he stood up and turned to face you, and you peered up at him confused, “I had heard about your betrothal to a tully, though I do not remember his name, I came here to wish you pleasantries and a prosperous marriage.” he tries his best to not scowl.

You smile widely.

And that immediately sets him off.

“Thank yo-” before you could finish your sentence, Aemond grabs you harshly by your cheeks, pulling his face towards his own, “You're happy? You're fucking happy?” he growls as his breath fans your face, “Aemond-” before you could say anything, the same hand that was gripping your cheeks goes to your hair, pulling your head back, your hands fly up to his to make him release his grip as the tug at your strands were incredibly painful.

He doesn't say anything but slams his lips against yours, moving against yours in a frantic rhythm, your eyes widen at this and you push at his chest to pull him off, but he uses the grip on your hair to further push you against him, and soon you're all flush against him, weakly trying to pushing him off while the hand in your hair keeps tightening as the other holds your waist gently.

A true contrast.

He pulls away to breathe and he looks at your teary eyes, as you look at him, “Aemond- you're scaring me.” you say weakly, shaking as his eye narrows, “I love you.” he blurts out and you look at him shocked, “But- we're siblings–”

“We're also targaryens.” he cuts you off, and lets go of your hair.

You squeal when he lifts you up roughly, before making haste over to your bed and throwing you on it, and before you can get up, he traps you in his arms.

“I do not wish to see you married to someone else, you have been mine, since the day you were born, sister.” he whispers in your ear before pressing a kiss to it. You gasped when you felt his hand grope at your clothed breast giving it a tight squeeze and you tried prying his hand off to no avail.

“Aem- please stop-” you beg but he doesn't listen and his eyebrows are furrowed as he looks at you, “Sister, tell me the truth have you not felt anything when you stay with me? A warm feeling in your heart?” your breathe hitches as he asks you that question, and you look away from him, feeling ashamed that you held feelings for him, they very well hidden, you felt ashamed whenever you would feel heat pool between your legs as you watched Aemond do quite literally anything.

He undoes his breeches and pulls his cock out, undeniably hard, “If I ruin you then mother won't marry you off to him, besides, no one would want a woman that is ruined, especially by her own brother.” he says and you sob, shaking your head and you gasp as you feel his dick pressed against your core.

Your silence gave him the answer he needed, he tore your dress apart, the stitches popping off with a noise, as he changed his grip and undoes your clothing.

You try to push him off and hit his chest, in defiance, but he is much stronger than you, pinning your hands above with his one hand as the other pulls off the shredded clothing, with your final strength, you deliver a hard kick to his crotch which causes him to groan and plop on the bed next to you in pain, and you use that change to try and scramble up and off the bed but to your disdain, he immediately recovers and pulls you down with a tight grip on your leg but pushing them apart, placing himself between them and then wrapping his hands around your neck, the grip cutting off air circulation rapidly as you struggled against him.

“Fucking cunt.” he says before spitting on your face and you cry, you feel your brain go dark as you start loosing consciousness at the lack of oxygen only for him to let go, cause you to take a deep breath on relax, snapping you awake at once.

“Sister, look how much you are leaking, way too much for someone that pretends like they hate it.” he rubs his cock against your folds, coating it in your juices and he groans, before he leans in, kissing your neck and then your breasts before pulling back.

“Brother please- ah!” you gasp when you felt his hot fingers press against your bud, rubbing it, making you squirm as you grip his hand and try to push it off but his grip stays firm and you eventually give up, hands falling to your sides and gripping the sheets below as he plays with cunt.

He knew you'd eventually break.

He did not want to hurt you or force you.

But you weren't making it easier and he did not have much time either, so he had to resort to this.

You reach your peak with a loud moan of his name which went straight to his cock, he leaned down and kissed you once more, holding your legs apart by force and then grabbing his cock before lining it up against your entrance, slowly pushing the thick head in, your hands shot up to his shoulder to grab them, nails digging into the skin as he rips you apart on his cock, bullying into you without mercy, his hand covering your mouth as you let out painful whines to shush you up. You whimper when you feel him fully sheathed inside you, feeling too full, your cunt clenching around him painfully tight to push him out but he stays there.

“Look at you, taking my cock so well, like you were made to.” he whispers in your ear before pulling his hips back and snapping them forward, causing you to let out a scream, although it was muffled, at the pain. The orgasm before had only helped a little, he was too thick and big.

At first he starts slowly, pulling back and snapping one at a time, trying to give you time to adjust until you whimpered his name, which made him lose any and all control he had as his pace became faster, brutally slamming his cock inside you as you whined and moaned beneath him.

The sound of wet slapping noises soon fill the air and the smell of sex starts taking over, your mind becomes all hazy at what was happening to you, you watch as Aemond takes one of your breasts in his mouth, suckling on the nipple, drool spilling all over it while his hand gropes the other, massaging it. Your hand travels to his hair and you arch your back, shoving more of your breast in his mouth, making him groan in delight.

He pulls back with a pop and you look at him gasping and wide eyed as he thrusts into you, eyes dropped as slight drool leaks from the sides of your mouth, letting out moans when he hits that sweet spot inside you.

“Fuck- you're so perfect, made just for me.” he grunts, supporting himself on his hands above you, hair curtaining around your face as you stare directly in his eye, watching him close it in pleasure, gasping when he feels you clench around him.

“You're mine right?” his eye opens and he looks at you intensely, you nod, agreeing with what he was saying, your mind losing all of its ability to think rationally the moment he entered inside you, you felt your stomach tighten.

“Use your words.” he commands and you gulp, “Yes only yours— ah! Fuck aemond!” you throw your head back as your second orgasm hits you, moaning out loud and he let's out a shaky breath before you felt his thrusts become sloppy, “Fuck, I'm gonna fill this cunt up, watch my seed take root in your womb, you're mine, mine to fuck, marry, breed, you'll give me many heirs won't you?” he goes off, voicing his thoughts and you feel warm and turned on at his words, “Yes- brother, I'm all yours, only yours.” you say, grabbing his cheek and rubbing a thumb on his scar and he finishes inside you with a loud moan, pushing himself to the hilt as his cock spurts thick ropes of cum inside you.

He pulls out, still somehow hard and lays down beside you, and you feel so empty without him inside you, so you whine, “Aem- I need you.” you pout and he looks at you wide eyed, and you don't know what comes over you, but you find your patience running thin as you wait for him to do something, so you take matters into your own hands, getting on top of him, grabbing his blood soaked cock before rising your hips and sitting down on it.

“Sister?” Aemond asks questionably, as he grabs your hips, watching you bounce on top of his cock, breasts moving up and down as you moan loudly into the chambers, only his name, on repeat and that's when he finally understands what happened.

He broke you.

He fucked your mind.

He should feel bad, knowing how now you're seeking him and his cock out like a bitch in heat but he doesn't, he feels more accomplished at that, knowing you desire no one but him. He moans when he feels your cunt spasm around him as you reach your peak, and instead of stopping, you continue riding him, wanting to bring him to his peak as well, you take one of his hands and guide it to your breast, making him grip it and play with your nipple.

“Brother please! Please cum inside me, I want you to fill me up.” you beg and Aemond groans at that, “Want- want you so bad! please haa, I need to have your children.” you moan and Aemond felt himself reach his peak harshly at that, filling you up once again.

Aemond changes the position, getting on top of you again, cock still inside and you give him a small smile before grabbing his face and pulling him in for a kiss, his lips move passionately against yours, before he pulls away, kissing down your neck and to your breasts, he pulls out and slowly trails kissing down to your down, watching as his loads of cum leak out from you, he pushes his tongue out and collects his juice on his mouth, before shoving it inside again, engulfing your cunt in his mouth, you grab his hair and grind your hips against his face, moaning his name loudly as he works his mouth, his nose shoved against your clit, creating friction whenever he moves his head, and soon enough, you reach your peak once again, “Brother!” you moan as you arch your back and he groans into your cunt, lapping up at the juices being secreted from you, before pulling away from it, placing wet kisses on your inners thighs and coming up towards you again, and kissing you, shoving his tongue inside your mouth, making you taste both your combined juices, and you groan into the kiss at the taste.

You both spent that night just like that.

Your mother was horrified when she had heard about this, and tully had walked in on the conversation, scrunching up his face in disgust and calling off your betrothal, you stood with your arm wrapped around Aemonds arm as he explain his mother what happened, looking away and hiding in his arms as she yelled at him for ruining and spoiling you, before inevitable deciding to betroth you both as result.

And you both were married, two moons later.

The maesters were extremely confused when you went into labour earlier than what they had predicted, they thought that it was going to be a stillbirth, yet they were confused to see when a healthy silver hair babe popped out, crying and cooing. They considered it a miracle but only Alicent and Aemond knew the truth.

Aemond stood there with his child in his arms as he gazed lovingly upon him, a son. You smiled at him as he cooed in high valyrian.

“Maester, When can I take her again?” That question caught the maester off guard and he cleared his throat before speaking up, “I would suggest waiting 6 weeks until she is fully healed, or 3 moons time.” and Aemond hummed.

The maester leaves the room, leaving you, aemond and the babe alone, the baby cooing at his father, small hand entangled in his hair.

“After you heal, I shall put a babe inside you again, dear wife.” He comes down and sits next to you and you smile, “As you wish, husband.” you tease and press a kiss on his lips.

———

[mydadleft471]

A Trip Down Memory Lane

Summary: Messmer decides to surprise you in more ways than one.

Spoilers for both Elden Ring and Shadow of the Erdtree. No warnings tho, just me loving my fiery redhead.

MESSMER LOVERS COME EAT!

I finally got the courage to upload the fic I was working on! Everyone was so nice (and starving for Messmer content) so I folded lmao. Please enjoy and understand that I have never written anything like this, especially with ye olde English. It's a pain.

“I have something I wish to show thee.” Messmer’s low voice cut through the silence reverberating in his chamber.

“What is it?” You look up from patching a hole in one of his cloaks.

“I cannot say. It is a surprise.” His eye twinkled with something akin to mischief. You put down your needle and gently fold his cloak, putting it on your chair to finish later.

“A surprise for me? Are you feeling alright, My Lord?” You smile at him from where he towers above you. 

“Shush. Wilt thou follow?” 

“Always,” you say.

He leads you down countless flights of stairs and through the castle’s corridors. Down a hallway, you follow him as he steps into a lift that takes you to a part of the castle that is unfamiliar to you. You assumed you had explored everything by now, but it seems you were wrong. Messmer had given you permission to freely roam the castle, and you had spent a lot of time exploring the various rooms. You had gotten lost many times within the many twisting and confusing hallways, but the castle staff always led you back to your quarters. 

The path from the lift leads out to a part of the castle almost entirely flooded. This seems like a place that hasn’t been occupied in many years. Some of the buildings you can see appear to be collapsing and debris litters the area. The water churns uneasily below you, as if something lurks in the depths. Taking a few steps away from the ledge, you stare out into the water that swallows surrounding buildings.

“What is it?” Messmer asks. He senses your trepidation in going any further, though you don’t think you have much to worry about with a powerful demigod at your side. Still, this place sets your nerves alight and has you on high alert.

“I’ve never seen this place before. Where are we?”

He speaks as if it’s common knowledge. “The Church District.”

“What happened here?”

He takes a second before he responds in a flat tone. “It does not matter.” Noticing your face falling slightly, he gives you a small smile. “Thy surprise is near. Come.”

You continue to follow him, your footfalls mere echoes of his much heavier ones. You wonder where he is taking you, and why he decided to surprise you. Though you have gotten much closer to him throughout your time in the Realm of Shadow, you can’t wrap your head around the fact that he wants to show you something himself. So many unanswered questions, though Messmer brings about many of those. Still, you cannot complain about how well he treats you now after you’ve earned some of his trust. You are safe within his walls, and you are welcome.

Though you wish he’d let you into his heart and mind more often, you take what you can get.

Finally, he stops in a room with a large, and complete, statue of Queen Marika. Many throughout the Realm of Shadow have been beheaded, sending icy chills through you when you first arrived, but this one is intact. The only signs of damage have been from the apparent age of the statue.

“Dost thou trust me?”

His question catches you off guard. Looking up at him, he looks vulnerable and almost uncomfortable. 

“Of course I do. I wouldn’t have followed if I didn’t.” You smile at him to ease his tension.

He relaxes slightly. “Of course. I will ask thee to trust me again.”

You shoot him a puzzled look. How could you trust him any more than you already have?

“Close thine eyes. I shall lead thee, hand in hand.”

The prospect of him holding your hand makes heat rush to your cheeks, but you comply. Closing your eyes, you hold out your hands, and a few seconds later, he grabs them in his much larger ones. He holds them delicately, as if you might break if he dares to squeeze your hands. His skin is surprisingly smooth and warm. 

“I will ensure thou dost not fall and injure thyself..” 

“I’d appreciate that.”

He chuckles at your comment, a sound so rare and pleasant you want to hear it again and again. He begins walking, gently guiding you down a hill and you soon feel sunlight on your skin. The air feels lighter and there is a pleasant smell of lavender and fresh grass in the air. You wonder where you could possibly be. You haven’t seen much greenery in the Realm of Shadow.

After a few minutes he stops and lets go of your hands. You instantly miss his warmth, but you soon feel the heat of him behind you. You keep your eyes closed out of obedience and trust; you know he would not harm you.

His hands gently find your waist and he moves you a few steps to the left. Satisfied, he lowers a hand over your eyes to ensure you will not open them prematurely.

“This place is sacred. Inviting thee here was not a spontaneous act.” His voice is a mere whisper in your ear. You can’t tell whether to be scared or excited for what he will soon allow you to see.

He moves his hand away from your eyes, but they remain closed. You will not sully his trust. 

You can hear the smile in his voice. He’s pleased by your obedience. 

“Open thine eyes.”

You do, and you are immediately greeted with a grassy field speckled with vibrant flowers. You’ve never seen so many in one place. You think it would take all day to identify them. Trickles of gold sit suspended in the air like shattered stained glass and the sunlight kisses your skin sweetly. Not far up a hill is a small village made up of a few wooden houses. They look old and mostly abandoned. You take in the beauty before you. Not even Leyendell was this spectacular.

“Thou’rt pleased, I take it?” His voice wavers slightly with uncertainty.

“This is a most wonderful surprise, My Lord. Thank you for bringing me here.” You look up at Messmer, whose golden eye seems to shine brighter in the sanctity of this place.

“Forget formalities here.” He sits down in the soft grass and you are soon to join him. He looks relaxed, even happy, here.

“May I ask where we are now?” You idly skim your fingertips over the silky petals of the flowers swaying in the breeze around your skirt.

“Mother’s home. Her village before she became a God.” 

Your mouth hangs open in shock. It takes you a few moments to gather yourself enough to speak. “Queen Marika lived here?”

“Yes,” he answers. “Long ago.”

You wonder if Marika wanted Messmer to guard her old home, or if he does it out of love for her. You’ve seen the state of other Shamans within his infirmary, his medics working day and night to try and reverse the torture they’d went through. You knew Marika was a Shaman herself, but you’d never realized this place was originally her home. Your heart hurts for the God-Queen. Behind all her power was a girl who wanted her people safe.

You sigh, and Messmer shoots you a curious look. “This is the first time I’ve seen Marika as a person. Knowing she lived here, knowing she suffered… I understand now.”

Messmer reaches up and takes his helmet off, gently placing it to his side. “Mother desired revenge for her peoples’ suffering, and I became her instrument to do so here, in the Land of Shadow.”

