#Mirage Crown

[high-stakes-gambler]

Mirage Crown now has a proper home!

>> https://dennydraws.com/mirage_crown/ <<

Hello, hello friends :D It's been a hot minute! I'm sneaking in here to say I uploaded Mirage Crown on my own web site so it won't be forever buried on just Tumblr/Twitter and instead have a proper home! I also uploaded all the Teledji arts I could find on my PC ...and they were a lot. Seriously past Denny sure had a lot of energy and I wish she'd share with current Denny XD

Anyhowsies, I hope you enjoy your stay! My main website is still WIP but I do hope and plan to park all my comic projects there overtime.

[gummi-ships]

[banneduser-ripcohost]

Spoils and the horrors below cut.

F@tT C/W, Twilight Mirage, PARTIZAN, PALISADE mentioned

One thing about Clementine is that she has always been a history nerd. She grew up with tales of princepts of old. She has a Favorite Battle in her Favorite War. Hilariously, she was given The Panther, a genuine artifacts of ancient history like a new jeep to fuck up on a weekend. You know, total nerd shit. The level of tactical genius she exercises is like the guy who knows a lot about something like The Battle of Agincort and expects you to believe they would known how to have done it like that or better.

So its funny to consider the fact that she as the Witch in Glass, can use perennial magic to bring back the dead, has ownership over the crown of glass and harnessed the power of the fUCKING iconoclasts is insane. But it's also concerning that this is lining up during a time when Stel Kesh itself has shown itself to be vulnerable to iconoclastic infiltration and is now one succession crisis away from total galactic instability. But most of all it's downright fucking terrifying that the tools to reunite the crown of glass (Palisade) with The Crown (Quire System) are both within the Twilight Mirage, WITHIN ARBIT.

Clementine is so dangerous. Or maybe, as Brnine would say, i dunno dw about it im sure it's fine.

[modpoppy]

doodled these in class to feel better about getting like a 60% on an exam so i dont think im gonna tag em

i feel like toki WANTS to be just a wittle kitty (he is not) (he is fucking terrifying)

[nayialovecat]

More sketches of my fav girl.

She got a name. It's Miracle now.

Sometimes when Helob has to go (for example: for hunting), he leaves Miracle with Forneus or Lamb. Miracle likes Lamb's village, 'cause cockroaches are very sociable plus she has the company of other children there.

(Not making spoilres too much) Sozo was initially jealous of Helob's time with Miracle, but she managed to find a way into his heart. Sozo doesn't like children in general, but has agreed to be a second foster father (especially when he discovered that Miracle could and want to go fishing with him).

When Helob can't leave Miracle with the others, he leaves her alone in his lair. The little one can then read books from the Helob's collection.

The fact that Helob became Miracle's adoptive or foster father and raises her doesn't mean that her biological father has disowned her or renounced being a father. They meet each other sometimes. Miracle loves her dad very much and would like to be like him in the future - this is one of the reasons why Miraż (Mirage) sent his daughter to a friend's care. He doesn't want for Miracle being slaver.

I like little Miracle very much. She's cute little sunshine, doesn't she?

[distopea]

@killerhubby

mirage softly sinks his teeth into astra's shoulder. a silent demand for attention from yours truly.

The silent plea couldn’t be ignored - he felt his teeth sinking deep into his shoulder, the sudden frame of Mirage becoming quite oppressing behind his back. A low chuckle escaped Astra’s lips, while he was indeed, quite smaller when it came to this giant tree of a rival. 

“Surely... You always have such an animalistic way to ask for attention.” Astra folded his newspaper and threw it onto the nearest table. He patted his shoulder, felt that the skin was slightly damaged, but not quite enough to make him bleed. He pulled on Mirage’s tie, rolled his around his fingers, his own pearls scanning his neck while he inhaled his musk, before he returned the favor. Slightly deeper. 

“Now that you have it darling, what are you going to do about it?” 

[twohitgames]

Ubisoft Connect ya está disponible en dispositivos Apple

Ubisoft ha anunciado que Assassin’s Creed Mirage llega a Ubisoft Connect, la última entrega de su icónica franquicia, ya está disponible en la App Store para iPhone 15 Pro, iPhone 15 Pro Max, y dispositivos iPad Air y iPad Pro con procesador M1 o superior. Los jugadores también podrán disfrutar de Rabbids: Legends of the Multiverse, disponible hoy en Apple Arcade para iPhone, iPad, Mac, Apple TV…

[photos-girls]

Unveiling Extravagance: A Glimpse into Kuwait's 7-Star Hotels

Unveiling Extravagance: A Glimpse into Kuwait’s 7-Star Hotels Kuwait, a beacon of luxury in the Arabian Gulf, boasts an array of 7-star hotels that redefine opulence. These establishments transcend conventional hospitality, offering an unparalleled experience that combines lavish accommodation, exquisite dining, and unrivaled service. Let’s explore the epitome of indulgence with a spotlight on…

[mirage-daily]

Mirage with a flower crown?

day 66

sry it’s so late >,< i’ve been busy

[comfortless]

Hello! This is the Frankenstein anon back with more praise and another prompt that you might like. Again you are amazing and everyone you come out with stuff, I weep for joy! Please continue what you are doing because it is absolute art✨

Okay onto the prompt. So lately tiktok has been putting onto this telenova drama called Hilda Furcão which is pretty much this priest and prostitute fall in love but due to societal pressures, cannot be together. The YEARNING in this show is amazing and I can’t help but think of Priest Konig in this situation. Imagine he falls in love with reader who works at a brothel but because he’s a churchly man, he’s fighting demons in his head (and down yonder) cuz he YEARNS for her but the lord says no🥴

Please keep doing what you’re doing and I’m constantly cheering you on with your work! ❤️

In the Arms of Flowers

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. pining, lots of talk of religion/silly metaphors, fluff, ridiculous attempts at courtship from both, dark (if you squint), implied cyber stalking, violence/murder, minor character death, some angst, sexual violence (not done by König), König becomes horribly obsessed and reader is fine with it, virgin!König-> oral (both receiving) piv smut.

wc: 11k.

There’s a garden in the churchyard, one that’s always been, even before his vows were taken and the cassock was pulled around his shoulders.

It’s the very place that the arching den window in the clergy house faces out towards, and the very place that an angel descends from Heaven to stalk through night after night.

Even when the thunder clamors and rolls to light up the sky above, the pretty thing is there, kneeling amongst the blooming lilies. A listless sort of purity swallows over her, bathes her in the white of petals and the bright illumination of each bolt of lightning above, arcs a halo over her head like a proper mirage.

The whole town knows these doors remain open, but never does she even look toward the church or the home of holy men at all: only the flowers. The lilies and carnations seemed to be her favorite to haunt, weaving through the petals as they sway for her in breezes like whispers from the pouting lips of cherubim.

He’s prayed for this lost soul many times already; clutched the rosary between his fingers and whispered to the Lord to protect her, to heal whatever aches, to bring her wandering feet into the chapel one of these days. But as most lilies, this one’s beauty is gone away by mid-morning.

Tonight, he wills himself to bring her in for prayer and refuge from the coming rain. Its been a long time coming, and regrettably he’s hesitated at every other opportunity. Nothing’s changed, the scene was so commonplace even the others have commented on it prior.

Maybe he hallucinates her holiness; the halo has become made up of fallen petals now as they arch over the crown of her head where she’s found sprawled out amongst them. She raises herself to sit upright, dusts the dirt from her knees and offers a wary glance with each step he takes until his soles halt in soil that would soon be mire.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave,” the angel breathes out with her eyes darting from his collar down to rest at the expanse of short blades of grass between them. “I don’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

She doesn’t meet the concern in his eyes, and König is no stranger to sin. To the shame and grief that he’s absolved from far worse than her in the stuffy wooden confessional.

“You’re welcome to stay.” A silent prayer rests there in his breath — please stay, though even he wasn’t certain as to why there’s a demand stirring in the pit of his stomach for this woman clad in a dirtied white dress.

She smiles then, gazes right up at him in such a way that immediately sparks something misplaced, something tucked away beneath studying scripture and kneeling before the wooden altar. A sin of the flesh, a heated poker jabbing at both his heart and his loins.

“No, I’m okay,” she assures with a slight dip of her head, already taking steps back to dart away, back to whichever gilded little nest of baubles and starlight she took flight from. “I was just heading home.”

And that’s it. He doesn’t plead for her to come inside, the offer has been laid out already. It’s not his job to force a belief that one doesn’t want, only lend a kindness and a cushioned pew, advice for the lost and a choir for bleating lambs.

He bids her goodbye and walks back to the clergy house, ignoring the strange looks of his peers as they all prepare to bed down after a nightly prayer. It’s rare to smile here, when sacred words are passed from the wrinkled, cracked lips of his seniors. But König does smile, the grin is as bright as the seconds of white lighting up the sky in intervals as he silently thanks God for such a sweet vision amidst such darkness.