“Did you want this?” 

He closes his eye. “Mother has endured what a thousand people could not. I will ensure she receives her long-awaited deliverance.” He dodged the question. He does not want this, but he desires to avenge Marika.

“I know you won’t answer me truthfully, and we don’t have to talk about this anymore. But know this: you are not ‘The Impaler’ to me.”

“Thank you.” His response is so quiet you almost can’t hear it, despite being right next to him.

As promised, you change the subject. “Have you brought others here?”

He looks away and you can see a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

“I have not. The first to lay eyes on this place is thee.” He admits.

“Why?”

“I-“ he begins. “Surely thou must know thy importance to me, yes?” 

The realization hits you. 

This is his way of saying he loves you.

You scoot closer to him and lay your head against his arm. You feel him tense, then slowly begin to relax. One of his snakes gently perches itself on your shoulder. You smile.

“You can touch me, you know.” You reassure him. “You won’t break me.”

Silence hangs in the breeze as you wait for him to respond.

“Dost thou understand my reason for bringing thee here?”

You nod against him. “I think so.”

He moves away from you, earning himself a confused look, then he slowly grabs your hands and pulls you closer until you are comfortably sitting between his legs. You look up at him and see that his face is almost as red as his hair. He is adorable when he blushes.

You could get used to this.

“You will forgive me if I am too presumptuous. I am… not accustomed to touch, yet I want thee closer.” His soft, silky voice makes your heart melt.

“I want you closer too. It’s okay.” You cup his face with both hands, and though it’s a simple gesture, he relaxes into your touch almost immediately. His eye closes and you try to memorize the look of peace etched on his face.

“With thee, I am content.” He whispers to you.

“Then I’ll see to it that we’re never separated.” 

His eye flutters open and he hazily looks down at your lips. His hand engulfs your cheek and you feel the warmth radiating from his palm.

So many have met their demise from the man sitting in front of you now, content and complacent, and that thought sends shivers down your spine.

“No man nor God could tear thee away from me. That is a promise.” 

He leans forward and kisses you. His lips are soft and he pulls you closer to him and his hands are splayed possessively over your face and back. You don’t want to pull away, and you get the feeling he doesn’t want to either.

You are his as he is yours.

[incorrectsmashbrosquotes]

*The final battle is here. Miquella and his puppet against the Tarnished*

*Puppet-Radahn seizes the Tarnished, lifting them up to Miquella. Miquella reaches forward for their heart*

Miquella: I promise you, a thousand year voyage, guided by-

*There's a blast of blue light, burning Miquella's hand and throwing the Tarnished from his grip. Astonished, Miquella looks up... and sees that the moon is somehow, impossibly, in the sky, shinning*

???: My apologies, dearest brother.

*there's a shimmering blue light as a figure appears behind where the Tarnished kneels*

Ranni: But their heart is not thine to steal.

Radahn, SOMETHING breaking through the brainwashing: Sis...ter?

*The Tarnished rises, eyes blazing behind their helm, the Darkmoon Greatsword shining with light. the place where their heart lies iss glowing with moonlight*

Ranni: My dear Consort, eternal. This is mine charge.

*Ranni rises above the battlefield, hovering above and behind the Tarnished, framed by the full moon's light, it's baleful eye turned on those who would be Gods and Consorts*

Ranni: Free mine brothers, Mohg and Radahn both. Strike now, my beloved.

*Miquella shakes his head sadly and tightens his grip on Radahn. The momentary clarity in Radahn's eyes fades, and he roars, summoning up his power. The Tarnished brandishes the Darkmoon Greatsword in one hand, the Carian Regal Scepter in the other, and the place over their heart shines with their Lady's love. Earned, not forced*

*The battle is joined once more, Purple and Blue, Gold and White. Sun and Moon. Ranni and Miquella*

[pinnedmother]

Caring for The Impaler (3 short stories)

Showing our love for the snakey man through acts of service! 🐍ɞ

1/3: Brushing his hair

There’re hardly any real battles nowadays so Messmer keeps the straps of his helmet loose for convenience, despite your worries of it being unsafe. He brushes them off and leisurely assures you that the helm is only there as a symbol, an accessory akin to the red drapery on his shoulders: he has no real need for such protection. He’s a demigod, “thou dost oft forget it” – he says.

Once you’re alone, he takes the helmet off. His red hair flowing down his shoulders like wavy flames.

You tell him to sit in front of the mirror. Messmer regards you with a quizzical look and an arched brow, yet still complies. He’s effortlessly lifting a nearby chair with one arm like it’s weightless before placing it where you want it. Sitting down, he rests his hands on his thighs and waits. You can’t help but notice how his gaze avoids the reflection, finally looking at it only to meet your eyes.

Pacing closer, you gingerly brush one hand through his dense strands while reaching for a wooden comb with the other. It has an intricate carving of coiling serpents on it. “Of course” – you think. Everything belonging to Messmer has a snake imbedded somewhere on its surface. His winged companions curiously watch your every move, a contrast to Messmer’s seemingly indifferent demeanor. As you hover a comb near his hair, you wonder if he likes all the serpent imagery or if he’s silently sick of it.

Some of his hair is matted, just barely so. You work your way through every strand with a gentle and diligent approach. Messmer doesn’t move. His eye closed, his breathing steady.

Once you finish combing his hair, you take your time enjoying the smooth feel of his locks between your fingers, making sure everything is thoroughly brushed. A soft sheen is more prominent now that every individual hair is laying perfectly in its rightful place.

You’re not done, however. Going softly with a comb to separate a small strand on each side of his head, you divide them in three and start weaving braids, combining the two at the end. He breathes out with his nose and sneers. “What..?” – you ask, tilting your head. What could’ve made the man laugh all of a sudden? Have you tickled him, perhaps..?

“Tis nothing” – he responds, his voice low and serene. You know not to probe further. 

Still determent, you keep at your little task, and once it’s complete you sigh in content and reach for a golden decorative plate – its side so polished it would work perfectly as a handheld mirror. Messmer takes note of your actions and moves his head to the side to watch you closely.

“Look” – you speak, holding the plate up for him to see the reflection of the back of his head in the mirror before him. He does so and narrows his eye a little. “I noticed some of your family enjoys wearing braids. Thought it might look good on you as well”.

He looks at you through the mirror, his expression hard to read. Worrying you might have angered The Impaler you feel like you need to justify your action further. You look away and continue. “It’s not as sophisticated, of course. And I made the braids slightly loose so you could wear your helmet freely.” You make a soft gesture in the air emphasizing your words, while keeping the plate with one arm at his eye level.

After a moment of time, Messmer bows his head in gratitude. “I love it quite. Mine thanks are thine to savor”. You catch his adoring gaze through a reflection, a subtle smile on his lips.

[tmrajax]

𝑁𝐸𝐸𝐷 𝑆𝐴𝑉𝐼𝑁𝐺?…

.....incl. denji, aki, power, beam, kobeni

一大 synopsis 概要: csm characters with a doctor reader

DENJI . . .

denji would be acting so silly. he would be grabbing gauze and scalpels from the medical bag you brought, causing you to swat his hand away and him to laugh. he would be poking your face as you wrap and stitch up the huge gash on his arm. ‘can i get the hello kitty band aids?’ he would ask while he kicked his feet and plastered a smile on his face trying to convince you to use them. ‘denj those won’t fit on this wound’, he would pout and go silent until you grabbed one out of his designated band aid box(full of a bunch of childish band aids) and put it on his cheek with a small kiss. ‘thanks doc’

AKI . . .

aki would be quiet. he would sit calmly with a cigarette in his mouth and just watch you patch him up. he wouldn’t look away from you as your gaze meets his in a silent plea for him to be careful, just giving a small smile and finally looking to his lap instead of your eyes. you would pick his face back up and take the cigarette from his mouth and put it out, grabbing an alcohol wipe and rubbing it along the cut on his lip. ‘next time at least aim to get hurt somewhere other than your handsome face..’ ‘pffft’

POWER . . .

she would be on one. pacing around the little room, her blood dropping onto the floor and making a mess everywhere. ‘HOW COULD THINE SELF GET HURT LIKE THIS’ she would yell, throwing her hands up and groaning out about how she ruined her favorite shirt. ‘power sit down.” you would tell her, running around after her like a chicken with its head cut off trying to catch up. only being able to grab onto her by the horns sticking up out of her head and pulling her towards the bed where all of the medical supplies were. ‘SIT POWER’ ‘NOOFO’

BEAM . . .

he’s just happy to be there. he would be overly ticklish and would giggle everytime you brushed your hands or a wipe over his skin. very over dramatic. he would let out an over exaggerated ‘ow!’ everytime you used an alcohol wipe or something sharp on him, resulting in you shaking your head and rolling your eyes at him. ‘hey if you would be more careful i wouldn’t have to do this’ you’d tell him with an attempted pointed look as you started wrapping his arm but failing and laughing, ‘listen lady, i gotta be your big strong boyfriend who beats people up’ ‘beam YOU got beat up’

KOBENI . . .

she would be passing out and hyperventilating. holding onto the walls and dragging herself onto the floor. she would be crying looking at her wounds, and then looking at you for help. ‘HELLP I DONT KNOW WHAT TO DOOO’ she would wail and curl into a ball, making you pry her hands off her knees and lift her shirt to see the wound on her side. you would be laughing at her and practically laying on top of her legs to hold her down so you can give her stitches. ‘DONT FLING THAT BOOK AT ME KO!’

[michaelsfavgirl]

arranged marriage

Pairing: King!Michael Jackson x Queen!fem!reader

Synopsis: (Medieval AU) On your wedding night, nerves consume you as the weight of expectation looms—everyone awaits confirmation that the union has been consummated.

Tags: arranged marriage, traditional expectations of marriage, mild smut, allusion to virgin!reader, multiple orgasms for reader, none for mike :(, clit stimulation.

Word Count: 675

Requested: yes/no

Author’s Note: y'all i tried my best to make the dialogue sound as medieval as possible. Don't judge pls, English ain't even my first language.

Links: navigation | masterlist | taglist

The great hall had been brimming with the scent of celebration, the echo of merriment ringing through the stone walls long into the night. Yet now, in the quiet of the royal chambers, it was just you and your new husband—King Michael, a man you had not even met before the grand ceremony that bound you together.

The weight of expectation pressed upon your chest. Every eye had been on you throughout the day, and now, even behind closed doors, you felt the eyes of the kingdom upon you. The consummation of the union was tradition, and you knew they waited, whispering, for proof of your duty.

Your cheeks burned as you glanced at him—regal, tall, his warm skin glowing in the dim candlelight. His presence was commanding, his every movement steeped in grace. You felt small under his gaze, shy and uncertain, your trembling hands clutching the edge of your gown.

“You need not tremble, my dear,” he said, his deep voice soothing, full of tenderness. He took a slow step toward you, his eyes gentle. “This night need not be a trial.”

You swallowed hard, glancing down. “I… I know what is expected, your Majesty,” you murmured. “I would not have them think I shirk my duty…”

Michael tilted his head, a soft smile gracing his lips. “And what care I for what they think? Our chambers are our own.”

He took your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “Do not fret,” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tonight shall be solely about you.”

Your breath hitched as he guided you to the edge of the bed. He did not tear at your gown or demand more than you could give. Instead, he knelt before you devotedly, his hands steady as they rested against your quivering thighs. His fingers moved with care, lifting the hem of your silken skirts, not in haste but in reverence.

“I shall not undress thee fully,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “This night is thine, my queen. Let me show thee tenderness.”

Your body tensed, but he only caressed your thighs, his thumb stroking softly. Slowly, he let his fingers trace their way to the most sensitive part of you. His touch was purposeful, yet impossibly gentle, circling your sensitive pearl until your breaths came faster and your voice broke into soft mewls.

“There,” he murmured, his tone like velvet. “Do not fight it. Let go for me, my beloved.”

The night passed not with the fulfillment of others’ expectations, but with his quiet worship of you. His fingers worked tirelessly, coaxing pleasure from you again and again, until your body trembled and your cries filled the chamber. He sought nothing in return, only watching your every reaction with a look of pure devotion.

—

The morning light brought no relief to your anxiety. You could hardly bring yourself to leave the sanctuary of your chambers, your mind tormented by the thought of judgment. You had failed to do your duty—or so you thought.

Yet, as you stepped into the hall, you were met not with scorn or whispers, but warm smiles and respectful bows. Your ladies-in-waiting curtsied, their expressions almost conspiratorial.

You caught Michael’s eye across the room. He stood tall and composed, yet his dark brown eyes softened when they met yours. He approached, taking your hand as though no one else existed.

“How…?” you began, your voice barely above a whisper. “Do they not know?”

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your soft cheek. “What passes in our chamber is ours alone,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Let them believe what I want them to. It is no one’s business what a husband and his wife choose to share.”

Your heart swelled at his words, the shame you’d carried melting away in his warmth. His arm around your waist was as solid as his promise, and as he nuzzled closer, you felt, for the first time, the true safety of belonging to him.

© michaelsfavgirl 2025

Taglist: @theladyinmoscow @yeriminist @yeaiamme2 @helloaugustmoon @cinnamoncunt @theladyofmylife @minekarina @kionaaa @theskinniestjackson-denny @leociinta @graciegizmo3184 @theasexual-jackson @mrsmikaelsxn @fallinlovewithevil @armasbw @b3rk1ey @sirusxx @maybe7tommorow @falllovesomemichealjackson @virgomjj @michaels-nonbinary-child @veavixen @elthoughtzos @kingayanna @kaoritowa @callsignwidow @valeriaruins @writtenbychris @yunkilm @blackynsupremacy @moonwalkerdiana

[chaosgremlinmunson]

STWG 08/08/2024

Prompt: theatre

Steve had just wanted to eat his damn ham sandwich in peace. He was over the hushed whispers, the pain in his left eye, and the side-eye he'd been receiving all day. He thought maybe he just wanted to go to the courtyard to eat his lunch, maybe he'd get some peace and quiet, but no, the theatre kids were rehearsing some off the wall bullshit and Munson had seen him and was currently crawling on his knees towards him.

“Heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!” Eddie came to a halt in front of him, his knuckles brushing gently against his left cheek as he gazed at Steve. “What villain has tormented you so, my dove. I will make haste and slay that beast, should I get a single kiss from thine lips.”

“Dude, what?” Steve said leaning backwards as Eddie moved closer to him still, “what nerdy bullshit did you blabber?”

“Mine heart!” Eddie clutched his chest as though struck through and fell onto Steve's lunch much to his chagrin. Steve wanted to be annoyed, truly he did, but it was almost endearing and he found himself smiling as he rolled his eyes.

“Look, man, if you want one of my cookies I'll hand you one, but you need to stop smashing my lunch with this theatre stuff.” Eddie popped up with a wild grin on his face.

“Cookies you say?” Eddie pulled his hair in front of his face before turning to his nerd friends, “alright everyone, we'll meet up later to go over our lines again.” He settled beneath the tree close to Steve, their thighs touching.

After they both had been quietly chewing for a few moments Steve decided he needed to ask, “why recite whatever that was to me?”

Eddie choked, then glanced at Steve out of the corner of his eye before swallowing the last bit of his cookie, “You looked lonely, and like you could use the cheering up. But also, you have to know you're the most beautiful man in this school. If people don't want to be with you they want to be you.”

Steve felt himself flush, but he leaned more into Eddie's space before lowering his voice, “and which one are you, my cute little riot?”