The fixation does not falter for the following three nights. She doesn’t return to the churchyard to whisper secrets to the blooms, but the angel weighs on his mind so heavily that König finds himself convinced that she must have been his calling, a soul that he would assuredly save.

His sermons now lack their passion. The parishioners come to him with weighty hearts and misery in their eyes, but bless him all the same, even when he’s distant. Away with the fairies, some would say. He can’t help but wonder when one such service rolls to a closing prayer if whoever conjured such words had also been in the presence of a seraph.

“Do you need prayer?,” one of his fellow priests asks as the flock trickles out, worry clear in the wrinkles laden beneath this eyes and the way his lips draw down before pressing thin. “You don’t seem to be sleeping well.”

And König regrets the words he speaks next, when he describes the woman from the flowers in detail greater than necessary: how her eyes seemed so soft, her smile fragile, and her body language more docile than that of even a lamb. He mentions the dirty dress, the way she seemed to be trying to escape something yet refused the shelter he offered.

The other priest nods and sighs, his eyes squeezing shut in thought, and though König has not feared a scolding since he abandoned home nearly two decades prior, the way the ordinarily calm priest seems so frustrated by this sends a swell of fluttering anxiety beneath his ribcage.

“The woman you describe is a temptress,” his elder explains coldly. His sharp, dark eyes rest on König’s face as though the disparity in their height does not exist at all. “Best to let her be, she does not want our help. Leave it alone.”

“Ja. Verstanden.”

The warning is enough to dull the buzzing in his chest, the mush that’s been made up of his head until he sees her again.

The bakery in town regularly makes donations of pastries and thick loaves of bread for church goingson. It isn’t regular that he’s been asked to pick them up; the eldest of the priests usually does so, some blood relation to the owners that König has never cared enough to ask about. The old man never did well in the summer months, though, far too frail now to bear the heat snaking over his pale skin and leaving burns.

With the mistake of rambling onward about this perturbing fascination still grating at his mind, he doesn’t hesitate to volunteer, to take the old truck and step away from the stained glass and crucifixes for a brief outing. A moment of respite.

There’s a complimentary mug of coffee presented across the expanse of the counter when the cashier greets him with a smile so broad it seems faked.

König’s fingers twitch when he grasps at the handle; the uncertainty was something he had sworn he would outgrow one day with God’s healing, but it never seemed to stray far from him. It rests over the back of his neck like a feeding vampire when he takes his first sip, one that burns his tongue and stings at his eyes when he notices the woman seated at a table in the corner.

It’s her: temptation and fate packaged up in a loose fitting sweater that covers the pulse in her neck and a short skirt.

She holds her phone, not the mug stationed before her, staring down at the thing with the most somber expression he’s ever seen on a lady before. She taps her thumbs at the screen, talking to someone, but there’s a loneliness in her expression apparent like the rust on the old truck parked outside.

Poor little thing.

She glances up when his staring is detected, confusion stripped bare upon her with a pinched brow and a slack jaw. Then, follows realization and she offers the same smile she did that night, some seventy or so hours prior.

“Morning, Father.”

There’s not a fractal within König that wants to make the sweet spirit uncomfortable, but each step he takes towards her table seems to make her shoulders tense. She knows that he knows, sees that sympathetic look in his eye and hates it.

Maybe even hates him for the divinity he wears in the sable cloth pulled over his shoulders.

That doesn’t stop his approach.

König sits across from her with shaking hands and a forced smile like the one the cashier wears, drops his mug onto the table and offers her his hand. Fingers bending to graze the palm as though beckoning a frightened animal when it’s he who feels most afraid.

The angel merely eyes him cautiously for a moment before she takes the cup into both of her hands and gives him a fragile huff, dismissing his attempt to pray for her soul. Again. Yet, the sting he feels is not from a lack of a starved savior complex being satisfied, only… that he has yet to touch her somehow. That sudden thought stifles him in full.

But angels are nothing if not merciful and loving; she picks up on his dejection and speaks again in his place.

“How are the carnations?”

“Hm?”

“The flowers in the garden… the red ones,” she elaborates with a soft laugh, hides it behind the rim of her cup when it’s raised for her to take a sip. Her mouth looks soft, compelling, and he’s staring again. “I like them the most.”

He knows he should stop this, that what’s become of an innocent meeting has left him feeling anything but. There’s a howling chasm in place of the heart of a worthy devotee. She’s nothing like the women who frequent the church — the only other women he sees. Brighter at best and alluring at the worst.

“I thought the lilies were your favorite…” It’s unsuited for a priest and a man so tall and broad to sound so breakable, but his voice only comes in an hurried breath, embarrassed and small.

She shakes her head, tousles her hair in the process. “I like all of them. The ones at your church grow prettiest.”

“I see…”

The woman gives him an expectant look, as if prompting him to speak more, before her phone chimes and the air seems to shift from tentative yet sweet to something vast and cold. She doesn’t seem eager to be interrupted in such a way, either; her expression falls from that subtle playfulness to something akin to a regretful acceptance.

She stands from her seat abruptly and takes a step towards the door. “I have something I need to take care of.”

God gives and takes away.

“I can bring you some,” he offers, winding in the too-small wooden chair to face her. Too late to reel in the flirtatious nature of such an offering, too late to bite his tongue and remember the vows he had taken. The burden upon his heart seems far more pressing than any words from an old book. “Carnations and lilies… some of the others, too.”

The woman almost seems shy when she glances over her shoulder and offers him the most imperceptible nod. “Yeah, sure… I’ll see you around.”

His angel leaves him to rot in thought at that lonely table, in this tiny bakery. He does not think to repent for the way his temperature and pulse spiked in her presence, for the way he takes her empty cup and stuffs it into one of the boxes of baked goods to collect later.

Riding back to the church is dreadful, because she’s already fastened to his heart like a ribbon on a pretty bouquet. He’ll ask the sisters from the cloister to clip flowers for him, tie them up in a lace that will leave her face warmed and lips pouting.

When the people in the church have their fill of sweets and bread, König tells a lie, maybe several.

He claims he doesn’t know why that innocuous porcelain thing is resting where food once had, doesn’t know why the baker would have stuffed that in there too. He takes it to his room and claims that he would return it come morning.

The bed has always felt far too small for him alone, but he pictures her there with him, sat upon his lap when he brings the cup up to his lips with his eyes closed.

It’s cold and hard, difficult to imagine it to be a kiss at all, but he pretends her lips are upon him, eager and willing. It takes only rolling his tongue back to flick over itself, envisioning it being her own, for him to feel his trousers grow too tight. He doesn’t touch himself. He can’t bear the thought of it, not with the cross staring down at him from the far wall.

And finally, regret comes.

Shame, too, because König is aware he’s become a bit of a creep; enchanting himself with second hand kisses whilst his angel takes another man to bed. A man undeserving, but… he could be. He was deserving enough to become a holy man, surely she could see he was worthy of her as well.

The bed is too small even when he curls into himself and pulls the blanket up passed his eyes. Sleep is too skittish to come for him, even when he prays in a whisper to be absolved of his lust.

The dreams are only filled with images of an angel trapped in a rose bush, the thorns sinking into her wings until blood is drawn, but still she smiles. She reaches toward him with shaky limbs, whispers something so dreadfully mournful he knows to his very soul that she is his purpose alone.

It’s what wakes him in a fit, compels him to venture out through the yard with a heart set on seeking guidance. There are moonbeams above and animal calls from the surrounding trees. All of God’s creations are in perfect, dreamy harmony.

Why couldn’t he be the same? Always the outsider in one way or another; always the sore thumb rather than the loving green. Desolation is an art, a skill he’s learned to hide back: clenched teeth to still a wrathful tongue and a layer of muscle to guard that wounded thing in his chest.

There is no better peace than the quiet of the church in the late hour. Moonlight through stained glass and empty, antique seats that would make the worldly whip out their phones to snap pictures in a heartbeat. The doors are always open, for the sinners and the devoted alike, though the confessional is rarely touched when there would be no saint awake set on absolving.

Perhaps that’s why he takes to the booth he needs to make himself smaller to fit into: one shoulder and one foot first, then the next set. He’s never cared for it, left it to the better and smaller. The sound just past the thin partition rattles him. It isn’t the creaking of wood below his feet, but something softer. A weak sniffle. A cry from the other side.

“I’ll leave in a moment,” comes a voice, broken from tears and so horribly sad that the usual script entirely fails him. He recognizes the voice, though a bit warbled now. The voice that would make the choir pause, an angel’s sweet tone.

“Wait… no. You can stay. I’m hiding, too.” A breathy laugh comes forced and misplaced. Priest or not, König has never been the best at consoling anyone, let alone one so far above him.

“I’m not hiding,” she tries to sound braver now. He can imagine her chin tilted forward and that sweet smile trying it’s damndest to paint its way across her face. “But… why are you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who are you?” The crying seems to have ceased entirely for now. Clearly whatever seemed to ail her could be remedied by her own curiosity. A cute, unorthodox little thing.

“König.” It served well enough as a confirmation name when he could not settle on one of the saints. King of them all, one of the other saved men had said in jest. Ironic, now.

“I like your voice, König,” she murmurs, deliberately testing the pronunciation on her tongue in such an alluring way that a small shiver runs its way down his spine.

“Danke… and you?”

God forgive him, he doesn’t even try. Doesn’t try to bring shame or guilt, read her scripture or pray for her soul. He only listens in silence when she tells him her name, beautiful and charming as he had expected it to be. The woman then tells him of her work, of the motel she ventures to at night… the troubles with money and even vaguely, some of the men she suffers through. This had been a bad night. Strange how a singular hour could have broken someone down to such a desperation to open up, to grasp for what small comfort they could receive.

But she came for him.

She must have hoped to see him.

He thanks his god for that.

— — —

“I bought a phone.”

“I see that.” Her fingers graze over the stems of the flowers, cleanly cut by hands more patient and stable than König’s own.

The angel isn’t looking up at him, not this time. There isn’t even a smile on her face when she cradles the bouquet close to her chest, petting over it where she sits upon the motel bed wearing nothing but some strappy, barely-there lingerie. Pure white with pink lace over the cups of her bra where her breasts swell with each shaky intake of breath.

In this week apart, he’s kept the device hidden in a loose pocket and spent many a night scouring the seediest websites looking for a hint of a body that may belong to her in this very area. Only one seemed to match. The messages exchanged were about hours and pricing, establishing a location, and terms he didn’t quite understand. He didn’t harp on the small details, but finding her messages to be so rigid and dry did surprise him. There were no cute hearts or winking emojis, it all felt horribly transactional.

Priests don’t make a lot of money, it all goes back to the church, but he’s thieved enough from the offering bowls to have a night with her alone. As disheartening as the lack of flirtations seemed, he hoped not to squander whatever opportunity this outing proved to be.

The balaclava covering his face wasn’t purchased with the intention of making her nervous, only… shielding himself from curious stares. The whole town knows his face, his name, the words he speaks so resolutely to his flock. Just as well as they know of who she is, what she does.

Even this knitted shield couldn’t hide himself from her, though. The very moment he entered this drab, modestly decorated room with flowers in hand she had only looked further lost.

“You look very pretty,” he tries as he removes the mask and drops it to the floor, kneels just a hair from where her feet dangle from the bed. “I’m glad that I found you.”

“Thank you.”

The flowers are placed on the side table, petals falling down to the thin carpet below. A cascade of red like blood and white like doves feathers. Purity and a wound in one.

The poor thing looks scorned when she does give him a glance then, but she forces herself into a position that stokes a hellish, unnatural flame within him. Her thighs part as her hands rest on the cups of her bra, pushing the thin fabric down to reveal areola, her soft nipples, sights that he had never seen before.

“You shouldn’t even be here, König,” the lady warns when his gaze sweeps over the innocent flesh laid bare before him. The angel isn’t even wet. Her panties are pristine over her womanhood, and it dawns on him that… she wouldn’t risk what he was even for the generous donation he had given.

“I don’t want to ruin you.”

But she should. Crumble him into salt, cast him away with the wind. Should.

She sees something holy in him too… albeit, not in the way that he would like for her to.

He swallows hard as he rises to his feet and sits next to her. The hands that were so accustomed to being joined in prayer find her breasts now with tentative touches, a curious squeeze, until he wills himself to readjust the fabric and conceal her properly.

“Ja, but… I just wanted to visit you.”

“You don’t need to pay me just to see me.”

The tension in the room finally begins to dissolve. Not by much, but when she sighs something that sounds like amusement, the restless throbbing of his heart does begin to settle.

As much as he would like to take her like some beast in rut, lay some claim to her in bursts of white seed, he doesn’t even know where to begin. Each curve of her body looks as though it would feel like a miracle beneath his palm, under his tongue.

It’s just that nothing is going to happen, not here, not now that he’s brought a prostitute flowers and revealed who he was to her. She sees something pitiful, where he only sees someone to love.

He can’t tell her that he dreams of her, that he views her in the same way he views his god. That would only scare her away, lead her to believe he’s a lunatic rather than a man only just now having his first taste of love.

“Then could I see you every night? So that you don’t have to…” His head dips, because no matter how he tries he knows any word he says is foolish.

This isn’t something she’s doing because it is fun for her; it’s a job just like his own. Flesh or words spoken… did it even matter? And yet, König could feel a malicious, gnawing envy at the thought of a bolder man taking his place tomorrow evening. That man wouldn’t hesitate to peel away her pretty lingerie and fuck her, shove his tongue into her mouth while his cock sat between her legs as if it belonged there.

“König,” she sighs next to him, pityingly.

His jaw tenses as his fingers curl into his palms. The hopelessness of it all crashes down around him as though sung out from the loudest of the choir. He hardly notices when she presses her head against his shoulder, only realizes how close she’s come to him when her hand curls over one of his own.

“You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met.” It’s not a compliment but it feels like one when she laughs like that, airy and soft. “The sweetest one, too.”

He smells her perfume from this close, something scented like fruit or maybe maple, sap-sticky and saccharine. All of her flesh feels warm against the plain t-shirt he wears, a warmth he would give anything to dive into, but not without her explicit command. A powerful seraph in the form of one painfully cute, gentle lady. If anyone could see what he saw now, they too would forsake those holy books and eat from her open palm instead.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses, a peculiar bitterness hanging on his tongue.

“How about a walk?”

He pulls the balaclava over his face again when they make their way out into the quiet, darkened street. Hand in hand. It’s not from shame, but a necessity, perhaps, because his pale face has only flowered into a lasting pink since laying eyes upon her on that mattress, sprawled out and waiting. The blush only deepens with every squeeze she blesses him with, every hushed word spoken as she tells him about her favorite places.

She’s dressed in the same white dress they had initially met in, now clean of the dirt from flower beds. Somehow even more radiant at this close, too.

The churchyard and the clergy house are nothing in comparison to the way the rest of the town feels when the moon rises. It’s a world all their own, a place where no one looks at her as if she were a simple harlot, but a queen amongst chipping wood and tarmac. There’s even a skip in her step as she walks ahead of him, her hips swaying beneath her skirt. All because there’s no one here but she and her most loyal and only acolyte.

He wills himself out of her grasp when they cross the threshold into the cemetery. The darkness there is enough to pull him back to earth; thoughts of how easily swayed he’s been linger in the back of his mind. The want doesn’t even begin to reel back its claws, but the guilt does sink its pearly fangs in alongside it.

“I get it. You don’t want to be seen with me,” she says a small step away, drawing her hand up to her chest. It’s the saddest she’s ever looked, and he doesn’t have the words to further explain that he has no god damn idea what he’s doing: here, with her, in the midst of something that feels so normal even though it should not.

“Nein! That’s not—“

“You don’t want to touch me. You barely talk…”

Because the words don’t come easy. Because he’s never felt such an overbearing devotion to anyone, anything apart from what he prays to. How could she… this woman that shared in such loneliness with him not see him for what he was, not see him in the way that he sees her?

“You’re misunderstanding.”

“You just want to… to convert me, is that right?,” she hisses, sounding more shaken up than he had ever hoped to hear.

All hesitation had to be swallowed back.

There was no other option. He could feel her slipping away, a pain he wasn’t prepared to face.

God gives and takes away, but König refuses to let go.

His eyes narrow, his breath halts entirely, and he cups her face in his hands as gently as he can. The distance between them feels like miles as he lowers his head to kiss her through the knit barrier. It’s flighty and petrifying on his side… he feels cold sweat wet his brow when the warmth of her pulls through.

She could hit him, spit her curses like a proper witch, and he would only fall to her feet and kiss her heels. But… she does none of those things. Whatever pain was brewing here is ripped away with the night breeze.

Her hands peel away the balaclava, discard it somewhere into the tall grass where it wouldn’t be found, and she grants him his first, proper kiss.

With only the cracked headstones and cemetery angels watching, what once was tentative becomes a full indulgence. König samples from her mouth as though it weeps honey when the gentle peck graduates to a parting of lips. His hands run down the length of her sides as she grasps at his shirt, they pull her in close until her chest meets his own and two pairs of eyelids flutter.

She feels more heavenly than his imagination could have prepared him for, her tongue hotter and her sounds… the soft sighs and shaky murmurs of approval that fill him with both a maddening love and an urge to burn everything away if only it would keep her safe and near.