Eddie's eyes went huge, and he stared at Steve, eyes darting around his face looking for something, before he leaned in so their lips were almost touching, “I suppose you'll have to figure that out soon, won't you big boy?”

Steve pulled him further into the treeline by the school before pushing him against a tree and lining his body against Eddie's who had gulped at the manhandling, “I think you want to be with me, but you won't make a move.” He whispered as he lifted his thigh between Eddie's legs effectively pinning him in place, he leaned and kissed Eddie until he was writhing gasping mess beneath him, and smiled, “you should come by my place tonight, practice your lines some more.” He winked at Eddie before letting him go. Eddie whimpered, reaching down to fix his now entirely too tight pants and nodded.

[burningvelvet]

From the diary of Mary Shelley: October 26, 1824.

“Time rolls on, and what does it bring? What can I do? How change my destiny? Months change their names, years their cyphers. My brow is sadly trenched, the blossom of youth faded. My mind gathers wrinkles. What will become of me?

How long it is since an emotion of joy filled my once exulting heart, or beamed from my once bright eyes. I am young still, though age creeps on apace; but I may not love any but the dead. I think that an emotion of joy would destroy me, so strange would it be to my withered heart. Shelley had said—

‘Lift not the painted veil which men call life.’

Mine is not painted; dark and enshadowed, it curtains out all happiness, all hope. Tears fill my eyes; well may I weep, solitary girl! The dead know you not; the living heed you not. You sit in your lone room, and the howling wind, gloomy prognostic of winter, gives not forth so despairing a tone as the unheard sighs your ill-fated heart breathes.

I was loved once! still let me cling to the memory; but to live for oneself alone, to read, and communicate your reflections to none; to write, and be cheered by none; to weep, and in no bosom; no more on thy bosom, my Shelley, to spend my tears—this is misery!

Such is the Alpha and Omega of my tale. I can speak to none. Writing this is useless; it does not even soothe me; on the contrary, it irritates me by showing the pitiful expedient to which I am reduced.

I have been a year in England, and, ungentle England, for what have I to thank you? For disappointment, melancholy, and tears; for unkindness, a bleeding heart, and despairing thoughts. I wish, England, to associate but one idea with thee—immeasurable distance and insurmountable barriers, so that I never, never might breathe thine air more.”

Beloved Italy! you are my country, my hope, my heaven!”

[coyote-ralyn]

Vellicaz: SALOME

Redrawing “Salome” (Titian) ♥️

“But wherefore dost thou not look at me, Iokanaan? Thine eyes that were so terrible, so full of rage and scorn, are shut now. Wherefore are they shut? Open thine eyes! Lift up thine eyelids, Iokanaan! Wherefore dost thou not look at me? Art thou afraid of me, Iokanaan?”

[fj0t0lf]

a pretty interesting take on seung hui cho's use of the number 88, from @.sscc on the columbine forumotion:

My assumption, given Cho's tendency to speak in biblical terms and his family's Christian beliefs, has always been that this was a biblical reference.

I looked at the bible and the only book that even has an 88th chapter, as far as I can tell, is Psalms. This seems like a possibility.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psalm_88 According to Martin Marty, a professor of church history at the University of Chicago, Psalm 88 is "a wintry landscape of unrelieved bleakness." ... Neale and Littledale find it "stands alone in all the Psalter for the unrelieved gloom, the hopeless sorrow of its tone. Even the very saddest of the others, and the Lamentations themselves, admit some variations of key, some strains of hopefulness; here only all is darkness to the close.—Neale and Littledale.

http://www.bible.ca/ef/expository-psalm-88.htm After much thought and study of Psalms 88, the typical commentary appraisal is it is entirely negative, totally given to the expression of grief and despair. True (if you haven't already, read it now), it seems to be a picture of un-alleviated misery, seldom found anywhere in the Scriptures. Often, in the book of Psalms, you will be able to find hope even in between statements of despair. In many of the Psalms there is lamentation and negative emotions honestly expressed, yet they are resolved by some statement of hope and trust. Not in Psalms 88, we may immediately conclude. In Psalms 88, from verse 1 to the end of the chapter expresses the emotions of one who is writing from the pit, deep in despair. Even after you grant the writer literary license to use exaggerated poetic language, this poem cannot be lifted to any level of joy it seems. It is a continuous, bitter expression of one living deep in despair, sometimes with language that may seem to border on reproach against God.

I can see why someone like Cho might be drawn to it. The psalm is all about being abandoned by everyone to suffer, including god himself. KJV Psalm 88 wrote:

88 O lord God of my salvation, I have cried day and night before thee: 2 Let my prayer come before thee: incline thine ear unto my cry; 3 For my soul is full of troubles: and my life draweth nigh unto the grave. 4 I am counted with them that go down into the pit: I am as a man that hath no strength: 5 Free among the dead, like the slain that lie in the grave, whom thou rememberest no more: and they are cut off from thy hand. 6 Thou hast laid me in the lowest pit, in darkness, in the deeps. 7 Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and thou hast afflicted me with all thy waves. Selah. 8 Thou hast put away mine acquaintance far from me; thou hast made me an abomination unto them: I am shut up, and I cannot come forth. 9 Mine eye mourneth by reason of affliction: Lord, I have called daily upon thee, I have stretched out my hands unto thee. 10 Wilt thou shew wonders to the dead? shall the dead arise and praise thee? Selah. 11 Shall thy lovingkindness be declared in the grave? or thy faithfulness in destruction? 12 Shall thy wonders be known in the dark? and thy righteousness in the land of forgetfulness? 13 But unto thee have I cried, O Lord; and in the morning shall my prayer prevent thee. 14 Lord, why castest thou off my soul? why hidest thou thy face from me? 15 I am afflicted and ready to die from my youth up: while I suffer thy terrors I am distracted. 16 Thy fierce wrath goeth over me; thy terrors have cut me off. 17 They came round about me daily like water; they compassed me about together. 18 Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness.

A more accessible version of the psalm. CEB Psalm 88 wrote:

88 Lord, God of my salvation,     by day I cry out,     even at night, before you— 2     let my prayer reach you! Turn your ear to my outcry 3     because my whole being is filled with distress;     my life is at the very brink of hell. 4 I am considered as one of those plummeting into the pit.     I am like those who are beyond help, 5     drifting among the dead,     lying in the grave, like dead bodies—     those you don’t remember anymore,     those who are cut off from your power. 6 You placed me down in the deepest pit,     in places dark and deep. 7 Your anger smothers me;     you subdue me with it, wave after wave. Selah 8 You’ve made my friends distant.     You’ve made me disgusting to them.     I can’t escape. I’m trapped! 9 My eyes are tired of looking at my suffering.     I’ve been calling out to you every day, Lord—     I’ve had my hands outstretched to you! 10 Do you work wonders for the dead?     Do ghosts rise up and give you thanks? Selah 11 Is your faithful love proclaimed in the grave,     your faithfulness in the underworld? 12 Are your wonders known in the land of darkness,     your righteousness in the land of oblivion? 13 But I cry out to you, Lord!     My prayer meets you first thing in the morning! 14 Why do you reject my very being, Lord?     Why do you hide your face from me? 15 Since I was young I’ve been afflicted, I’ve been dying.     I’ve endured your terrors. I’m lifeless. 16 Your fiery anger has overwhelmed me;     your terrors have destroyed me. 17 They surround me all day long like water;     they engulf me completely. 18 You’ve made my loved ones and companions distant.     My only friend is darkness.

It would be interesting to know if Cho felt some connection to this psalm. His manifesto was full of rage and expressions of righteousness but we know that he was very depressed and alone as well.Could it have been an expression of the deep despair that Cho felt throughout his life? Did he feel abandoned by god?

(Or, assuming that it was relevant to him, could he have been explaining the despair that he hoped to inflict on his victims and the community? Did he want them to wonder where their god was as he was carrying out his massacre? Did he want them to feel that they were abandoned by god?)

Some interpretations say that this psalm is the lament of sinners being punished with the absence of god's mercy. We know that Cho felt that he was attacking "Apostles of Sin." Did he think he was carrying out god's will in destroying them? He certainly seemed to think he was participating in a revolution of the "Weak, Innocent and Defenseless," so was it a holy war in his eyes? Was he acting on behalf of god or was he possibly acting on behalf of a god that had abandoned him and the others like him?

I found this photo of Cho's "88" in the manifesto.

The symbol is the "Number of the Anti-Terrorist." The drawing above it is, I assume based on Langman's transcript, "Seer of Veracity. Seal of the Anti-Terrorist." As you can see, the seal includes a cross, which again suggests religious themes.

If you look at the transcript on Langman's website, it seems that on the page before Cho adds these images, he speaks constantly of Jesus Christ and false Christianity, which he equates to terrorism. This is why Cho called himself a martyr and said he would die like Jesus Christ. He was an Anti-Terrorist, one of the innocents who had experienced brutality at the hands of false Christians (sinners, terrorists, descendants of Satan and spillers of blood), and he was sacrificing himself in the hope that the weak, defenseless and innocent would be inspired to inflict their own wrath on the terrorists who had brutalized them.

Considering Psalm 88 in this context, maybe the point would be that only those who have experienced total loss, total despair, without a shred of hope would know to follow in his footsteps of revolution as an Anti-Terrorist. Maybe they hadn't even been abandoned by god but in god's plan, their never-ending despair was intended to help them see the truth ("Seer of Veracity") and like him, become Anti-Terrorist martyrs who, through their own sacrifice, would rid the world of false Christians who torment the innocent. The hedonists were clearly blind to the injustice and abuse so maybe he felt that the despair was the key to seeing the truth. Being subjected to pain so deep would leave no other choice but to inflict the same level of pain on the tormentors in the name of Jesus Christ.

Potentially relevant quotes: Seung-Hui Cho wrote:

As the time approached, I wished for a last minute miracle and discard this mission you’ve given me. Heaven knows I wouldn’t hurt a single leaf of a flower. But when the time came, I did it. I had to. What other choices did you give me? All this time... You never know that a human being is capable of doing until you fuck him to the edge. When you’re raped of everything, you got nothing to lose

By destroying we create. We create the feelings in you of what it is like to be the victim, what it is like to be fucked and destroyed. Because of your annihilations, we create and raise new breeds of Children who will show you fuckers what you have done to us. Like Easter, it will be a day of rebirth. It will be a start of a revolution of the Children that you fucked. You have never felt a single ounce of pain your whole life, thus, by destroying you, by giving you pain, we attempt to show you responsibilities and meanings of other people’s lives.

Only if you could be the victim of your reprehensible and wicked crimes, you Christian Nazis, you would have brute-restrained your animal urges to fuck me. You could be at home right now eating your fucking caviar and your fucking cognac, had you not ravenously raped my soul. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Can you feel the pain that you fucked us in, you Descendants of Satan? Well, can you feel it? All the shit you’ve given me, right back at you with hollow points.

Anyway, that's my muddled theory (or theories or more accurately, my set of questions with no answers).

(And this is completely subjective but when I see the photo of "88" from the manifesto, it reminds me of an abstract drawing of two people embracing. This seems apt for someone who was as alone as Cho was but intending to inspire his "Brothers and Sisters" to follow his lead with this act of mass murder.)

[abyssal-maiden]

Serpent's Hearth Pt. 5: Blissful Sacraments

Apologies for the delays! College is like that sometimes. Please hydrate and eat my lovelies. <3

Chapter warning: xBloodplayx xBoundingx xSmutx

!!!MDNI!!!: 18+ (( xbloodplayx xsmutx xpregnancyx xothersinsx))

XTouchStarvationxLightYanderexEnemiestoLoversxSizeDifferencex

Your senses initiate to the repeated sound of knocking. As your lids flutter open, you are confronted with…him. You lift your head, Messmer's warm hand slides down to rest over the left side of your collarbone. The forgotten lord of flame, snoring softly, beautifully slumped around you, serpents nestled comfortably between. He looked so peaceful and forlorn simultaneously. The knocking persists. You gingerly reach, brushing fiery strands from his face to reveal his closed eye. As you shift, the reptilian companions stir slightly, exposing Messmer's glowing iris as he wakes. He looks at you blankly for a minute as if deciphering if you’re real. He sits up slowly, hand running up your shoulder and cupping your neck before leaning into a gentle peck. He moves to your ear, kissing just beneath it, inhaling deeply before moving away. His scaled kin hiss in protest, hopelessly pulling at his frame towards your comfortable body heat. He sits on the edge of the bed groggily, securing his discarded gambeson around his waist as he stands. Quietly striding towards the door, rubbing his eye.

He’s careful not to open the threshold of the room too wide, opting to slip out and close it behind him. An ancient woman with a cane gives him a suspicious look through narrowed eyes. 

“Egidia…” He sighs.

“My lord.” The finger reader gives a shaky head bow. The servant pair holding her chair up look to be spent following the climb. 

“Forthwith with thy purpose..” he groans, still digging at his tired socket. “Thou wouldst disturb mine slumbering state, the first in moons.” 

At this, the old woman chuckles. “Most curious then, thee hath joined us in the corridor…” she ventures, glancing at the door, taking in his lack of shirt and steel. “ Wouldst thou not prefer to converse in thy bed-chamber, my lor-”

“State thee objective crone.” He hisses quietly over her.

“Very well, my lord.” She croaks in a malcontented tone. “Thee hast appointments to attend. Tis nearly high noon.”  She lifts her hand, the servants standing. “Dost thou intend to break thee fast this meridie?”

“I do desire such this day. See to it that it is grand. Enter not thine chambers unannounced.” He glowers as the group turns. “Do postpone mine audiences, I wish to bathe. Dismiss mine throne house servants until niht.” 

She looks as if to protest; the slitted eye of her sovereign warns her to cease any resistance. As they descend, he can hear the old matron cursing under her breath. He feels generous today; choice words never seem to affect the finger’s witch anyway, and he would not dare depose his mother's stooge too harshly. He enters the room to see you sitting at the table next to the window, observing the rampart. You’ve added a log to the fire, giving it new life in the cold stone hovel. A smile plays on his lips; you look beautiful in the midday glow of the Scadu Tree’s remains as your eyes cast over the distant ruins across the canyon. You turn your head to his towering image, a subtle look of uncertainty in your visage.

“Messmer…”

“Beg thee...another eventide to enjoy thou spell of firmament…” He murmurs, kneeling to sit eye-level, hand raising your knuckles to his lips. The heat grazes them as he soaks in the sight of you, your presence. His eye is vulnerable, his timbre possessive, like a puppy with a capacity for murder. He searches, but the flames have dispelled from your eyes. Verily, I shall make thee gaze shine anew, lightless minx.

He’s grasping at your head and pulling you to his lips. Leaning forward into your enchantment. He’s on his knees in front of the stool you inhabit, clinging to you as his tongue osculates around your own. His fingers hungrily dig through your hair, sliding down your frame at individual paces, exploring delicate blushing flesh under the calefying aura of his touch. The wood scrapes as he pulls your seat toward his chest so that his chin is nestled comfortably between your breasts. He looks up at you unguardedly, his face flushed. He parts his lips to speak but is interrupted by another knock at the door. He sits up from his crouching posture, sighing. 

“Mine honored beauty, sit upon the bed but for a moment.” He whispers, pulling your hand as he gets up.