The world ceases to be entirely, cast down with Lucifer to the sulfur and smoke. Her lips remain parted when they break apart, a haze over her eyes reflecting the veil clouding his own irises.

Was a kiss really forsaking his vows? Was that really such a painful treachery? No… no it shouldn’t be. The issue remains that he can not see her as just some woman. Something as small as this could consume him entirely.

The night is spent with an abundance of those shared kisses when they return to the motel. Tentative touches, too. He’s never held a woman, not in the way he gets to hold her then. She presses tightly to him, her back to his chest with her hand keeping his own in place over her middle. She’s so soft, swans down plush and smooth as silk ribbon.

There is mint lingering on her breath each time she speaks. No talk of her work, only… she confesses how she had feared him so initially, how she worried that a holy man stepping into her life would only be further condemnation: an angel terrified by a devil that does not exist at all.

He knows he’s lost a part of himself here when he tells her he wishes to meet with her again, that if the church is no longer the place she fancies to walk, he’ll meet her amongst the dead again and again when the old clergymen sleep. Those promises he had reserved solely for God turn on themselves now, when he reveres the idol he shares this bed with.

Though her hips press back against his groin when his fingers crawl up to her sternum, and the desire strikes up within him, his cock remains untouched here. He doesn’t whisper a prayer for forgiveness into her hair when he grows hard, just tucks her in closer and smiles where his head rests atop her own.

It’s the closest to bliss he’s ever felt.

— — —

“You weren’t here for morning prayer.” The voice isn’t accusatory, just observant. The nightly prayers were missed too, though a reprieve is granted by way of those remaining unmentioned.

But the guilt does eat at König when he sees the concern in this man’s eyes, splinters at his very soul until he asks in a fragile voice if he can speak to the old priest in the confessional.

Everything here feels much too small and the booth is more or less the same. The wood closes in around him, bathes him in a blackness that even the glow of candlelight within these walls can not reach. The partition separating them does not help bolster courage, it only leaves him feeling more alone.

The clergyman listens in silence as König confesses that he has become weak. He does not mention the lady of the night, but there’s no need to at all: finding himself so captivated with a woman that he considered breaking every promise to the higher power was bad enough. He does not mention how he’s considered pleasuring himself, touching her too… only that they shared a night together embraced, counts the kisses that were exchanged with each digit of his hands.

There’s a pitying sigh from the other side before the man begins a lengthy prayer that König does join him in. With the “Amen” that follows, he’s told only to rid himself of those thoughts, to bury them with fasting and prayer. No more visits with this temptress, remain on the right path. The very, very simple things he must do to receive God’s forgiveness and favor once more.

“You are not a disappointment,” his elder reminds him with a small pat to his cheek and a smile. It’s more fatherly than the sparse affection he received from his own flesh and blood before coming here.

“Danke… thank you,” he breathes when his eyes bear the burden of tears.

God loves him and so do the sainted men.

But to never see her again would be worse than flagellation.

He chokes down the pain with more water when his stomach roars with hunger, hides the broken heart with smiles and prayer. Holy clothes feel heavier now. The money he stole to spend that night with her is returned to the collection pool in a week's time. The smartphone he had purchased is tossed out with the rest of the garbage in the bins. Even the cup is returned to the bakery after being rinsed in the sink.

Still not a part of him feels absolved from this torturous puppet show.

He thinks of her more than he ponders over his fear of Hell itself. God feels like an old memory as the days pass. He counts them in his daybook, an ‘X’ next to the dates he had gone without seeing her. Ten becomes twenty, and it becomes no less agonizing.

The prayers come easier, at least. He joins with his fellow men, kneels with his hands clasped before him, speaks such heartfelt words now that on more than one occasion he’s shared a healing tear or two with the other clergymen.

God is an old friend, yes, but that title is just a placeholder for the one his prayers are truly for. The little angel of the garden, the woman who has given him nothing at all but stole his heart all the same. Was she not the same as God from that aspect?

After a month, he’s finally given the privilege to stand before the altar and preach to the parishioners again. His sermon is directed by the other clergymen, a subtle admission of his own misdeeds as he guides the flock away from the sins of lust, of worldly pleasures that would steer them away from the right path.

Amidst the men and women crowding the pews sits a new face. She wears a hat, looking uncertain and skittish as a bunny amidst a pack of starved hounds beneath its curved brim. Her coat is tugged tightly around her where her hands grip to keep it closed and snug. No one is out to get her, not here, but there’s a purplish bruise on her neck. A sad stare trails up to meet his gaze when he stammers through the words of scripture.

Then, she smiles and his heart only feels full.

The sermon ends clumsily enough, but she waits for him in the center pew. He ensures the others have cleared out before he takes rigid steps toward her, where he sits a foot or so away on the bench; the feigned friendliness is only a front for the rapid beating of his heart and the way the blush upon his face paints up to his ears.

“I waited to walk with you… like you promised we would,” she says in place of a greeting. There’s no chiding in her tone, just curiosity. Gentle, like she’s speaking to a wounded bird, and perhaps that’s what he’s become: some big, ugly vulture. Holy in its love of everything from the sky to the rot down below.

“I’m sorry. I..,” he laments, grasping for an explanation that does not come.

“No, I understand. It’s alright, König.”

He knows he doesn’t deserve the gift of her redemption with how easily he turned away from her, from the blooming of… something. It was best not to use that word anymore.

“I just didn’t want to wait any longer. I missed you,” she huffs when the silence extends between them, breaks up the tension in the air but not what creeps over her own shoulders.

“Your bruise..” He wants to tell her of his sleepless nights, of how he pictures her in place of any old deity upon a throne in heaven, but settles for where his eyes linger on her neck.

No explanation is provided, but she lets him bring his fingers to it, ghost over where the purple melds to yellow in the shape of thick fingerprints. Add wrath to the ever growing list of his sins, because it’s all he feels amidst the envy and love.

His fingers dig into the plain back trousers when they rest upon his lap again, something foreign buzzes beneath his skin. The thought that any man would be brazen enough to lay hands upon his very own angel.. It’s unbelievable, unforgivable. His thoughts spiral so quickly it’s frightening. Timid things can become vicious, too, when backed into corners.

She manages to keep this growing storm in check when she stands and smooths her skirt, and offers to tidy up the church in an act of ‘repentance’.

The chores are simple and the sisters that linger far past service seem grateful to have her here as she takes up the broom and sweeps away at the dusty floor. They chatter away with her, take her hat and rest their hands over her shoulders when the cleaning winds to an end. His angel closes her eyes in prayer, doesn’t so much as open them to send him a knowing glance when they pray for her to find a good husband, someone who deserves such a lovely, godly woman.

She shares a meal with them while König keeps to himself with scripture in hand, mindlessly roving over the words even when his thoughts drift to the night of their first kiss.

He reasons that it’s only natural when she gives him such a display of acceptance too. It only solidifies what he knows already: this woman is no succubus— she has not crawled from the depths of Hell to drag him back with her, she’s only heavensent. An angel with a broken wing or a gaping wound somewhere… something to care for.

She’s encouraged to return by several fond voices. A few of the women even offer to walk her home, the daylight is dying and it’s dangerous for a lone lady out at night. The angel smiles at him then, sharing in the knowledge that she prefers the dark. Not the wicked things, but the peace and the beauty of the moon.

And she returns when he abstains from her.

She confides in him after each sermon that she does long to see him more often, but she likes the way he speaks of Mary Magdalene and the other women in scripture, pokes fun at the lilt to his voice when he notices her amidst the crowd of others. She says she likes him a lot before they part ways in the evenings, but she doesn’t tempt him with pouts or trailing fingers.

He thanks her for respecting his faith each time - despite being the one who crossed several boundaries initially. Though he keeps his hands to himself now, the looks he gives to her are pleading and soft. If she would pull him into a kiss now, he would let her have all of him. They could run away together, from the church, from her clients…

It’s on one of those cloudy Sundays that he does ask her if she’s stopped. He braves the look she gives him when his question comes as a hushed stutter. The comfort between them no longer feels tentative. It’s just there. Ever-present as the sky above.

“Well, you haven’t,” she whispers in response, propping her elbow up on the back of the pew. It’s as if she believes it could be so simple, but it’s not. Not for either of them.

The spiels of Heaven and Hell won’t reach her, so he doesn’t bother with those. She offers him an invitation with her words and the way she remains so open that it’s difficult not to take.

It’s been months since he touched her last and the love has only seemed to have grown. Strange. Perhaps he is as odd as she’s imagined him to be. There have been weddings in this very church, talks of long years of courtship, and even then what those men must have felt for their brides had to have paled in comparison to this. It had to.

“Tell me how to,” he breathes without any underlying thought. Saints don’t question their gods, they only serve them.

“You’re actually considering it…?”

“I might.”

The silence crowds around the bench while her fingers brush over the pages of a hymnal in repetition and his only inch closer to her clothed knee.

“You could meet me at the cemetery tonight… We could talk more there.”

“At night is probably not the best time.”

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

Friends don’t kiss. Friends don’t feel the way he feels now, or how he’s felt for the past few months. Platonic arrangements don’t require repentance. But, he bites his tongue and tilts his head back, lets it roll off the shoulder when his hand draws back to his lap. Another time.

Not where the Heavenly Father could see, if he were even watching any longer.

“… Tomorrow morning would be better.”

“Then I’ll come get you. Don’t you dare try and get out of it,” she chirps with the wildest glint of mirth alight in her eyes.

Stay.

If the church caught fire now and the rafters came to sink into the earth not a part of him would or could even care as long as she were just here. But he watches her go without a word of opposition, watches her nod toward the sisters standing out in the yard and clasp her hands in front of her, smiling to herself as though the world were made for just the two of them.

It stings during nightly prayer, and it burns when he lies in bed to wait for the morning. There are cicadas singing and footsteps on old wooden boards to remind him that he isn’t entirely alone, the scent of tobacco drifting from his window when another plaster saint hides beyond the veil of night to smoke. He doesn’t sleep, his eyes remain fixed upon the ceiling until the darkness of the room drifts to a dull gray with the sun’s slow rise.

And König does not wait for her to fetch him. Morning prayer dissolves into a mournful cry because there is no part of him that can fathom or interpret any of this. A trial should not feel like a blessing when he’s faced with it. God must be playing the stupidest game imaginable to test him with someone so lovable, so charming. Where the church leaves him feeling filthy with remorse, she purifies him with only a curl of her lips and starlight dancing in her eyes.

None of it is fair.

The guilt must be something obligatory, summoned up like puffs of dust from the floorboards. Worshiping idols is a sin, but it’s not the angel that feels like one, it’s the attention he pays to the cloud in his head that does. That’s the one that should go.

He grits through prayer with the other men, doesn’t chime in with unnecessary words of devotion this time. The coffee burns his tongue when he downs the mug and forgoes breakfast. There are dark rings beneath his eyes when he ventured to the washroom to brush his teeth, and there are whispers in the halls that the young priest must be either coming under a possession or God is preparing him for something. Something big and exciting. He ignores those and the stern glances from the little nuns in their robes, huffs something of a joke about a momentary sabbatical when he lumbers out of the walls of the church.

There are no new bruises this time, but König has the memory of the last ones stuck in his skull. A clear image of four small marks on the side of her neck, another on its opposite. Larger, more pronounced. Five marks from a hand that never belonged there. Kerosene and a match are what the thoughts running rampant in his head would look like to an outsider.

She tells him on the thin picnic blanket that she’s got a new client, that he gives her enough to where she doesn’t have to consider any others now. The man has a much stranger set of interests, ones she hadn’t delved into before him, but she’s merciful enough to withhold the details that would lead König to make the crucifixion seem a gentle affair.

She tells him because she wants him to be proud that it’s only one now. That she’s making some sort of progress for him. None of it is fair, and he knows without asking that she feels more akin to the way that he does than any of the holy men.

And still he can’t help but ask, “Do you love him?”

“Of course not,” comes her immediate response, and there’s a near imperceptible glare there, judging by the fire in her eyes. It’s cute… and he feels the world's ugliest fool for daring to ask for reassurance as though this relationship was any sort of normal. If it were even a relationship at all.

Their hands touch, reaching for the same flaky pastry in the basket she brought along and Heaven’s bells ring out in his ears when her gaze sweeps over him. Everything is sugared dough and right again. She offers him her lap in place of a pillow for his head when the clouds grow thick and gray above, feeds him from her own hand and runs her fingers across his face with the other.

“How did you get the sky in your eyes?,” she asks him, makes him blush so easily his heart stutters within his chest. He feels like a boy in her presence, and in a way, to her, maybe he even is just some inexperienced whelp nipping at her heels.

The angel does not judge, she softly rakes her nails behind his ear and neck until he shivers in her hold. His hair is next, a victim to her comfort as she tousles it between her fingers, strokes him like the smallest of kittens when he feels anything but.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he mutters, raising a hand to brush at her cheek. Warm as he expected, yet softer. There’s nothing wicked here, only a woman. A woman who loves him as he loves her.

“Your eyes are pretty… sad. I love them,” comes the sweet reply that reduces him to nothing but scattered feathers and a howling ache.

Did he even exist before now? Before her? This woman has filled him with such purpose, breathed new life into a stagnant soul. The church was a safe place for a man scorned by the rest of the world, but that blanket felt unnecessary now. He wanted to feel her hands move over him like this, smell the petals in her perfume, hear her voice speak to him, all of it. Forever.

“I think that I lose myself when I’m with you.”

“Does that hurt you?”

“Nein… I’m happier like this.” It’s the closest to a confession he can whisper.

And he returns to her, morning after morning König rushes through paying his dues to God and his men to return to her like this.

When the graveyard is silent and the dew still sticks to the blades of grass, her voice sounds sweeter somehow beneath the glow of the rising sun. The birds sing around them and often she pushes wildflowers into his hair, clasps her hands around his neck and teaches him to kiss.

Her tongue moves with grace, his is only a thing of greed. Each chaste peck is met with a hunger from somewhere so foggy and forgotten it never had a home at all, not before now. The angel needn’t show him where to rest his hands, they pry at every part of her: gentle brushes against her cheek and neck, kneading at her shoulders, further, further until he does finally starve off any lingering thought of what is good or evil to explore the curve of her lower back.

Most of the time words come in afterthought, once lips are wet and plush from this gentle devouring, after she steels herself from running her hands any further down than his stomach. He tells her in truth that he prays to her, not for. Not anymore.

The shadows cast from the aspens keep them tucked far away from sight, from God and his people alike. A temple for two without four walls to close them in. The only place on this earth that he’s ever found himself in perfect solace.

“I want to try something,” she breathes just when he’s prepared himself to leave. The tree at his back, knees parted, where she remains sat across from him. There’s nervousness there, not the fretful way she looks after a long night, nor the way she looked to him upon their first meetings. “Do you trust me?”

“Ja… more than anyone,” he reassures in a soft tone of voice, tipping her chin up with the tips of two fingers to further accentuate it. Her beauty and her uncertainty always strike a chord within him, a fire that never dwindles. When her eyes search his own, his breath catches.

He doesn’t say a word when she peels away the robes from the front of his trousers. Her hands linger on at the waistband for a moment, takes enough time to offer the gentlest peck to the side of his neck before continuing. It’s another first, being exposed to a woman like this when she lowers the band and has him shimmy backward to free his cock from his pants. Soft with shame or embarrassment, a concoction of other things he could not name, but the moment she looks up at him with pure delight he feels himself grow stiff.

“Wow… You’ve got a perfect cock,” she assesses with a laugh, finger running up the length of it as it twitches to life under her touch.

Scheisse.

He strokes her cheek with reverence as she bends down before him, watching him carefully through her eyelashes. Her warm breath drifts over his manhood and he’s already horribly aware that this would not last long. Another lesson, like the kisses, maybe. She could mold him any way that she likes and he would be pleased to play the role of her Adam.

The tongue isn’t what he anticipated. She flattens it against the tip, breathes a laugh when a keening whine is pulled from his throat. To see such an ugly, vulgar thing pressed to the beautiful mouth he’s kissed a dozen times now. It feels wrong. There’s no hesitation when her lips wrap around him. And then all of it— everything is just right. Every moment spent in this hazy, loving glow with her is right. If Hell were to come from this, then let it.

He can’t tear his eyes away from her, can’t bring himself to speak when he feels the way his cock hits the back of her throat, feels her swallow around him and make such a pleased noise as she wraps her fingers around the expanse she can not take.

Its pitiful, the way he must look: mouth agape, eyes lidded and heavy… He brings a hand to her hair, and runs his fingers through it as if she isn’t letting him fuck her mouth, but rather in the midst of something far holier, softer. Sacrilegious or divine. If God we’re watching, let him.

She pulls back a little, an obscene, wet sound in answer when her mouth is drawn back enough to merely press a kiss the tip, puffy lips glossy with drool. “Is this okay…? Not too much?”

“You are so pretty… it feels… just keep going.” His voice no longer possesses any feigned confidence, it begs like a wounded thing, chanting, “Bitte. Please…”

His hips tilt up when she parts her lips again, all trepidation be damned. This is something, something he’s aches for and never had the chance to feel. All of the ache, the longing to be diminished, to unite with the angel who fled Heaven for him. The cock pushes at her open mouth, smears thick beads of precum over her cheek, before she takes him in again with a delighted, muffled sound. Her soft mouth, the tongue that thoroughly laps at his shaft and follows her movements to wrap and suck at the head. Otherworldly, and… unfathomably bittersweet.