Following his lead, you plant yourself on the side of the large circular piece. He smiles, finger tracing your chin as he draws the tattered curtain past its scorched edge. He answers the door once more. You survey the burns in the fabric, how they're ripped into frayed holes at the front end as if taken in rage, several of the small rings broken off the rod above. From behind the veil, the clattering of trays and the hushed pleasantries of several servants entering and departing can be heard. You try your best to hold your breath.

He’s met with a pout when he pulls the curtain back, his brow communes a look of concern. The attitude dissolves almost instantly when the heaping feast behind him beckons you. Every fruit, grain, green, and meat you could imagine was laid intricately on a tray, white groupings of various cheeses dotted in different parts. 

“I’ve never seen so much fresh food in one place…” Your eyes betray a look of esurience. He seems delighted, standing straight, a proud gleam in his eye at your amusement.

“Tis for thee…” he glances away bashfully—his hand motions for you to sit at the table again. He drags his chair to the flank of your stool. Hand drawing circles on your thigh as he watches you eat. He periodically snags a grape, a chunk of cured meat, an olive, the like—his attention shifts between your lips and your hands. The serpents intruded by flecking at the dried delicacies and retreated at a soft cough from their master.

“Forgive me, I must quell these ravenous pests.” he hisses, rising and walking to the room's opposite corner. A small door above the end table opens, and he reaches in, fingers gripping the tails of a couple of mice. You could hear the squeaking terror as he tossed them into the air. The rest you turn away from, 

Your meal, however delicious, adjourned shortly after. Messmer excuses himself, returning a few moments later to collect you. He insists on carrying you down the winding staircase, passing the hall from which you originated. The snakes snuggle up in your lap and the curve of your neck. His heart beats quickly against your eardrum as you rest your head against him; glancing up, you meet his gaze. The glowing of his seal always gave away his attention in the dark, but he did not shy away from you now. 

“I cannot recall when last I enjoyed companionship…”

“How…long has it been for you..?” You blush in the dark, thankful for the dimly lit area. You had not been with a man since your reanimation and hoped it was not evident from your performance. 

“Well….” he pauses momentarily, the steps echoing around your movements. “I suppose…fifteen, no, sixteen hundred cycles now.”

You hear the wall appears behind you after exiting the stairwell. Another previously unseen awning across from the entry gate emits a pleasant aroma mixed with humidity.

How many fucking secrets did I miss?

The bathroom pillars extend the length of the room—a charred granite disrupted by cracks of gold from the floor to the vaulted ceiling. The space is filled with steam, myrrh wafts along with it. Trays of exquisite crystalline bottles line the right side of the wide bathing pool. The sides of the bath host an indented sitting ledge along the entirety of the inner perimeter, delving deeper towards the back of the room. Custom-built for the giant pawing at your thighs as he sets you on your feet. The ancient-looking candle stacks come to life as he enters, dropping his vestments on the slab floor and stepping down. He turns to you, holding his lengthy arm out, clawed hand extended. The serpents seem to gather together on his shoulders, giving the impression they dislike this particular activity. 

You take his hand, venturing out over the first step, water lapping at your thigh as it sinks into the warmth. He looks down and chuckles at your height. 

“Mine perfect toy.” He mumbled, sitting on the ledge and drawing you down onto his lap in the hot water. 

His fingers move in the air, and the doorway gives way to the illusion of brick.  Hands sloppily eager with pursuit, sliding up between your breasts to grip your neck, the other between your thighs. He inhales along your neck, pulling your head back, nipping your ear before rasping quietly.

“Ne’er have I felt such in the presence of another.”  His fingers spread across the gap of your thighs under the water, his ring and index gently running down your labia carefull not to part it just yet. 

“I extend thee an accord, A union wrought in lightless possession.”

Your mouth opens to speak, but his grasp slips into your open lips, nail tracing the center of your tongue.

“I wish to bind thee.” He groans, lifting you slightly with his grasp on your pussy. “Such impious fealty I would pay with mine own head.” 

His fingers curl, gripping the front of your slitted joy, plunging only knuckle deep. They teasingly alternate under the water; you feel his breath in your ear again.

“I will make thee fold in mine thrall.” he moans, you can feel his throbbing member against your back as he yanks at your cunt. “Thou shall want for naught, ne’er another.”

You moan around the digit penetrating your lips. His iris trembles with ecstasy, watching his finger covered in your saliva slide through your muffled mewls. 

“Agree.” He pulls harder against your sensitive clit, fingers parting the folds in the bath's warmth. 

“Agree.” His whisper is more commanding than before. His tongue slides up your neck; he sucks gently before plunging the two fingers into your hole.

“Say you are mine, mine alone, tarnished.” His finger pulls out of your gasping breaths as the two inside of your slit move around. His lips part in the effort, his pumping feverish before he moans again.

“ Say you are mine.”

“Yes me-MesSMer!” That familiar pulsing forms in your guts as his fingers dig into your core. “I am for thee alone!”

“Speak with sincerity, cherished little toy!” He hisses in your lobe, pulling back and using his spit-slicked grip to turn your face towards him. The water splashes around his bicep as he beats your cunt with his large hand.

“Dev…Devotion, my lord. I will bid devotion!” you call out as your body spasms in a twitching symphony around his hot fingers. The snakes have regained motivation as they observe and caress your flushed face.

You gutturally moan when he rises, gripping your left breast and right hip. The water cascades down as he stands, spinning around so your hands are slapped against the cold perimeter before being seized again. There is no hesitation in the first thrust as he bucks into you from behind, begging you for your capitulation in short, murmuring bouts. Miel and Purkoy constrict your arms, pulling them back into Messmer's thrusts. His hand leaves a stinging mark on your ass as he loses himself, hips jerking forward wildly against your addictive body. He leans down, the force of his cock pushing you to drooling bliss. 

“Thee must submit most wondrously, exchange for mine endless heed. Give me wholeness, and I will reward thee eternal.” The silk command flows into your mind easily.

You nod vigorously as he pulls on your hair, using the excess leverage to push the limits of your distending folds.  His sharp talon slides across the side of your neck as he pounds relentlessly, his glowing eye obsessive as he watches your blood well up. He rips at his palm, waiting for your gasp as his teeth sink around the slit on your throat, slipping his blood into your maw and stifling the moan. The taste of copper laces with the heat of his flaming ichor, running down your throat, warming your body as your breasts slip and bounce against the granite of the bath with each forward motion of your lover's girth. His moan vibrates against your neck as he sucks.

“Yes, oh....gods. F-fuck, yes!” your voice is barely audible as the pounding of your snatch mixed with the splashing of warm water against Messmer’s swinging testicles and tensed thighs as they collide with your rump.  

He smears his blood all over your beautiful chin, pretty deep crimson on glass skin—your cheeks tingle, your eyes alight with his flame once more. He mewls joyfully at the sight, his left hand cupping your oblique before sliding to feel your tummy underneath. He moans, feeling the way his cantilever is hollowing you through your soft skin as he drives vigorously into your quaking split. His blood is eventually dripping from your hip, shoulder, neck, everywhere as he squeezes each part possessively with his leaking palm. Taking account of your form with his abyssal envy, moaning in ecstasy as he paints you in red. He can feel his need pooling in his lower stomach.

“Thou’rt mine.” He lustfully calls out to you.

His hot palms wrap the front of your thighs; the serpents tighten their hold on your arms. He’s lifting you, shoving himself into your tight trembling pussy. You’re on the verge of melting away while suspended when he shoves one of your legs up onto the edge of the pool. One hand stroking the base of his cock as he watches the cream of pleasure slowly collect along his shaft with each push of his convulsing monster. The constriction of your walls sucks every drop of his semen from his hulking phallus. You hear his hands come down on either side of your stimulated being as his faltering pace becomes slow and deep, shooting hot pangs against the limits of your sensitive walls. His long hair tickles your arched back. He stays like that, panting, pulling out with a slight gasping hiss as he views the mess he’s implanted spilling down your inner thighs. 

“Thou’rt mine.” He repeats, sitting back down in the bath, head leaning against your thigh as you lean on the side for a second to catch your breath. He pulls you back onto his lap.

“Thou’rt bound by blood.” He turns you, pulling your chin and placing a long, steamy smooch against your willing lips. “Thou willst know the imbuement of everlasting longing”

Your tongues dance for a while, the cloud of red surrounding you two dissipating over time. The mixture of blood adorns both of your faces as it is exchanged between the caressing of cheeks. The ritual is only dispelled when a shocked gasp sounds from the direction of the doorway. 

Master List

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[lost-inthemeadow]

Till I have no choice but to do us part - Agathario

Summary: A 4 part rewrite of episode 9 of Agatha All Along because we deserved so much better than what we got

Features Agatha Harkness, Rio Vidal and Nicholas Scratch

Chapter two: Burn and brew with coven two and glory shall be thine

Word count: 9648

The days in the cabin became months, and the months eventually became years. Despite all odds, Lady Death—feared amongst most mortals—had found herself a home in Agatha, and Agatha finally found a place where she knew she was safe and wanted. Their days together were often spent curled up in bed, in the kitchen talking for hours on end, reading in the other's embrace, or collecting in the forest. Agatha loved the rosemary tea Rio made, and Rio worshiped the way Agatha reminded her she belonged to her every night.

"Come, my love, feel" Rio often called—her hand pleading to be reunited with Agatha's—loving to remind her lover that her heart beat only for her.

Agatha loved it just as much, so she always offered her own hand in return. As Rio placed it on her chest—right above her beating heart—they both closed their eyes. Agatha never failed to hum in satisfaction when she felt the pumping under her fingertips, making sure to enjoy her closeness with Rio.

"It beats for you," Rio said every time, kissing Agatha's hand after it parted from her chest.

"Only for me?"

"For the rest of eternity, mi amor."

Wanting as much of her as possible, Agatha begged Rio to teach her Spanish. Weak to any and every one of her requests, Rio only had to be asked once before she bent to her lover's will. The younger witch was terrible at it, but Rio still fell in love with her even more as she taught her, for the reasoning behind Agatha's curiosity was not other than her. They never explored it deeper than a few sentences and specific words, but Agatha always showed her interest in continuing to learn by asking Rio what random things in their house were called.

"What about this, my love?" asked Agatha, lifting the kettle that rested in the kitchen so Rio could see it from their bed.

"Tetera" replied Rio, getting up to embrace her lover.

"And these?" she inquired as Rio hugged her from behind, grabbing her fingers and fidgeting with them.

"Esos son los dedos."

"Dedos," repeated Agatha. "I like those."

Rio let out an airy laugh, grabbing Agatha by the waist so she would turn and face her. "I like yours too," she said.

"I know," admitted Agatha, getting so close their noses touched.

They both dreaded the days they had to be away and soon, Rio's duty was something she only enjoyed when her victims had been given to her by Agatha. She became impatient with the people she guided, wanting only to return into her lover's arms, and stretched the time as much as possible before she had to leave. Agatha grew worried about her, for as much as she enjoyed their time together, the lack of bodies made Rio weak, and the more she stayed, the worse she got.

They came up with a system they both agreed with so that they could be together as much as possible, but without having to sacrifice Rio's wellbeing as they did: Three weeks together, one week apart. This balance had to be broken now and then, when a town was wiped out by a plague or a battle claimed the lives of too many men to ignore, but it worked.

Their strategy to lure more witches into their lovesick trap became better with every coven they annihilated, and soon, Agatha's power grew unimaginably. As she turned more powerful, their late-night fights by their cabin porch became increasingly heated. Rio knew she could never allow Agatha to fully siphon her magic, for the mere nature of it would kill her, but they still found ways to have fun.

It had been twenty-two winters since she built their cabin when Rio looked into Agatha's eyes—having caught her when her knees gave out yet again at the surge of new power in her body—and finally understood the mortal tradition she once thought stupid.

"My love, marry me," she called, waiting for Agatha to meet her gaze.

"What?" Agatha inquired, unsure if she had heard her lover correctly.

"I want nothing more than to be bound to you in every possible way. Please, Agatha, marry me."

"I-" Agatha had suddenly lost all her words. "Who would dare officiate a wedding between two women, my love?"

"Does it matter? I only care to be married to and for you. We do not need a priest or a church. We will have each other. We will be okay."

Agatha studied her lover's face for a few seconds, ensuring she meant her words. "Ask properly and maybe I'll consider it," she demanded, grabbing Rio by the chin.

Rio obeyed, getting down on one knee. "Marry me, Agatha Harkness" she pleaded.

"I would love nothing more," replied the younger witch, joining their lips in a kiss.

And so, for the first time, Lady Death dressed in white. Her gown was not of fabric, but of thousands of Petunias lined perfectly around her body. Agatha had requested Hibiscus, so Rio made her the most beautiful dress with them, having them fall in a long tail that followed her everywhere she went. By their cabin, with the forest floor decorated with blossoms, they joined hands and looked into each other's eyes. Nobody but them would ever know that the ceremony took place on the first day of spring, or that the birds sang specially for them that afternoon, but that was the beauty of it. Their marriage, just like their love, was only for them to enjoy. Their vows were short and simple, and they spent the rest of the afternoon consummating the union.

The morning in which Rio's time to leave came once again, their home dressed in blue drapes of sadness. Newlywed, they wanted to stay in each other's embrace for eternity, but duty was important as well. The green witch stayed for as long as she could, watching in silence as Agatha fixed them both some breakfast, then—after eating—she gave herself to her wife once more.

"Please, try to be as quick as possible," Agatha begged from the bed, too lazy to get up, while Rio got dressed.

"I promise I will, my love. And I will have a wedding gift for you when I return."

"The only gift I need is more time with you."

"I know, but you will like this as well," said Rio. She made sure to kiss Agatha's forehead before leaving, as she always did. "Te veo".

"Te veo" Agatha replied.

That week, Agatha could barely leave their bed, afraid the scent of Rio's flowers would be gone when she returned under the covers. When she did leave it, however, she sat on their porch, listening to the birds and tending to the garden Rio had gifted her, waiting for the moment she would appear within the trees. Nine days and nine nights went by before she did, and Agatha could not help but run to her arms on that tenth day. She wanted to hear about Rio's travels, the people she took, and the conditions in which they had gone; but Rio had promised a wedding gift and was eager to show it to Agatha.

Hidden in the pockets of her dress was a small box—the smallest Agatha had ever seen. Within it, two wooden rings rested in a velvet bed, awaiting the time their owners would don them.

Among many places, Rio had been in France, taking a woodcarver who died poisoned by his wife after she found out he loved another man. She felt his death the night before she had to leave, and knowing he would agree, she visited him last. The man had been so moved by Death finding love in another woman that he made them both a pair of beautiful wedding rings—engraved and polished—from wood Rio grew for the occasion before she guided him towards the light.

Agatha took her ring, twirling it around to see it from every angle.

"They are beautiful, my love," she said with a smile.

"Read it, on the inside. I had it engraved."

"En tus manos, mi corazón?" Agatha read the engravement on her ring. "What does that mean?"

Rio took the ring from her, asking for her left hand to put it on. When Agatha complied, the green witch took her ring finger and gently slid the band in until it reached the base. "In your hands, my heart," she translated.

Agatha smiled, taking Rio's ring from the tiny box and replicating the action. "In your hands, my heart," she repeated once the token of their marriage was in place.

"Until the day you are no more, my love. Till I have no choice but to do us part," continued Rio, taking Agatha's face in her hand and moving her thumb up and down her cheek.

"In a long time from now," clarified Agatha, placing her hand over Rio's.

"You bet, otherwise I'll just leave you to suffer in limbo forever."