Her lips suction around him, the movements of her wrist only increasing, and with the second roll of his hips he feels his stomach begin to tense as pure heat rolls its way through him. A gentle coursing becomes a blinding inferno in mere seconds, and regrettably, instinctively, that hand so gently combing through her hair comes to snare it instead and force her down further.

His soft grunts and low pleading morph to something choked and almost agonized. It’s the purest rapture, a pleasure so absolute his eyes prick as he bows lower to cover over her as she swallows his devotion by mouth. The angel pants breathlessly when she pulls away with saliva and semen still stringing them together, cleansed by his thumb tracing over her lips, replaced so swiftly by his own mouth. The kiss is so chaste it feels misplaced here, but she nuzzles against him in this comedown from ecstasy, doesn’t even chastise how he lasted a mere two minutes.

And he vows, vows in the sweetness of her comfort and love that no one else will ever have this again.

— — —

Abstaining from meals during a fast is a struggle in and of itself; abstaining from her is some long-forgotten circle of Hell.

It’s not avoidance, but a necessity.

To think that his first sexual encounter would provoke days of concern, a wistful daydream about a future he never would have thought to have had otherwise. There was a desperate, starving desire to repent when he first arrived home after that, but nothing that a bottle of communion wine and a cold shower could not wash away. Repentance has lost its merit to him.

And after seven days, he’s perfectly aware of what he must do. To absolve them both from things where atonement seems far from a necessity at all. He folds his holy robes and leaves them on the bed in the room too small, set neatly next to his Bible. The rosary was the one thing that König could not bear to part with. The beads, red and shimmery, were chosen and strung together with him in mind. It’s slipped into the pocket of his jeans after the plain, black t-shirt is pulled over his head.

There’s a hammer in his gloved hand, and he doesn’t recall where he found it. Lying with its head rusted in the churchyard, perhaps half buried beneath the soil. Some of the other clergymen are talented at fixing things, but König’s never been very good with that. His first rosary was broken with a careless slip of his fingers, and he’s shattered more porcelain than he could count on accident.

Even communion wine can be a bit too strong, sometimes. Or maybe that’s only when the bottle’s been entirely downed. He’ll blame one of his betters when the stock is counted and one turns up missing, if they bother to come seek him out again at all.

The motel is dead at this hour, so late into the night. The few normal visitors have already been accounted for with watchful eyes, and the angel waits in one of the rooms on the second floor. He imagines the laces on her lingerie, the healing bruises on her throat, and that sweet expression upon her face. Or maybe that one was reserved solely for him. He prayed… no, he hoped so.

After tonight, there would be no more mercies for him. Or perhaps there would be an abundance, blessings from the vultures and the wolves and the maggots he would feed. New gods that were still far lesser than the angel who suffers men in sheets, but only looks to him with love.

And he doesn’t have to wait long, because the demon finds his way here with haste. Does he come here every night looking as proud as he does now? His attire even resonates with death, black with those white details, a costume that seems so fitting for one about to meet the very face he wears.

Killing someone isn’t so easy. Cain murdered his brother with a rock, described in such loose detail that one would think a playful throw led to Abel’s end. But it’s not so, not when the victim is hellbent on living.

The demon is smaller, but strong. He’s been in situations like this before, doesn’t have to spit the words to tell König so. They’re felt with each blow, with the sharp edge of the knife this bastard manages to dig into his side. Just barely, before it’s jerked out of his hand and thrown several paces away. The skittering across the tarmac is enough to chant doom.

There’s blood. More with the first strike of the hammer. It seemed so much easier in thought rather than practice. In his imaginings, the head would split with the first fall like an overripe apple, crumple in and the breath would leave the demon in an instant. Instead, it’s dozens. Blow after blow while the smaller man struggles below him.

A strange catharsis comes over him when his soul grows murky, when his hands are slick and the struggle comes to an abrupt end. The sobering only comes when he’s spent an hour driving down the most forested roads to find a place to dump the body. There’s no tact to it, laying a man to rest in shrubbery and dirt. With a head so collapsed it’s hard to think of this as a man at all. A corpse, something no longer simply human.

König does not pray for him when he rests the hammer in the deceased’s hands. Does not offer it more than a passing thought when he peels away back toward home. The deed is done and he’s free of those horrid burdens tainting his heart, keeping him held back on a short leash to divinity.

Like fate, she’s found out in the garden again after the bloodied shirt and stained gloves are discarded. The wound is patched with what he could find available, a hastily tied strip of gauze covers his side. A week or so at best until the gash would heal into an ugly, jagged scar. It seemed even a bastard devil’s blade couldn't be sharp enough to fell a Goliath when he’s caught by surprise and horny.

He feigns merely emptying the garbage into an outside bin, plays off the sting of the gash with a humble, lumbering gait. She beams up at him through lines of tears running down the sides of her face like small, silver streams beneath the darkened sky above.

He’s not a saint anymore, no… a guardian angel. The archangel Michael with his sword set ablaze and divinity scrawled into every scale of his chest plate. Something holy and glowing, unsullied and beautiful.

Like her.

“You’re crying…”

“Sorry… bad night. Client just ghosted me.”

No. This was good, couldn’t she see that? All the sleepless nights, the prayer and the constant, overwhelming longing. Everything he had suffered for her, and still she only comes to him with the thought of that horrible thing in mind.

“He’s dead.” Maybe it was just the fear of a loss of money. He had enough saved up someplace, and the collection pool would be beneficial enough to pivot them towards a new life. No church. No lonely motel. He had to test it, give her a trial and hope that she did not simply break.

The look that crosses her face is one of confusion… Then comes a strange twist of relief. Her mouth falls slightly agape and her arms squeeze slightly around his middle.

“We just spoke a few hours ago. How…?” Finally, suspicion.

Maybe he’s too drunk on playing God now to care, to realize this isn’t how a good man would have handled things. The only thing that holds any weight, that resonated with him any at all is the thought that he loves her, that he will protect her until his dying breath, pray at her feet and anything else she might ask.

That’s what pulls him to press her down against the bed of the truck, to kiss her with every lesson she’s blessed him with in mind. Tongue and teeth, fire and spit, she accepts all of it. She doesn’t beg him for an answer: she’s seen the worst of men, taken cocks far less deserving. Her hands find his hair as they drift away here, gives the strands a sharp tug to usher him closer, roll her tongue against his own.

The sheer tights she wears beneath her skirt are ripped at the seam between her legs by large hands, panties pushed to the side before she finally presses against the broad chest against her to gain some space. Her breath is shallow, face warmed and hair a mess, still the loveliest thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon.

“Are you afraid?” He tilts his head to the side, curious, as if there were no reason for her deny him of this now after he had just *killed for her*. After he forsook what once was all he knew all for her. He would do it again without question, with no gain at all, but the sting of rejection was not something he could entirely choke back.

But his angel never runs out of mercies, it seems.

“No… just give me a second.”

She slips her hand down between her parted legs, demonstrates for him just how to prepare a woman. He watches, mesmerized, as she circles the bud above her slit, dips her finger downward to spread wetness along her flesh. Dew over petals. A finger slips inside of her, and all at once is shoved aside.

“Let me,” he pleads, already pressing both hands to her inner thighs, tilting her hips upward as his head sinks between them.

“You don’t have to,” she whispers, but grants him his wish with feverish nods that betray her words, allows him to kiss her sex as he shifts himself into a better position.

There’s nothing to go off of but her sounds, the cries of pleasure when his tongue lolls out to lick at the nub where most of her reactions stem from. He mutters against her about her taste, something so ethereal he could not even begin to place. Her scent envelopes him in full, and he’s never felt closer to anything prior. She allows his clumsy licking, moans louder for him when he can’t stifle his own groaning. The pants are too tight around him, and patience is another virtue he finds that he lacks.

She doesn’t reach some fantastical height of pleasure when he presses a finger into her cunt, but her body seems to fit even that like a glove, squeezing around him as he lazily circles her bud with his tongue. She doesn’t come, but she tugs him by the hair to usher him back into another kiss, hands roving down his abdomen to free his manhood from the barriers of fabric. And finally… finally he’s granted entrance to Heaven.

The first thrust leaves him spiraling, lost into a world of silk and honey. And the angel does not give him any time to recover, she writhes beneath him, shifting her hips to pull him in deeper, muffles each whine and groan from his lips with her tongue hungrily lapping over his own.

He’s thought about having a woman many times, but never imagined it could feel this good. To be so complete, every woe or fear cast aside in the act of mindless pleasure.