Ten, twenty, thirty years went by as quickly as the seasons always seemed to change, and as the world around them evolved, so did their love. Rio's worst fear came true with each passing day, for Agatha's aging meant she would lose her one day, but she tried to make the most of every day they had together. There was not a moment in those thirty years in which Agatha's hair wasn't graced with one of Rio's flowers, and there also was not a day in which Rio's hands were not kissed. One ceremony was not enough, so they got married again and again and again, loving each time more than the last. The nuptials were always different, always special, and always intimate, and their wedding nights only became more heated as the years went by.

Their lives changed for the better the night they first met, but the rush of that moment did not compare at all to the time Rio returned home after a week of hard work to her wife sitting by the entrance of their cabin, and her presence was not the only one she sensed.

Rio felt him before she even knew he was a possibility, before she understood how he came to be, and before he became her whole world. He was right there—growing, waiting. She could sense him like she hadn't any living thing before—not even Agatha—for he was part of her.

"How can this be?" she queried.

"What?"

"How can this be?" she mumbled. The shock that overtook her did not allow her to speak properly.

"My love, look at me," demanded Agatha, taking Rio's face into her hands when she saw her distress. But Rio's eyes stayed fixated on her wife's stomach, unable to understand. Agatha stroked her cheek with her thumb and gave her a warm smile. "Tell me, what do you mean?"

"The child, how can he be?"

"You are not making sense, honey."

It was only then that Rio realized Agatha had no knowledge of her condition. "My love..." Rio's eyes were full of terror. "You are with child. With... my child."

Agatha could not help but laugh. "That is not possible," she gauged. She knew witches could make their own children, yet never in history, two women of the craft had come together to create life.

"And yet, there he is." She broke free from Agatha's hands and entered their cabin, feeling her whole world collapsing around her.

"Rio," Agatha followed her inside. "Talk to me, tell me what is happening," she said, closing the door behind her.

"I can feel him, Agatha!" she yelled. She had never raised her voice at her wife before. "I can feel him growing. He's right there" She pointed at Agatha's stomach. "He's mine and he's yours and he's driving me insane!"

It was as if the world stopped, as if everything around Agatha had slowed down. The cabin was suddenly blurry and her entire body began shaking. She had to sit on their bed before her nerves stole her awareness, and her right hand traveled to her stomach as she finally made sense of what Rio was trying to say.

"How can this be?" Agatha asked, watching as Rio paced through the entire place.

"That is exactly what I said!" replied Rio. "I-Agatha, you know what my job is, you know who I am. This is not possible, th-this is not..." She could not speak another word. Her knees gave out then, and she fell to the ground so quickly that Agatha had no time to react. Rio looked at her wife, worried this would harm her in any way. "I am so sorry."

Agatha remembered her mother—all the abuse and the pain—and felt just as frightened. But upon staring at the woman in front of her, she knew they would never repeat the story. She knew Rio was exactly the person she wanted this with, so she moved from the bed and sat down next to her. "No, Rio. You have nothing to be sorry for." She took Rio's hand in hers and guided it to her stomach. The green witch pulled away immediately.

Agatha waited a few seconds before trying again, giving her a faint smile. She was the only mortal Rio trusted, so she allowed her hand to stay in place as Agatha caressed it.

"How bad can this really be? You and I with a family of our own. Happy, loved, fulfilled," said Agatha.

"He is a child of Death, Agatha," she said, removing her hand yet again. "There is nothing good I can offer him; there is nothing good he can be. What if he cannot even be?"

"You forget, my love, that you are only Death for the people who do not know you. To me, you are Rio; you are my wife. He will be good because he is yours, because you are good. He will be good because we will love him. He will be ours, and we will be his. Nothing else matters."

Rio's dark eyes studied every bit of Agatha's face, looking for the smallest trace of doubt—the slightest hint that she did not like the idea, yet all she saw was contempt. She shined brighter than the rays of sun that streamed through the window, and in her wife's happiness, Rio found comfort. She was a green witch, after all. Life is part of Death. "Nothing else matters," she repeated as she finally allowed her hand to find its own way to Agatha's stomach.

"We will have each other. We will be okay," assured Agatha.

Agatha's pregnancy was much easier than Rio expected. She feared the nature of her role would harm her or their child in any way, so she worried every time Agatha felt lightheaded or needed to empty her stomach. She couldn't help but imagine a million things going wrong, a million ways in which she could lose them both, but Agatha was always there to tame her fears and tell her that as long as they were together, everything would be okay.

Once Agatha's belly started to show, Rio grew willows again, and with them, she expanded their crooked home to make space for the new member of their coven. She also weaved a crib with tree branches and gave his room the gift of her evergreen vines all over the walls.

Agatha was no longer alone when Rio had to tend to her duty, for her company constantly moved around in her belly. She had requested to be brought cotton and linen from all the places her wife visited, and while she was away, Agatha sat on their porch—on the chair Rio had gifted her—making clothes for their child. Every now and then, Rio would come back and find a dress for her as well, which she refused to stop wearing until Agatha surprised her with a new one.

Each time Rio returned home, Agatha sat on the grass to allow her to rest her head on her lap, and they stood as still as possible to feel their boy stir. The child felt the connection as well, for he moved much more when Rio was near, especially when she reached for the place in which he grew. They would stay like that for hours, talking about what they wanted him to sound and look like.

"I do not care if you like mine, he has to have your eyes," pressed Rio during the sixth month.

"Fine, but he will wear your lips," replied Agatha, tracing them down with her index. "And your nose, too."

"My nose? But yours looks like it was carved by the gods on Mount Olympus. In fact, he should look just like you." She pressed her lips against the fabric of Agatha's dress. "Did you hear that, child? You better look like your mother!"

Agatha's hand found Rio's hair and played with it carelessly. "Don't give him ideas, my love. And if he does look like me, I will get revenge with our second."

Rio left her lap immediately, wanting to be at eye level. "Second? Do you wish to have more children after him?"

"A whole coven. If you wish it too, of course."

"A full cabin does sound quite good," Rio admitted.

They gazed for just a few seconds before understanding they were both hungry for each other's lips. Their kiss—mellow and unhurried—was interrupted by Rio's smile, too big to ignore.

"What is it?" asked Agatha, her eyes shining as she moved a lock of hair from Rio's forehead and placed it behind her ear.

"I could not be happier. There is nothing destiny can give me that would put a bigger smile on my face than when I see you awaiting my return, with your belly full of the product of our love. You are the only home I need."

As Agatha's eyes dwelled with gleaming tears, Rio made sure their lips met once more. When holding Agatha close, she held her whole world in her arms, and nothing mattered to her more than her safety.

Months later, as the rain—heavy and thick—dampened the exterior of the Qing's palace, Rio moved along the hallways, looking for her next victim. The eldest member of the Dynasty had passed away, but her focus shifted once her bones quivered with a feeling of distress. Something was wrong. She felt uneasy but did not know the reason until she heard her wife call for her, thousands of miles away, with pain so grave in her voice that her heart stopped. Royalty would have to wait, for her family needed her home.

She made her way to the cabin in a matter of seconds, finding Agatha with her forehead as sweaty as a summer's day and bent down in pain, waiting for her in her usual spot. She ran to hold her in her arms, giving her body the support it so much needed, and soon, her entire body was alight with fear.

"Is it time?" she asked, though it was quite obvious.

Agatha nodded a few seconds before a new wave of pain whipped her entire body, causing her throat to release a deafening shriek.

Rio had been thinking about this moment from the very first time she knew about this child. She had spent countless nights deciding if she should stay for the birth, if her presence there would complicate things in any way. What business does Death have in the birth of a child? She took a step back, letting go of Agatha.

Agatha read the worry on Rio's face with just a glance, and her hand gripped her wife's arm firmly. "No," she said, looking into her eyes. "Today, you are not Death. Today, you are a mother. Today, your duty is with your family." The pain came again, but she did not falter. "We need you. Please, my love, stay. Please, do not leave me now."

"We will have each other. We will be okay," said Rio as she took Agatha into her arms again, with no plans of letting go this time. "Let's get you to the bed."

"No," Agatha remained in place. "I want it to be by the river. I want it to be where we first met."

And so, during their last moments as a family of two, Rio guided her to their beloved tree. In it, Agatha found more support for her body, placing her back over the initials she had carved so long ago as she crouched down slightly. Despite the blinding pain, the younger witch never once stopped giving Rio directions. She told her what to bring, how to help her with the pain, and how to help their boy. Rio was terrified, but still obeyed every single order at face value. She cleaned Agatha's forehead and felt every one of her screams in her heart. Two hours went by before their child was ready to come out, and Rio's hands were steadier than they had ever been as she helped him arrive into the world. It was only when his piercing cry filled the clearing that the green witch allowed herself to shake again.

Her eyes cried human tears as she saw the boy for the first time, for he not only wore her nose and lips like Agatha wanted but all her other features, too. He was the perfect copy of her. The entire forest floor was embellished by thousands of flowers in a second, painting it with the most beautiful colors.

"Hello, little one," she greeted the child in her arms, remembering the time he became a possibility.

Panting and sweating, Agatha cried as well, leaning back against the tree and sitting down on the flowers. Rio placed the boy in her hands and stood up to sit between her and the tree, replacing the support of the trunk with her own body. There, she conjured her dagger and reached for the cord, cutting it after receiving her wife's approval.

They both stared down at the child with tears streaming down their cheeks, loving their family fiercely. Only death and love can change all things, and they joined forces to create this child.

"We spoke no spell. We said no incantation," said Agatha, turning back to look at her wife.

"You were made from scratch," added Rio as Agatha caressed her face with her free hand.

Exhausted, Agatha allowed her body to relax, resting her head on Rio's shoulder and closing her eyes. Only then did the green witch realize they had never thought of the most important detail of all.

"My love?" she called, rocking her body from side to side to lull both her loves.

"Hm?" Agatha hummed.

"What shall we name him?" Rio inquired, her voice drunk with affection.

Agatha's eyes opened wide. "We never discussed the name! We can't call him 'boy' forever!"

"Well, you are quite good at gifting people with a name. Do you have anything in mind?"

"Only that I can't believe we made him ourselves, without intentional magic, only out of love," the younger witch replied, pressing Rio to propose something.

"Victory for the people," she recited, remembering her times in Ancient Greece. "How about Nicholas?"

"I like it," Agatha said with a smile, turning to the baby boy. "What do you think? Are you a Nicholas?" The baby fussed, moving his arm to place it over his face, which they both took as a yes. "Nicholas Scratch."

"Nicholas Scratch," repeated Rio, reaching for the baby's head and caressing it softly. "Welcome to the coven, my little love."

When their boy cried again, an instinct as old as Death told them it was out of hunger. Rio rested her head on Agatha's shoulder and watched him nurse for the first time. Nicholas opened his eyes then, and when Agatha saw them—as dark and majestic as Rio's—one of her tears fell on his belly, startling him.

"He listened to me," she whispered. "He is identical to you."

"I will get revenge with our next one," she whispered as well, repeating the words she had been told regarding the topic.

"Let me recover and we can talk about the next one then, okay?"

"Okay."

They stayed in place, not daring to move, and when the cold that darkness brought started to creep into their forest, Rio made a blanket with the thickest leaves and covered all three of them. As Agatha and Nicholas slept through the night, she never did once take her eyes off them. She studied the baby's face, taking in each of his features and keeping them in her heart, and did not stop rocking Agatha until the sun appeared in the sky again.

She allowed herself a full month before having to leave again. By then, Agatha was stronger and their baby was chubbier, but she still did not want to be away from them. She wished with all her heart for her duty to be lifted, for her to be able to live a mortal life with her family, but Death waits for no one, not even herself.

"It is just for a week. We will be fine," assured Agatha, trying to convince her to see to her responsibilities.

"But you said it yourself: My duty is now with my family. I do not wish to leave you even for a minute," she rocked Nicholas in her arms.

"You have tended to that duty wonderfully, but you know you will not be able to continue doing so if you do not go and claim your souls. Go, Rio."

Agatha's orders were always too powerful for Rio to ignore, so she sighed, placing the boy in her arms and kissing her forehead like she always did before parting. "I will be as quick as possible," she promised, still anchored in place.

"We will wait for you patiently. We understand."

Rio sighed and nodded, then bent over to kiss the boy's brow as well. "Los veo," she said her farewell.

"Te veo," replied Agatha.

"There's three of us now, my love. 'Te vemos'" she corrected, and her wife gave her a half smile.

"Te vemos" Agatha repeated.

Rio left the cabin as heavy as a thousand anvils and kept walking even when she heard her son wail for her arms to hold him again. Before returning to the Qing's palace, the first soul Rio visited was just a few miles away from their home. Just the night before, a mother had lost her infant in childbirth, and the little one was awaiting for Lady Death to collect her. She was asleep—like the deceased always are before Rio reached them—but could not stop crying when her eyes opened. The green witch held her close the way her son liked, and when the baby girl settled down, she wrapped her with her cape and did not stop rocking her until they reached the light.

She instantly went back to collect the elderly member of the Dynasty, but upon arriving, Rio realized her son had changed her forever in more ways than she could ever imagine. The old woman had been nothing but evil during her lifetime, but the green witch still could not see her as such. All she saw was a scared soul, a woman who was once someone's child, and her heart broke for her. She was patient and soft with her, as well as with all the other victims she helped for the next eight days. As much as she tried, she could not rush with them; she could not be as rough and careless as she had been before, for she now understood life and love like she never had before. This only made her more scared, more worried. She could not stop thinking about the fact that one day she would have to take her son, too.

When she returned home, Rio ran to her family so quickly that she almost tripped in her green dress. She held them both in a tight embrace, never wanting to leave them again, and had the biggest smile when Agatha offered her their boy.

That night, Rio was the one to get up and help him the first of many times Nicholas fussed. She went into his room with the company of a candle, peeking into the crib to find him screaming his lungs out. She placed her lit companion in the bureau that held all his clothes, then reached for him. Rio knew he just wanted company, for his mother had fed him just an hour ago and his clout was clean, so she swayed him until he settled down.

"I am sorry you got me, Nicky," she whispered to him, causing the baby to look at her with curiosity.

"What do you mean?" Agatha asked from the doorway. Rio did not feel her coming, so she was startled by the sound of her voice, causing the baby to cry once more.

"Did we wake you?" Rio asked, rocking Nicholas again.

Agatha shook her head, walking towards them. "I woke up when I heard him cry." She hugged her wife from behind, taking in the scent of her flowers. "What did you mean just now?"

"Nothing, I was just talking to him to calm him down."

"Tell me."

Rio sighed and stopped rocking their boy. "I fear the moment I have to take him with me. He deserves a mother he does not grow to be frightened of."

"Frightened?" asked Agatha, grabbing Rio by the waist and making her turn to face her. "He will never fear you, my love. He has no reason to."

"He does. I cannot refuse my duty, even when it comes to my family."

"And we understand that. We know you will be there at the end of the road for us, just like you are here now. We know you will guide us with the same love you show us now that we are together. I wish we could stay with you forever, but we will cherish every moment we get before we have to part. Nicky already loves you more than anything and he only came to this world a month ago. He will worship the ground you walk upon, he will not be scared of you"

"I just... I dread the moment I will be alone again. I can never love anyone like I love you."

"I know time is different for you, but still, that day will come centuries from now. Nicky and I will not leave you anytime soon."

"Do you promise?" Rio asked, looking down at the boy, who had fallen asleep in her arms.

"We promise," replied Agatha, kissing her wife's temple.

With every day that went by, Rio's fear subsided as her heart expanded with love for her family. Three, five, seven months went by as quickly as the wind took the dead leaves during autumn, and Nicholas did nothing but grow. When his teeth started to appear, their cabin was filled with his wails as the pain took over. Day and night he would cry, stopping only when Agatha offered a finger for him to bite on. During her week away, Rio took a mother of five who died of old age, and the lady advised her that the best remedy for growing teeth was clover and ginger. Upon returning home, she brought their bawling baby a toy made of both plants, and his crying only ever returned when she needed to make him a new one.

He started to crawl just two months later, and both witches spent most of their time lying on the floor, watching him play and discover each corner of their home.

His first word came soon after. He was in his crib one bright morning, having just woken up and waiting to be collected. When Agatha went into his room, he frowned his eyebrows like never before, and—having practiced with his mothers too many times to count— he called for her as they had taught him:

"Mama!" he said.

The day he took his first steps, fifteen months after his arrival, Nicholas played in the garden while Agatha made a new dress for her wife as they both waited for her return. The child sat by the tulips, making his ceramic dolls walk among them and pretending they were colorful dresses to choose from. He looked up when a butterfly flew near him, and his eyes caught sight of Rio, finally coming home after a week away. He smiled widely, and instead of extending his arms and waiting for her to pick him up, he used them to help himself stand up.

"Ma!" he called for Rio, causing Agatha to look at him. The excited scream she let out startled him to the ground again.

"Mi amor!" Rio laughed. "He was about to walk!"

"I know, I'm sorry!" Agatha apologized. "Go, baby! Go to ma!" she encouraged him.

"Ven, mi amor," Rio called for him.

And so he got up again. Rio had gotten as close to him as possible, so it only took him five steps before he fell into her arms, which received him gladly. She kissed his face all over once she picked him up, causing the child to giggle loudly.

At two years old, walking was all he did. Rio had to line their cabin with flowers, for he would hurt himself walking into things if she did not, but their house had never been more filled with laughter. Agatha begged her to teach him Spanish, so she spoke to him in that language most of the time. They decided it was better for Rio to show him her Death form from a young age so as not to scare him later on, and when the boy saw it for the first time, he smiled and touched the bare bone with curiosity the same way Agatha had done all those years ago.

At three, he started noticing his mother's absence, and her heart would break every time she had to leave him with tears all over his cheeks. The boy spent most of his days in the garden—with his clothes full of dirt—for the flowers there were his favorite thing in the world, and Rio was no longer "Ma", but "Mamá".

At four, he could not go to sleep without a bedtime story, so his mothers would sit by him in his bed every night to make one up for him.

"Mama, your turn this time," he said, looking at Agatha one night.

"I've been preparing this one all day. Do you remember what we told you about our power? What we told you we are?"

The child nodded. "Witches!"

"Exactly. Well, there's a place, a... road that only witches can go to. It's called..." she paused, trying to make up a name.

"The witches' road?" proposed Rio, trying to help.

"Yes! The witches' road. This road—"

"Am I a witch?" interrupted Nicholas.

Agatha smiled at the question. "You will be when you're older," she answered, caressing his hair.

That night, Nicholas was lulled to sleep by the story of two witches who went through a road that granted them their deepest desire: To have a son. She told him that in the end, when they reached it together, their gift came in the form of a baby boy waiting for them at their home.

The story awakened something in him, for every day he would ask his mothers about all things witchcraft he could think of. He inquired about potions, spells, and chants every day during breakfast, and every night he would beg to be told the story of the witches' road again.

"Am I the boy from the road?" he asked after the twentieth time he heard the story.

"The road is just a story, baby," said Agatha, tucking him in.

"Then where do I come from?"

Agatha and Rio looked at each other for a few seconds, eyes opened wide. They had talked about this day, the day Nicky would finally ask how he came to be. Agatha had to go to the nearby town every now and then to stock up, and when Rio was away, she would take him with her. She had seen the boy notice all the fathers with their children and knew this would happen sooner than later.

"Well, Nicky, you come from love. You come from love so big it couldn't fit in just the two of us, so it made you," answered Rio, taking Agatha's hand in hers.

"Did love grow me like you grow flowers with your Green?"

"It put you in Mama's belly, that's how you came to us."

When he was alone in the garden, Nicholas would try with all his strength to grow a flower just like Rio did, but his failure to do so did not make him any less excited to try every day. He would sit by the daisies and imagine his hands alight with green like his mother's. Rio realized this one day when she went to check on him, and knowing their boy hadn't seen her, she grew a Rose for him. The boy jumped and screamed excitedly, running back inside the cabin to tell his mothers of his feat.

During the summer nights, the three of them would lay outside their cabin in a bed of flowers and count the stars, just like Agatha and Rio used to do. Rio would tell her family the story behind each constellation, for she was there when they were made up, and Nicholas would beg Agatha to use her Purple to make funny shadows with the bonfire. They would have dinner outside almost every time, and sometimes, when it was too hot inside the cabin, they would sleep by the river.

Their boy came up with a song about his beloved road, and singing it was all he did. He would sing it while Agatha gave him a bath, while putting his toys away, and with his mouth full of food at lunch. When Rio was away and Agatha took him to the town, he would also sing it for the humans, who always awarded him with a few coins to get milk and sweets.

It was autumn when Rio caressed his face to wake him, for she would have to leave to tend to her duty that day.

"Mi amor, despierta," she called.

The boy stretched and yawned, too comfortable in his mothers' bed to move too much. Rio had wanted to wake him first this time. "No!" he said, his voice still loaded with sleep. "Quédate."

"You know I cannot, son. But I promise to bring you a toy from my travels."

"What kind of toy?"

"One you'll love."

"Okay," he stood on the bed, opening his arms to hug his mother. "Te veo, mamá."

"Te veo, mi amor."

Curled up in bed with Agatha that night, the boy asked about his mother's absence for the first time ever.

"Mamá has a very important job to do. She tries to stay with us as much as possible, but she has to leave for a while every now and then."

"Leave to where?"

"Everywhere. She never stays in one place for too long, except when it comes to us," Agatha replied, giving his nose a quick touch.

"And what does she do when she's away? Does she just go to get me toys? Because I don't want any more toys if she stays with us forever."

"No, baby," Agatha could not help but give him a sad smile. "She... helps people. People in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"All kinds of trouble."

"Will you ever leave to help people in trouble too?" he inquired, holding her tighter.

"I will not. You and I will stay together forever. We will play, sing, and eat so much our bellies will hurt."

"And will you give me lots and lots of kisses?" he said with a smile.

"Lots and lots," she replied, grabbing his face and leaving pecks all over it.

Agatha and Rio were both so happy with their son, that they never thought of hunting witches again. The thought would cross their minds when they missed the rush killing together gave them, but they both knew that one hug from Nicholas was a thousand times better.

When he was six, Nicholas begged his mothers to let him keep a bunny he found snooping around their garden, and he and Rio joined forces when Agatha refused to let him do so.

"Please, Mama! We promise to take good care of him. We will feed him and clean after him. You will not have to move a finger."

"Look at the size of him, you will barely even notice him hopping around," added Rio.

Agatha looked back and forth between her wife and child, pursing her lips slightly.

"No."

"Please!" pleaded the boy.

"I said no!"

"My love, it's just a bunny. Let the boy have a pet!"

Agatha grabbed the creature, whose nose moved up and down frantically as he smelled her.

"Fine, but if we keep him, his name will be 'Señor Scratchy'." She had to admit the rabbit was cute.

"Señor scrat—" Nicholas tried to protest, but Rio shoved him gently, giving him a pressing look.

"Deal," she said.

The boy went everywhere with his pet, tying a rope made of vines around its neck and walking with him through the forest. He kept him on his lap during dinner and snuggled him at night. The rabbit adored him, too, as even without a leash he would always go wherever Nicky went. He and Agatha often went to gather while Rio was away, and in one of those sunny afternoons, they encountered a botanist studying their forest. Agatha worried, for a human had never gotten so close to their cabin, but the man swore he was just passing by, so she spared him. Partly because she had not killed so long ago, but mostly because of the interest Nicholas had taken in him. The boy could not believe some people studied plants for a living, and he was obsessed with the idea. The man did indeed leave, but he left Nicholas the gift of knowledge. He did not request toys from his mother every time she left anymore, but books, as many as she could find about plants, no matter if they were in languages he could not understand. The three of them would sit together to read them, and Rio would grow him every plant his books described.

But even at seven, with his big interest in botany and all things flora, Nicholas could not forget the road his mother made up to lull him at night. He still sang his song for the townspeople any time he could, partly because he loved the sweets he got with his earnings when he performed it, but also because he loved the story dearly. The walls of his room were lined with his drawings of the place, and even though he did not need it to sleep anymore, he still had his mothers tell him the story every night. He now had a journal filled with his own entries and drawings of the plants he studied with his mother, and he took it everywhere he went. The only place he did not go with it was the river, where he and his mothers would swim almost every day when the weather allowed it.

One night, after taking in every single inch of her wife and filling her with pleasure, Agatha caressed Rio's bare arm. She looked into Agatha's eyes, knowing them all too well, and knew they were dying to say something.

"Tell me, my love?" she pleaded.

Agatha blinked slowly, so in love with the woman in front of her that she could feel her heart getting bigger. "Do you remember our conversation about having more children?"

"I do."

"It's been stuck in my mind for quite some time now," she said, getting closer. "Nicky is grown now. Maybe it is time we talk about it again." She was now inches away from Rio's lips, but she was denying her the kiss she knew her wife was so hungry for.

"There is nothing to talk about. If it were up to me, we would have at least three more by now." The only thing Rio could look at was Agatha's lips, too hungry for them to take her eyes off now.

"At least?" Agatha whispered, using the low voice she knew Rio loved.

"At least," Rio could not handle the proximity anymore.

"Why don't we start with just one more for now?" She finally allowed Rio to trap her lips in hers, and the kisses did not stop until the sun rose in the morning, along with the pleasure they both so well knew to give to each other.

But their plan never came to be, for the next night, when even the owls did not dare make a sound anymore, Rio's heart sank as she heard Nicholas call for them, with a voice so desperate it woke Agatha up right away. They found him in his bed, as hot as a freshly made pot of soup, with a headache that did not allow him to see properly. He could not stop crying, riddled with pain from head to toe, but was too tired to move even a finger.

"He's burning up," said Agatha—crouched next to the bed—holding his head in her hand while he closed his eyes tightly. He had been sick before, of course, but something was different this time. Her heart sank when turned to Rio, who stood by the doorway with eyes as big as the moon and fear in her face like Agatha had never seen before, not even when he was born.

Rio could feel it in him: The impending end, the expiration of his time. It was not there one second, then too much to bear the next. She was used to it, feeling it every time she left to carry out her responsibilities, but this time, it came from their son.

Agatha read it in her face, and her body became so weak she almost fainted. "No," was all she could muster up.

But the green witch could not take her eyes off the boy, for a battle arose inside her. Her first instinct was to take his soul, to feed on his doom the way she always had; but the mother in her, the one that had brought him to life, wanted nothing more than to save him.

Agatha saw it, just like a wolf about to claim its prey, and she got in between her wife and their boy. "No," she threatened this time.

"Mamá, ayúdame," called the boy.

That was all she needed to snap out of it. Her pupils returned to normal and her body started to tremble. The only thing lighting the room was the moon, and its shine was not enough to allow the witches to see properly, so Rio went looking for a candle to examine their boy, letting Agatha know she was back. After only a few seconds of inspecting his face, they both saw the rash, ever so mild, that appeared by his mouth.

Smallpox, an illness well known by Rio. So simple, so common, yet impossible to cure.

"I will not allow this to be," said the green witch, giving their son's hand a squeeze before she stood up.

Agatha stopped her right before she left the room. "Not tonight," she pleaded, but Rio was determined to leave.

"He needs help. I have to find a way to help him."

"Look at him," she ordered, and Rio did as told. The boy trembled and cried, looking back at her. He weakly lifted his arm under the blanket and pleaded for her to return to his side. "All you can do for him tonight is hold him. All he needs right now is company. Tomorrow, when the sun comes out again, we can think of what to do."

Agatha was right. Even if she could travel the whole world in one night, it would not be enough to find an answer to their problem. And so, though she wanted to remedy his ailment right away, she returned to the bed. She grew some betel leaves for the boy to chew on, and once his headache subsided, he hid in Agatha's chest for the rest of the night.

When morning came, his body was stronger and his fever had given out a little, but the rash had spread to his left cheek. He tried having breakfast, but could not hold it down for too long. He went to sleep again, hugging Señor Scratchy for comfort, and both witches got down to business immediately.

"I will bring you as many books as I can find. You will search in text and I will in tale," declared Rio.

"Where will you go first?" queried Agatha, helping her wife with her cape.

"South Asia, I've seen the most success there. Then England."

"I will not take my eyes off him," countered the younger witch.

"Will you call for me if something happens?"

"I would not dare not do so."

Rio tore the whole world apart looking for a cure. She visited every continent, every small village and big town, every country and every culture; she disguised to ask every mother and consult every doctor she thought could help. She would leave in the morning, after their son fell asleep again, and return late at night. Agatha spent her days reading so much her eyes would stop working at times; sometimes books, sometimes journals.

Cold treatment, multiple herbs, medicated cloths. They tried every remedy they found, but the rash spread and grew relentlessly. Three, six, ten days went by. The boy begged for Rio to stay with him, but she was willing to break his heart if it meant saving his life.

They were so caught up in trying to keep their son, that they lost the only time they had left with him. Nicholas deteriorated quickly, and it was impossible to turn back time once they realized their mistake. The first snow of the year fell gently outside their cabin on the twelfth day of contagion as both witches hugged their boy tightly, knowing this was their last day in heaven and their first in hell. It had been seven years and eight months since Death cried human tears for the first time, but she could not help doing so again as Nicholas slipped away from their fingers. Agatha, however, refused to cry in front of their son and instead moved her thumb up and down his cheek—riddled with the rash.

To Nicholas, he was merely going to sleep. He was tucked in, with his bunny sound asleep in his arms and his mothers next to him like every night since he needed the crib no more. He felt safe and loved and had no idea his illness was about to take him.

"Mama, my story, please," he asked—his voice raspy and feeble—burying himself deeper into Agatha's embrace.

They told him the story of the witches' road all over again, just like they had done every night for three years. Breathing became more and more difficult for him as they did so, to the point where his wheezes were loud enough to hear. Rio felt every second of it, she felt him getting further and further away until there was only a string connecting him to this world, but he still looked at her and asked for his favorite song.

She could not allow him to go without it, she could not allow him to go without singing it to him one last time, so—with all her strength—she held onto that last string of life. It was excruciating and she could not do it for long, but still, she and Agatha sang the song to the very end.

Agatha could see the strain in Rio's face, so she spoke quickly. "Nicky, we have a surprise for you. We conjured the road. It is real. It was real all along. You were too small to go, but you are a big boy now, so we decided it was finally time you visit it. Only two witches can go at a time, so you and Mamá will go together and I will stay here, waiting until you get back."

The child smiled as best he could. "Can we go after I wake up? I'm not feeling good." He said with his very last breath.

"Of course, my boy. We will go after you wake up," said Rio.

And so she let go, wanting nothing more than to keep holding him in place forever. Agatha allowed the knot that had formed in her throat to finally give way for the tears then, and Rio allowed her to hold the body completely, for she still had one more chance to say goodbye. He was on the other side, sound asleep, waiting for her to go collect him.