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, to keep his eyes shut or gaze down at her and cease this assault on his mouth to tell her that he loves her, that she feels like pure fucking paradise and he’s already on the verge of coming undone. He settles for moving, dragging himself in and out of her in slow movements, turning his face away to bite down on her shoulder when the feeling of her walls cinching him like a vise threatens to spur him into finishing on the spot.

“That’s just… god… you’re good at this,” she gasps when a hand is sunk between their bodies, flicking at her clit as he spears her open. Her hands find his back, raking her fingernails down past his shoulder blades. It’s agonizing, trying to fight back the urge to breed her full, watch his come spill out from her perfect cunt until he finds himself hard again. The very thought makes him gasp, grind himself deeper inside of her as her nails dig into his back.

“Mein… this is… you understand…,” he’s babbling, hardly coherent, and she only seems to accept it. The angel chants her agreement amidst the beginning of her rapture.

She cries out for him when she comes, her sex pulsing around him as she shivers that all restraint is immediately lost. She hugs him so tightly, squirms as she hisses a curse into his ear.

It’s a miracle he’s even lasted this long. He halts his pace for a mere second to prop himself up, gaze down at her in absolute reverence before that fire swallows him whole. It’s unceremonious when he comes: a growl and a wail as he buries he face into her neck and pumps every last drop of his seed into her pussy.

He doesn’t want to pull out, doesn’t want to leave such a complete embrace. The world has already ended for him, a long time ago on the very night they met. There’s no need to drag out their ruin with whatever else occurs when she’s out of his grasp.

She strokes over the marks she’s made, gentle, tickling touches of her fingertips and shy giggles when their eyes meet again.

“I thought I would never get to do this with you,” she admits, quiet when her hands drift to cup his jaw instead. “You’re perfect, you know that…?”

He wants to cry, wants to fuck all of his woes away, kneel before her and beg that she find a place where they can never be apart. Steal her away to some cabin up in the Alps, where flowers grow in thick patches on the hillsides, a wild garden of her very own.

“… You should stay with me,” he huffs into her ear, fingers dimpling the flesh of her hips as he tries desperately to force himself closer to her.

“You can’t mean the church,” she giggles. “So where should we go?”

“We can figure that out in the morning, hm?”

[yeyinde]

WICKER PYRE | Dragon!Price x Reader

All things considered, you should have expected it. You know better than to make deals with dragons.

WARNINGS: 18+ | light smut—no descriptions of anatomy used for the reader; possessive undertones; dragon trickery; blink and you'll miss it Celtic Dragon mythology and folklore WORD COUNT: 1,5K NOTES: They tempted me with hellfire and pretty imagery, so. Here we are.

It smells of biochar, pyrolysis. The incendiary heat sparks to life around you; a thick, impenetrable wall of stifling warmth, and you blink through the haze, the heat mirage, that swims in front of your eyes, trying to clear the clouds from your vision. 

It's hot. 

Hellfire. Inferno. Absolute. 

Paradoxically, it edges into dry heat—wildfires: burning forests, charred logs, crumbling charcoal, ashes—but your skin is drenched in sweat; sticky, tacky. Hot springs. Lavascape. 

You're drowning in Phlegethon, hands clawing at molten skin to stay afloat. 

"Shush, shush—"

It's a wheezing rasp. A rumble that rebounds against the carverous, limestone walls and echoes in your ears. The vibrations of it rattle through your chest and dislodge the panic from between your ribs. 

"Easy, now."

Despite the smoked-cured softness of the voice above you, around you, in you, it booms through your marrow; the sudden shift of the plates. A tectonic shockwave that bludgeons into you. 

"Can't—" you start, words a desperate, aching whine. "Can't—John—it's so hot—!"

His answer is a grunt; a rolling, monstrous sound that shivers across your skin. It's easy, with his front pressed against your back, his words hissed into your crown, to forget that he isn't a man. That his body is made of the valleys: carved from chiselled andesite, graphite, and limestone. Coursing through his veins is ichor and brimstone, fed from the burning pyre inside his chest that blooms tuffs of smoke, and reeks of ash. 

He quiets you with another low pur, and feeds the tips of his steel claws into your flesh, anchoring you tight to his body.

And then you hear the fire-painted voice speak from between his nicotine fangs: "I know." 

And you suppose he would. 

Molten blood. Igneous skin. His voice is Pyroclastic: tephra falling from his heaving chest. 

With the exception of his pointed, angular claws, his hands almost look human. Almost. 

But when they grip your hips tight, the skin of his palms feels too thick. Too velveteen. Like the soft underbelly of a reptile.

Those claws hold you steady as he slides the full, burning length of himself into you. The blunt press of his cock splitting you apart, and the rasp of his knuckles, rough with blackened osteoderms protruding from his thick skin, makes you shiver. It feels like sandpaper when it prickles over your flesh. 

You try to gasp but the oxygen in the room is swallowed by the flames. Try to move but his weight on your body is a plutonic ash bed. A prison. 

Jewels and gems nip at your skin when you ramble to find purchase on the treasure trove of his nest, to find something to hold onto while your body is slowly consumed by the unrelenting heat of him stretching you into a shape you do not recognise. 

"Tryna run?" He mocks. "Thought you could handle it, mm? Wasn't that our deal? Do you know what happens to little humans who try to break their promises?"

You want to bite back something scathing, something dripping in venom and cruelty, but the words are ground into peat salt when he presses the full weight of himself onto you, using the momentum to snap his hips harder, faster, than he was before. 

(You swear, swear, you feel the white-hot tip of him digging harshly into your sternum.)

But he's merciful—to a degree—and his hand lifts, drops in front of your nose, claws gleaming in the flames that surround his den, his prison, his home. 

You take in the sight of his heat-scorched skin—a chromosphere of living magma: blistering red dusted with fine ash. It's pretty. Stunning. You're mesmerised by the ripples of fire running in thick rivulets beneath his carbonised pelt, and you know, then, why he's so sought after. Respected. Feared. 

(Who would try and run afoul around a man, a being, a beast, who has hellfire burning in his veins?)

The brief respite splinters when he shifts forward, pushing himself as deep into your body as he can possibly go, and the world around you lists sharply on its axis when he pulses, branding you from the inside out, turning your body into a magma chamber that only fits him—

You can't breathe—haven't been able to since you rocked up to the smouldering cavern on the side of a mountain, and demanded he make a deal with you. It's hard to acclimate to the carbon-rich air that thrums around you like a thick curtain of plasma, threatening to consume you whole. 

"Easy, now, pretty thing," he purrs again and the deep rumble that spills from his expansive chest seems to glue to each bone in your body, reverberating deep within your liquifying marrow.

His elbow falls, chin presses into your crown. He breathes you in, and the world around you shudders, and ripples like the glimmering sea of a heat haze. An optical illusion. A mirage. But one that flexes around you like water; moulding to your body, and filling in all the crevasses and canyons until the plasmic air clings to your skin. 

Smoke billows with his exhale. You scent charred tobacco leaves, brimstone, crushed granite, and burning rock—sharp and acrid. The smell sticks to the back of your throat and colours your lungs in a fine layer of rock dust.

The world around you shakes when he growls into your crown, nose pressed tight to your sweat-slicked skin. 

It feels like an earthquake rattling inside of you, shaking loose the paper-thin threads of sanity that keep you still beneath his bulk.

"Ah, John—"

His forearm slides closer to your gasping mouth, and you scent guncotton on his skin. Thick. Heady. It makes your head swim, and a fever bloom in your veins. 

"There," he huffs into your hair, and the plume of his voice heats the world around you by several degrees. "Now you have something to hold on to, love." 

His voice is pinched with something that sounds mockingly cruel, mordant, but there's a softness in the way he holds you close; a tenderness that biles the roughness of his hands, the sharp drag of his claws against your flesh. 

"Now," he continues, hand tightening on your skin hard enough to bruise your tremulous bones. "Be good, and let me fuck you." 

With that, he snaps forward until he's once buried to the hilt. Fangs prickle across your shoulder blade when he lowers his maw to your skin. Each heavy exhale through his nose leaves a scorching mark over your flesh until it's blistered and raw. 

He sets a brutal pace, and each time he sinks in deep, you feel something inside of you splinter, break. It's unlike anything, anything, you'd ever felt before—a liquid pleasure and pain that melts together into burning heat. It feels like euphoria and punishment in the same breath: an equilibrium of salvation and condemnation.   

Each growl that leaves his heaving chest shakes the cobwebs from between your ribs, and fills them with ash and smoke. It seeps into your bloodstream, poisoning you with each harsh stroke. 

(You forgot that he was poisonous—)

But it's too late. 