Once she stood up to meet him, Agatha stopped her from leaving the room by grabbing her hand, still gripping their boy tightly with the other. She knew nothing could be done—Rio had explained a thousand times how the connection could not be restored—but she still begged. "My love, please. Please, he's too young."

Something changed in the green witch's chest. She could feel her heart still beating, but it shrunk, rotted—turned completely black. "I have no choice."

She crossed between, finding Nicholas alone in his bed with his eyes closed and a pleasant expression on his face, now completely rid of the rash. She smiled at the sight of him, a gesture filled with sadness, and woke him.

He stretched like he always had, smiling at his mother as he yawned. He covered his face with the blanket once again, refusing to get up.

"Five more minutes, mamá. Then we can go on the road."

"Nicky," she called, and the boy peeked his eyes over the fabric. "We are already here."

He was sitting up in a second, looking around. "This is my room."

"Look outside," she ordered, and he ran to his window.

She had made it for him. It was just another one of her abilities—to shape the path to her will, to make the deceased more comfortable—. Usually, she did not bother with such frivolities, for humans did not deserve them, but her boy did. Their cabin now sat in the middle of a forest with trees of all colors and a trail of tulip petals that marked the way they needed to go. The sun shined brightly and the birds sang all around. This is how he had imagined it, how he drew it, how he described it every night.

Nicholas gasped, unable to contain his excitement. "Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!" he grabbed her hand and dragged her outside their home. The air was warm and the river's song was louder than ever as they walked barefoot over the petals.

There were no trials waiting for them, but instead, a straight road ahead. They both could see the light at the very end, getting closer and closer with every step. Rio stopped in her tracks, not wanting to continue, and the boy frowned.

"Mamá, what are you doing? Vamos!"

"Nicky, can I carry you?" she pleaded.

"I'm not a baby anymore," he crossed his arms over his chest.

"I know." she crouched to his level, "but I promise this will be the last time I ever ask to do it."

He agreed, and she carried him through to his death with the same hands that helped him arrive into the world. She walked slowly, letting him admire the plants around him, and kissed his head every few seconds.

When they finally reached the light, she put him down gently. They both stood in front of it, admiring its greatness. Rio dreaded it and wanted nothing more than to extinguish it forever, but Nicholas was eager to go in. He felt it too now—the end—and his face showed pure confusion.

"You are not coming with me, are you?" he asked.

Despite common misconception, Death is only the bridge between worlds. Rio Vidal was merely the guide, but she, just like anyone else, couldn't reach anyone after they entered the other side. This would be the last time she saw her son, too.

"No."

"I understand now. I know who you are," he added.

The road was not granting Rio her deepest desire, but making her worst fear come true. The tears that followed were impossible to avoid, but Nicholas made sure to wipe them right away.

"Are you scared of me?"

He did not answer with words, but instead jumped into her arms to hug her. She received him gladly, and when he broke the embrace, she made sure to take his features in the same way she had done when he was born, for she did not want to forget how he looked like. It was already time for him to leave, but she was not strong enough to suggest it.

He felt the light calling, and the urge to go in grew bigger with every second. "I have to go now. Take care of Mama, okay?"

She could not help but smile at his words. "I promise I will. I love you, Nicky, more than anything. We both do."

"I love you, too. Give her a kiss for me", he requested, leaving another one in Rio's cheek.

Though she wanted to close her eyes, she did not take them off him until the brightness engulfed him completely. Only then, the bond that had formed that first time she felt him growing in Agatha's stomach, broke completely, and it was worse than any human pain would ever be. It was so debilitating she contemplated never moving again, but Agatha was waiting for her on the other side, so she crawled back to her.

Sitting on her porch chair, Agatha waited for Rio with tears in her eyes. She ran to embrace her wife when she appeared in front of her again, and they did not dare enter the cabin, for their son's corpse was waiting for them inside. They wept and wailed the whole night, never letting go of the other, and when Agatha fell asleep in her arms, Rio begged the sky to let her do the same just once, but it did not budge.

When the sun tinted their faces alight, Agatha dragged her feet inside Nicholas' room and brought him to the garden, where Death took care of the part of her job she never bothered to stay for: She buried her son. They put him under the Bearded Irises, giving him his botany journal and some of his drawings of the road, and before she covered him with dirt with her Purple, Rio took a lock of his hair for Agatha to put in her locket—the one she had taken from her mother so long ago—so she could keep him close forever, then gave her the kiss Nicholas sent her before leaving.

Only Death and love can change all things, and the son they gave to Agatha and Rio, they also had to take.

[hyperthusiast]

Chapter 16: Betrayal of my dark RadioStatic fic Prized Acquisition has been posted!

Carmilla appeared to have to pick her jaw up off the floor and her claws dug into the table she was standing at the head of. “Alastor,” she snapped. “What is the meaning of this?” Alastor met her gaze unwaveringly. “If you want to take Vox out, you will have to do so without your contract and with a fight. Oh, and Velvette and Valentino are both waiting on standby, so I really would not recommend it!”  Vox’s eyes flickered to Alastor with just a trace of uncertainty in them. On the one hand, yes, dropping that Velvette and Valentino were nearby was a good way to discourage a fight, but on the other… if this whole plan was just to get all three of the Vees to walk into their trap, confirming the others’ proximity could very well be a way of inviting action that would get them there. As for which was behind Alastor’s reason for saying it, it was practically a 50/50 shot.  Carmilla shook her head furiously. “I don’t understand how you can be this foolish. Whatever he has over you-” “Oh, Carmilla,” Alastor interrupted in his most patronizing tone. “You’re the one who assumed Vox had threatened me in some way. I said no such thing! I was simply enjoying keeping you guessing! But I believe the time for that has passed, and surely you are not foolish enough to encourage a free-for-all against the four of us.” He lifted his hand to rest on Vox’s shoulder, and a chill ran through the television demon at the blatant show of partnership.  Zestial raised his eyebrows. “Wouldst thou truly put thine life on the line for someone whom you have such enmity with?”  The Radio Demon bared his teeth in a vicious grin. “I hardly think there’s much risk, Zestial - I know it’s been some time since I had a fellow Overlord on my broadcast, but I assure you, I haven’t lost my touch.” Vox joined in with a low laugh, enjoying the way the shadows flickered around his lover. “And face it, there’s a reason you needed to orchestrate this little coup just to take me down. Just how well do you think this will go for you when you’re fighting every-Overlord-for-themself? But hey, you’re welcome to try. I’ll just get Val and Vel right over.” He dangled the bait, and if Carmilla bit this fast, that would be all the answer he needed. He would know this was a trap. And it would be time to move on to Plan B.

This is a dark fic where Vox owns Alastor’s soul, so please heed the warnings on AO3!

[crowfootwrites]

Finally, a fic for Julian! I feel like he doesn't get enough love in fandom unless he's paired with Garak. So, here's my attempt at remedying that!

Kinktober Masterlist

Taglist: @horta-in-charge

Day 13: Oral - Julian Bashir x GN!Reader

Warnings: This contains smut, so minors, avert thine eyes; oral sex (m receiving) | Words: ~500 | Song: Unholy - Sam Smith & Kim Petras

“Oh! Julian, you’ve saved the day!” you exclaimed dramatically, throwing your arms around Julian’s neck and placing a meaningful kiss on his cheek. Julian beamed in your arms, his ego more than a little inflated after defeating the villain in the espionage program you’d selected for the holodeck and saving you and several other computer-generated characters from a dire fate. 

A faint blush colored his cheeks in spite of his cocky smile, and you pulled away just enough to meet his eye. You bit your lip flirtatiously. You’d spent the better part of the last hour watching your boyfriend in his element - solving puzzles, strategizing, wielding weapons. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t more than a little turned on. 

Tracing your hands down the length of Julian’s arms, you tangled your fingers with his and drew him coyly toward a black leather couch in the corner of his holodeck office. His brows pinched together in slight confusion, but he followed, allowing you to deposit him onto the plush lounge. 

“Maybe you should let me thank you for saving my life,” you teased, throwing in a wink for good measure. Julian’s eyes widened almost comically, and you had to bite back a laugh as you watched him gulp. 

“Are- are you sure?” he asked, leaning forward and reaching for your hand. You clasped your fingers with his and nodded slowly, determined not to ruin the bit. You knelt before him, his knees bracketing your sides as you squeezed his thighs reassuringly. 

“Let me give you this,” you practically purred.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” 

You nodded, biting your lip again, and he hesitantly leaned back against the couch. You made quick work of his fly, carefully extracting his hardening cock from his tuxedo pants. You teased him just a little, placing soft, fleeting kisses along his shaft, then dragging your tongue from base to tip as he groaned loudly above you. His head dropped back on the couch the moment you placed your lips around him, his sharp inhale like music to your ears.

You relished in the feeling of his hot, heavy length against your tongue, bobbing your head experimentally as your hands massaged his thighs. You knew what Julian liked, of course, but you wondered if Agent Bashir had different preferences than Doctor Bashir.

Julian’s hands flew to the back of your head as you took him as deep in your throat as you could. Your name tumbled from his mouth as he lifted his head to watch you work him over. You swirled your tongue around his tip for good measure, his thighs tensing beneath your palms. Using one hand to stroke the base of Julian’s cock while you swallowed around him, you felt his hips jerking forward and you knew he was close. Putting more pressure behind your tongue, you pulled him deeper, pushed him closer to the edge. Moments later, he snapped, fisting your hair tightly as he came down the back of your throat.

[yourlocaldisneyvillain]

...the dawn of ♥ kink!week ♥ is upon us...

(don't know what kink week is? click here!)

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

∼ those faint of heart, look away and shield thine eyes — miserable sinners, prepare; for we have entered the unholy week ∼

∼ day one brings us our beloved metallic lady ♥ Jane Murdstone ♥ ∼

∼ tags and the fic are under the cut ∼

♥ i've worked very hard on this series — it was a huge project to undertake and i would very much appreciate if you left me comments with your thoughts and impressions — you already know they make my heart sing ♥ (AO3 link — i prefer it to tumblr vastly)

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

tags: #alternate universe - modern setting #dominatrix #bdsm #bladder control #watersports #piss kink #mistress/slave #dom/sub play #fetish clothing #leather gloves #face slapping #degradation kink #humiliation #golden shower #masturbation #aftercare #kink!week

don't look away (as i bare my soul to you) (clicking on the title will lead you to ao3)

You will always remember the night you met her.

You were attending a house party organised by one of your good friends — very much a social butterfly, unlike yourself — and you weren't surprised there were all sorts of interesting people there, and that one of them just happened to be the tallest, most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. 

You could tell she was exceptionally bored as she sat on the couch alone, long legs crossed, typing on her phone and absentmindedly sipping her wine. You probably stared at her for a full minute, just awkwardly hanging by the door with your own drink, taken by her commanding presence and how stunning she looked just in her casual black slacks and blouse that was unbuttoned just enough that you could almost see her bra if you angled your head the right way. 

You surely would have stared much longer had she not lifted her gaze and raised her eyebrow at you. You immediately felt your cheeks burn and your palms sweat, embarrassment overwhelming you, as if you’ve been caught doing something terribly wrong. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something, but you didn’t know what could be said after so rudely staring at someone, so you turned to leave.

What stopped you from fleeing in shame, with your tail between your legs, was that she smirked and gestured you to join her, tapping a spot next to her on the couch. You immediately obeyed. No other option even crossed your mind — something about this woman drew you in.

“Jane Murdstone,” she said with a delicious, velvety English accent, extending her arm towards you as you sat next to her. You noticed how piercingly blue her eyes are.

“My palms are sweaty,” you said stupidly, looking at her with your mouth slightly agape, feeling as if you were in the presence of a goddess.

“Then wipe them on your trousers,” she said calmly, cocking her head. The corner of her lips barely perceptibly curled upwards.

You wiped your palms on your trousers and went on to shake her hand. You immediately noticed how big it is compared to yours, and you didn’t know why it flustered you so much. She gave you a firm squeeze and lingered a second longer than necessary. 

“Will I get a name, or just reports on the state of your palms?” she asked.

You stuttered while telling her your name, but she didn’t comment on it.

“Do I have something on my face?” she just asked, leaning back into the couch and swinging her arm over the headrest. 

“Why?” you asked back, confused.

“You stared at me for a full minute,” she answered, smirking, and took a sip of her wine. She never once broke eye contact with you — it made you squirmy, but you couldn’t look away, as if under a spell. You felt as if she was looking at your very soul — bare and unprotected and vulnerable.

“I—I’m sorry, I just thought… I just thought you were beautiful,” you managed to utter.

“Did you, now?” she asked, looking very amused .

You nodded.

“Well, thank you. But don’t you know it’s quite rude to stare?”

That finally made you avert your gaze in shame. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Oh, don’t worry — I like making people flustered. I’m having a lot of fun right now.”

You looked up at her again. She was staring at you with that piercing gaze that made you feel completely naked, her blue eyes twinkling in amusement. “And what do you do for fun?” she asked.

Oh, you were completely enraptured by her.

You spent the entire evening talking about everything and nothing. You were surprised how comfortable you felt with her, despite her commanding presence — or maybe because of it. She never paid any attention to you stuttering, nor your blushing — she just sat there and waited until she got an answer to a question she asked. It made it hard to avoid talking about yourself — and oh, it felt so good to talk about yourself for once. 

At one point you asked her what she did for work — and then choked on your drink when you heard the answer. It surprised you, even though her commanding presence could have been an inkling — but she just looked so normal, with her dark brown hair in a loose bun, her tasteful and minimal makeup, and her slacks, blouse and pumps that made her look like a businesswoman on her evening off.

“A dominatrix? That’s really cool,” you said, blushing, “I just didn’t expect it. Don’t get me wrong, but you just look very normal.”

She raised an eyebrow and took a sip of her wine. “Oh, and what did you expect? Latex? Or leather?”

You felt very silly because that is exactly what you expected. “Sorry, I just… I just never met a dominatrix before.”

“So, not familiar with that world, I presume?”

“Not really. But, I mean… I’m… interested. I mean, not interested interested, don’t get me wrong. I just, you know, had like, thoughts, and I’d never actually do it, but I think about, I mean not think about, just like… I wonder sometimes, you know, like what it’d be like, like, none of the hardcore stuff, but just, you know—”

She interrupted your pathetic rambling. “Would you want to try it?”

You froze. “What?”

“Would you want to try it?” she repeated. Her expression was completely calm and neutral, as if she just asked you about your favourite colour. 

“I—I—I mean, that would make no sense. I was always… I’m boring. I just go to my job and then I go home. It couldn’t be into something like that, like, it’d be so out of character and it… it just makes no sense that I would, you know, be like…. into it,” you fumbled.

“I didn’t ask you if it would make sense. I asked if you’d like to try it.”

You spent the next couple of seconds just staring at her, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. She just sat there in silence, calmly sipping her wine, waiting for you to answer.

And finally, you did.

“Yes.”

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

You glance at the clock. 

It’s 12pm — another five hours until the end of your work day, and you already can’t focus on anything else besides the pain in your bladder. 

You press your thighs together — you can do this. 

You take in a deep breath before turning your attention to the pile of paperwork laying on your desk — mocking you and waiting for you to go through it. And you will — you must. It has to be done by the end of the day. You won’t let yourself get fired — you’ll push through.

You wouldn’t want to disappoint your Mistress, after all.

Jane has been your Mistress for about six months now, and slowly you are starting to venture into kinks you never thought you’d admit being interested in — to anyone — ever. You were fully prepared to take those with you to the grave.

Truth be told, you once thought the same about trying out a BDSM lifestyle, and then… well. Then you sort of stumbled into it — and now it’s something you do on a Monday afternoon after working hours.

Or, in this case, during working hours.

Your belly tingles with excitement just thinking about it — no one knows you’re engaging in a sexual fantasy of yours right now.

You clench your thighs together again — both to help with the fact that you really need to pee right now and to give provide some friction. You know, however, that you absolutely cannot touch yourself, nor go to the bathroom — not until 6pm today, when your scheduled session takes place.

You smile and start sorting through the paperwork in front of you. You’re giddy with anticipation.

6pm can’t come soon enough.

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

You can barely stand when you get to her apartment and ring the doorbell. Your bladder hurts — you don’t think you can hold it in much longer.

She opens the door in a black, silken night-robe. Her long hair is loose and fluffy around her shoulders, she isn’t wearing any makeup, and she’s barefoot. She seems to be naked underneath the robe. It’s unusual — she normally puts on something more fitting for her role. however, you still think she looks gorgeous — perhaps even more so than usual.

She eyes you up and down. “Come in,” she says, face impassive, then turns around and walks towards the playroom. “Coat, bag, shoes,” she commands, not bothering to turn around or look at you as she disappears into the room on the right. 

You quickly hang your coat and bag and take your shoes off before you follow her, pressing your thighs together and clenching your pelvic muscles as hard as you can.

She waits for you in the playroom, sitting on the big couch next to the window. She gestures for you to stand in the middle of the room.

“Stand here and don’t move. You’ll watch me get dressed. When I’m done, you can go to the bathroom.”

As much as the thought excites you, you don’t think you can last even another ten minutes.

“But, Mistress, I… I don’t think I can hold it in much longer. It’s been an entire day.”

“Well,” she says, tilting her head. She watches you squirm from the couch, lips curling in amusement. “If you can’t make it, you’ll just have to go right here.”

“R-right here?” you repeat. You can feel your cheeks starting to burn. “But… I can’t.”

“Well, if you can’t then you won’t,” she simply says and gets up from the couch. She walks towards the little vanity in the corner of the room and stars sorting through her makeup. “And if you can, you are welcome to. However — you don’t get to use the bathroom until I’m done.” She sits down on the little chair and starts applying moisturiser on her face. 

“But—but—” you start, but she interrupts you. 

“You will not give me attitude, or there will be consequences,” she says, looking at you through the mirror. The tone of her voice sends a shiver down your spine — cold, uncompromising, and so fucking hot. 

“Yes, Mistress,” you say and your voice sounds squeakier than you intended. 

“Poor little thing — always so flustered around me,” she coos while dabbing concealer under her eyes, saccharine condescension oozing from her voice. “You just need to be stepped on, don’t you? You need someone to tell you what to do and when to do it — even your bodily functions. Can’t even do that yourself.”

“No, Mistress,” you say, shuffling on your feet, pressing your thighs together. Your bladder really hurts. 

“Stop squirming,” she says, dusting eyeshadow on her lids and glancing at you in the mirror. “You have one very simple task and it is to stand still. Or are you too incompetent even for that?”

“It really hurts, Mistress. May I sit down?” you ask.

“No.”

You try your best not to squirm. You press your thighs together as tightly as you can, trying to take deep breaths to soothe yourself and breathe through the pain. You somehow manage to zone out — you watch her do her makeup, as if in a trance, and you’re proud of yourself for doing rather well. You make it through powder, mascara, blush, eyeliner and lipstick, and before you know it, she’s done. She fluffs out her hair and checks her makeup in the mirror, and then she gets up and turns to look at you.

“You’re doing well,” she says. “A bit too well. Is this too easy, hm?” she asks, approaching you.

“No, Mistress.”

She stands in front of you — and fuck, she’s so tall. It makes you feel all fuzzy and tingly inside. 

“Oh, I disagree,” she says. She throws the robe off of herself, revealing that she is, indeed, naked underneath. You mouth waters. “You’ll help me get into my corset.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

She turns and walks towards the couch. Her ass and thighs jiggle as she walks. You lick your lips, and your belly tingles — you hope she lets you touch her today. You’d love to worship her.

Laying on the couch, you only now realise, is the outfit she picked for herself for today — a black corset, a leather harness, black stockings, and — your favourite — black leather gloves. Black heels are on the floor next to it. You see no panties of any kind, which is a bit unusual, but not unwelcome. 

She takes the gloves first. She makes eye contact with you as she slowly puts them on, taking her time, wiggling her fingers and clenching her fist after she slides each of them on — and it’s so hot you almost forget abut the burning pain in your bladder. Your mouth gapes open and your heart beats faster.

“Close your mouth,” she says sternly before she moves on to the stockings, and you immediately obey.

She puts one long leg on the couch and slides the stocking on — painfully slowly — then does the same with the other one. You lick your lips and squirm again. “Don’t. Squirm,” she commands.

“Sorry, Mistress.”

She slides her feet into black heels, then grabs the corset before she slowly walks to you, swaying her hips. Her breasts bounce as she moves and you can’t help but stare. She’s even taller now with the heels on, and it makes you giddy. You feel so tiny next to her.

As soon as she reaches you, she slaps you across the face — hard. You gasp.

“You can’t even follow simple directions — stand still and keep your mouth closed. How many times to I need to say it, hm?” she says and grabs your jaw with her gloved hand. She presses her fingers into your cheeks so hard it hurts. “Answer me.”

“I—I’m sorry, Mistress, it won’t happen again,” you utter, eyes wide, chest slightly heaving. You have to crane your neck so far back to meet her gaze — you love it.

She lets go of your jaw, and then immediately slaps you again, making you suck in a sharp breath.

“How is your bladder?” she asks as she wraps the corset she’s holding around her torso. It’s already buckled in the front, but the laces on the back are loose. 

“It hurts, Mistress.”

“Poor thing,” she says, her face stony, as she pokes your belly with her finger. You tense your muscles and clench your thighs together. 

“Please, Mistress — it hurts,” you say. You’re doing so well — but if she does that again, you know you won’t be able to hold it in.

“Does it now?” she asks condescendingly. 

“Yes, Mistress.”

She simply chuckles. 

“Tie this. Make it tight.”

She turns around, holding the corset pressed to her stomach, and you immediately start working on the laces. The pain in your bladder is becoming worse by the minute, especially after her poking it. You can barely concentrate on your task, but somehow you manage to push through. 

She turns back around to face you. “Only the harness left. Do you think you can make it?” 

She reaches inside the corset to adjust her breasts. Your gaze wanders towards them. You bite your lip as you watch her gloved hand fondle her breast, cupping it and pushing upwards. “Eyes up.”

You look up. The intensity with which she looks at you makes you shiver — it always does. With her, you always feel like you’ve nowhere to hide. It’s like she can see inside your soul, like she truly sees you — pathetic and shivering and naked — and she never averts her eyes. 

“I can make it, Mistress.”

“Are you quite sure?” she asks, and her blue eyes twinkle, but her face is otherwise unreadable. 

“I think so, Mistress.” 

It hurts — badly — but you don’t want to give up now that you’re so close to making it.

“Wait here,” she says and walks out of the room. You watch her ass wiggle and her hips sway as she leaves.

The moment she exits the room, you squirm and press your thighs together as hard as you can. You don’t know how to feel — on one hand, it would be really hot if she made you pee your pants, and on the other, you don’t think you could handle the shame you’d feel. You like humiliation — but this? You’ve never done something like this before. You decide you’ll try your best to hold it in until she lets you go to the bathroom.

She returns quickly, carrying a big water bottle. She hands it to you. Your heart sinks into your stomach.

“Drink,” she says. “All of it.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

You start drinking, and she watches. It’s a big bottle, and you aren’t sure you can drink it all. You can feel your belly filling with water, and the pressure in your bladder is unbearable. You try to lower the bottle, pace yourself, but she tilts it and pushes it into your mouth. 

“I said, all of it.”

She reaches under your shirt and grabs your hips. You’re still drinking. She gentle runs her gloved hands over your stomach — lightly, teasingly — then under your bra. You continue drinking until you finish the bottle as she fondles you, sending tingles down your spine.

“All done?” she asks, running her fingers over your ribs. 

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Give it to me.”

She takes the bottle and puts it on the little table next to the couch, then returns to you.

“You must be so uncomfortable,” she says, sliding her hands under your shirt again, putting one on the small of your back and the other on your bloated belly.

“Yes, Mistress.” You’re sure you can’t make it at this point. “How long… until I can go to the bathroom, Mistress?” you ask.

She gently massages your belly and you whimper. “Oh, but you could go right now, and it would all stop.”

“But I can’t, I’m too embarrassed.”

“And what if I commanded you to go, hm? You wouldn’t disobey me, would you?” she asks, circling around you as she caresses your stomach, until she’s behind you and pressing her body into yours. She leans down and you feel her hot breath on your ear. You whimper.

“I can’t, Mistress, please, I—”

She grabs your neck from behind you, her gloved hand pressing against your windpipe. “Do not give me attitude.”

Suddenly, she grabs your hips and presses her fingers into your pelvis. You gasp and your muscles give in — and the next thing you know warm liquid is trickling down your thigh. Horrified, you watch a dark, wet spot form on your trousers.

Jane lets go of your waist and walks to stand in front of you as you continue to stare at your crotch, deep shame colouring your cheeks red. You can’t help but gasp in relief as the painful pressure bladder finally subsides, which makes you even more embarrassed. You hide your face into your hands and press your thighs together. It just keeps going — you have’t peed all day. You feel it trickle down your calves and onto your feet until it pools on the floor. Tears of shame prickle in your eyes. 

“Look at me,” Jane says. You slowly lower your hands and clutch your shirt, breathing deeply and trying not to cry. You look at her. She’s standing a few feet away from you, watching you, her gaze as intense as ever. “Don’t avert your eyes.”

You watch her, tears streaming down your face, your underwear, your trousers and your socks uncomfortably wet, as she walks towards the couch and takes the harness. She puts it on, but it takes a while. You just stand there — embarrassed, blushing, crying and wet. 

You aren’t wet just from your own piss, however.

Something about the humiliation makes you incredibly aroused, and Jane knows it — oh, she knows it well. She knew it from the first night you talked — you didn’t even have to tell her — and she pushes you, always pushes you just a bit further than the last time.

She walks back towards you, now clad in the elaborate harness that hugs her neck, her waist, her arms and her thighs, black leather belts crisscrossing. She looks like your dirtiest fantasy.

“Kneel,” she says. 

You kneel into the puddle of your own piss, wetting your trousers even further. 

You look up at her. As she isn’t wearing any underwear, your gaze wanders to her pussy — it looks pink and delicious and absolutely delectable. You wonder if she’s command you to eat her out, and you shiver in anticipation, heat pooling in your belly. 

She lifts her leg and puts her heeled foot onto your shoulder. “Since you’re already so filthy,” she says, “it’ll make no difference if you’re even filthier.”

You stare at her pink, slick folds and your mouth waters. “Tilt your head back. Look me in the eyes,” she says. You do as you’re told and you meet her gaze. She watches you, her lips parted and her eyes dark with lust. 

You gasp when warm liquid hits your chest. You feel her piss slowly wet your shirt and your bra and drip down your stomach into your underwear. She keeps eye contact the entire time. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she says. “Filthy girl.”

“Yes, Mistress,” you whimper, cheeks red, chest heaving. 

“Nasty, dirty girl,” she says, her voice deep and thick with lust. “I bet your pussy is all wet, hm?”

“Yes, Mistress,” you breathe out. She looks like a goddess, looking down upon you. Your mind feels fuzzy and you feel as light as a feather. You’d do anything she asked of you right now. You just want to serve her.

She removes her foot from your shoulder, and you barely notice that the heel dug into your flesh — you only feel a sort of a euphoria. 

“Stay on the floor and touch yourself. You can come.”

“Yes, Mistress,” you say and immediately slip your hand into your soaked underwear. 

“Sit down, ass on the floor.”

You do as she tells you and sit down in the puddle of piss. Your trousers immediately soak through on your ass, but you don’t care.

She looks down on you as you start rubbing your clit. “Look at you. Nasty girl. You like sitting in your own filth, hm?”

“Yes, Mistress,” you moan, rubbing your clit faster.

“No wonder you need me to guide you. You can’t do anything yourself except rub your pussy like a bitch in heat.”

“Yes, Mistress,” you whine. You’re already getting close. “Ah, Mistress, you’re so good to me.”

“I’m too good to you. Nasty girls such as yourself only deserve a firm hand.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you whimper. You slip your fingers inside of your dripping cunt and start pumping your them in and out — but your trousers are in the way, and you quickly unzip them and pull them down your thighs along with your underwear, and you’re now sitting bare in a pool of piss. You spread your legs as far as you can as you continue to fuck yourself, hitting your clit with your palm every time you pump your fingers into your aching pussy.

“Look at you — so desperate. I don’t even have to touch you for you to fall apart. Such a dirty fucking slut.”

“Ah — yes, yes, Mistress,” you whine. You’re so close.

“Look me in the eyes when you come. I want you to know who you belong to — every orgasm you have is mine, do you understand?”

“Y-yes, Mistress, ah—” you breathe out as your eyes meet her icy blue ones. 

“Come for me,” she says, her voice cold and stern and uncompromising as she watches you, her gaze baring your soul. You are unable to hide from her — she is witnessing you at your lowest, in a puddle of piss rutting against your hand like an animal, and yet she never averts her gaze. She disarms you, renders you unable to do anything other than obey. You belong to her.

And you love it.

You keep eye contact as your orgasm washes over you, fast and hard and intense. For you, for you, it’s for you, you think as ecstasy overwhelms you and the only thing you’re aware of are her blue eyes, watching you, judging you and absolving you at the same time. You keep fucking yourself through the aftershocks, mumbling, “I’m yours, Mistress, it’s for you,” as you slowly come down from your high, unsure if anything you say is intelligible. 

She is silent — she waits for you to come to your senses.

A wave of shame hits you as soon as the orgasmic euphoria is gone. Tears pool in your eyes and fall down your cheeks. You want to hide your face in your hands or your shirt, but you’re covered in piss and it disgusts you. “I’m disgusting,” you cry, tears blurring your vision. You can’t look her in the eye.

“You aren’t,” she says as she takes off her gloves, and you want to believe her, but you can’t. 

You cry and you cry, and she helps you clean up. You shower together, and she wordlessly holds you while you cry, and then helps you put on clean spare clothes that you keep at her place for occasions such as this one. You cry some more, and she caresses your hair and lets you cling to her.

She isn’t a very gentle woman — you learned that quickly — but there is something about her presence that comforts you. You feel safe around her. She says few words, but they are picked carefully — and she won’t argue with the mean voices in your head. She says what she means exactly once.

“I’m glad you trusted me with this,” she says as she bids you goodbye at the door. You say nothing — you just hug her. She tenses up, not expecting it, but then she relaxes and hugs you tighter. She smells like citrus shower gel, and you know you do too. You look forward to lying in your bed tonight smelling like her. 

“See you next week, Jane,” you murmur into her chest. She pulls back and kisses your forehead — a rare show of affection.

“Take care,” she says. 

As you walk back home, you feel pleasantly light.

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

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