Lost in the delirious cloud of heat, ozone, and John, all you can do is wrap your tiny hands around the thick of his forearm, nails barely leaving a mark on his thick pelt, and cling to him as he takes what you offered with greedy claws, and gluttonous eyes, pounding you into his bed of furs, and stolen gems and gold. Treasure toppled to the ceiling of the cavern they warned you to stay away from. The precious clutch of a monster who protects his wares with fire and madness. Raining wrath and fury, white-hot rage and red-hot desperation, down on anyone who dares to get close. 

It's too much, too much, but you knew what you were getting into when you tried to barter with him.

("Let's make a deal—"

And he'd said, "you must be desperate. Don't you know what I am—"

His noctilucent eyes burned in the dark. 

Mocking. Cruel. Hungry.)

All you can do now is hope, somehow, that you make out in a single piece. That all your vibrating atoms stay whole; intact. That you don't lose yourself inside the madness of heat, and burning fire. 

That you'll make it out, alive.

—if, of course, he lets you go—

But those hopes are dashed when his molten tongue flickers out, laving a burning path across your neck. 

"You'll look so good in all my gold," he snarls, a thundershock right into your core. 

And then he sinks his fangs into your neck. 

You should have known from the start when he looked at you with hunger, rapacious greed in his keen, sharp eyes that you were not leaving his den again. 

(The most precious piece in his hoard.)

Your body is a wicker pyre made to be burned. From the charred ashes, something new will rise. A phoenix trapped in the paws of a beast who likes pretty, shiny things, and will never let go. 

(And really, what else did you expect when you decided to tempt a dragon?)

[pommpuriinn]

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ˖ ࣪ . JOOHYUNG MASTERLIST

ꪆ୧ self | joohyung pt. 1 | joohyung pt. 2 |

ꪆ୧ eras | crown | black mamba | the name chapter: temptation | do it like that | the name chapter: freefall | minisode 3: tomorrow | line distribution minisode 3 : tomorrow | minisode 3: tomorrow concept trailer |

ꪆ୧ tubatu | the group | joojun duo

ꪆ୧ secenarios | beomgyu vs bibi | mama 2021 | infamous sasaengs | making of tnc: temptation pt. 1 | making of tnc temptation pt. 2 | the name chapter: temptation behind #1 | the circle chart music award | joohyung getting sick on tour | joohyung scouted | date night | weverse con day 1 | behind the hybe’s gg performance | meeting the jonas brothers | baby ?| diaries from txt: lost our summer | we lost the summer documentary preview | txtpalooza | joohyung at vmas | New York fun | airports are no fun | moments before freefall | fansigns | standing next to you fun | freefall comeback | fun night in paris | w korea love your w event | new dorm | 2023 kbs global music bank festival/bts | breaking point | the big day |

ꪆ୧ tour | act: lovesick tour | act: lovesick tour 2 | act: sweet mirage seoul day 1 | act: sweet mirage japan | act: sweet mirage us | act: promise in seoul | act: promise us part 1 | act: promise us part 2 |

ꪆ୧ variety shows | txt on jessi’s showterview | joohyung on bistro | joohyung on bistro 2 | mmtg: ep 278 daily lives of an idols | radio show with jaejae | we lost the summer documentary pt. 1 | hybe game caterer 1 | bambam’s house | halmyungsoo ep. 152 | hybe game caterer 2 |

ꪆ୧ solo | debut live | perfect night | making of black mamba ep | the start: black mamba |

ꪆ୧ lives | joohyung live #1 | joohyung during group lives | trainee stories |

ꪆ୧ to do | ep. 57 pt 1 | ep. 83/84 | ep. 128 |

ꪆ୧ vlog | jooie’s vlog #1 |

ꪆ୧ articles | soompi | soompi | pannchoa | soompi | pop base | koreaboo |

ꪆ୧ weverse | 1 |

ꪆ୧ instagram | 1 |

[milliesfishes]

Would you ever write something where billy and his girlfriend get taken by rivals at the same time? They hurt her in front of him to get him to tell them what they need to know and he’s so angry.

౨ৎ꣑ৎboth you and billy are kidnapped౨ৎ꣑ৎ fem reader x billy the kid

Voices echoed through the expanse of the mine, making every word spoken sound like a haunted prayer. The only other sound was of water falling drop by drop from the ceiling, eroding Billy’s mind.

He shifted where he had been unceremoniously tossed to the ground, the ropes binding him fraying in a way that didn’t loosen them but dug at his skin. Maybe the reddened marks in their wake would fade with time, but the memory would remain.

You were in a similar state, if not worse.

Passed out cold, they had thrown you aside rougher than he, and you were caved in on your side, hair strewn over your face like the leaves of a willow tree. Every breath you drew was so faint that the strands didn’t even flutter.

Billy felt another wave of shame at the sight of you, the sorrow and guilt blinding him. He had been foolish, reckless to come back to you. But like a man dying of thirst stumbling upon an oasis, he had crept through your door and dropped to his knees, forgetting that he was covered in the dusty skin of the desert, and that he'd been on horseback for hours. All he knew then was you, reveling in your relief and happiness that he was home.

If you'd been plucked right out of Eden you wouldn't have been more perfect. There had never been a soul so sweet, and he'd never had a love so pure and untainted. You quickly became his center, his gravity that held the world in place. He had been so desperate to love in his earlier years, seeking women who made everything spin faster. That was how he thought it was supposed to be.

Instead of a whirlwind, a hurricane, you made everything stand still. And now all the horrors of living were overpowered by light. He saw all that was good and beautiful clearly. He saw that you were the best and most beautiful thing there was.

You, with your laugh like wedding bells and smile like gold. Billy always touched you as though you were made of butterfly's wings, as if you were a mirage that would vanish under his fingers. He was utterly devoted to you; the only way you should be loved in his opinion.

Though you opened his world to be clearer, it was still tumultuous. He was dodging the law at every turn, chin nearly permanently fixed over his shoulder. Normally he wouldn't have cared. But with you at stake, the most precious thing in the world? It was devastating.

You became his twilight lover; he only revealed himself to you once the sun's eyes were firmly shut. Days were spent in solitude, far away from his true home in a woman he selfishly thought he could have. Memories became gentle kisses in candlelight, caresses in hurried passion. Billy knew he should stay away if he gave a damn about your safety. The raw, desperate need for the feeling of you wrapped up in his arms overpowered that.

And now he'd gotten you into this. His reputation had dragged you to a corner of the earth he had hoped you would never know. Unable to tear his eyes away from your limp form sprawled across the ground, your dress ripped to expose your collarbone and shoulder, all he could think was of how bold it had been for them to take you both.

They had followed him. A rival gang with more boots than brains, still able to track him right to the doorstep of his sweet girl. Billy was aware of this possibility every time he came to see you, but he naively thought every time that the universe wouldn't punish two lovers during what little time they had.

Mere hours later he'd been hit over the back of the head, awaking to a pain in his crown and the sight of you beside him, listless. No gun at his hip, no way of knowing where he was. A panicked feeling had arisen in him. What had they done to you while he was out cold? What horrors had they inflicted on the only person he wanted to protect?

You hadn't screamed once. It was more eerie than it would have been if you had. The blood on his face was uniform at this point, and he wasn't sure if it was yours or his.

Leaning over, trying to shuffle through his bindings, he whispered your name hurriedly. Any sign of life out of you. Anything. Oh what wouldn't he give? "Baby...please..."

You were like a doe felled by a bullet, lying limp and broken. Billy twisted under the ropes, searching for a loose end. It was eating him from the inside, being so close to you when you were suffering and being unable to hold you.

He had always regretted your first kiss. It was the catalyst for all of this, for him pulling you down to the depths with him into eternal doom. You were the epitome of good and he was a guilty sinner. Of course a man like him would fall for you. It didn't matter how much he gave you. It didn't change the fact that your one fault was loving a man who didn't deserve it.

Bootsteps drew him out of his thoughts, and he instinctively shuffled closer to you. As if his body could do a single thing for you right now.

The leader of the gang- a mustached man- crouched to look Billy right in the eye. He quirked his eyebrows toward you, giving a low whistle. "Ain't lookin' so good, is she?"

"Let her go." The words flew out of his mouth against his own volition. Billy was well aware of how pathetic that made him appear. But his baser instincts were grabbing hold of him, chief among them the need to keep you safe.

Breathing a laugh that was more like a scoff, the mustached man shook his head. "You know the deal. Tell us where your buddies 're hidin' and you both go free."

Even though it wasn't the first time he'd heard these words in the past hours, Billy felt a pang in his chest. He looked up at the man with hardened eyes. There was no way in hell he was betraying the Regulators. Convenient or not, those men were his brothers. They'd fought against the tide of Lincoln County, forged a bond that couldn't be fabricated. He didn't care if they never found out it was him who betrayed them- he would know.

The mustached man seemed to read his mind. His lips turned slightly upward in an unpleasant way, and he got to his feet, dusting himself off. Grinding his boot in the dirt, he clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Thought you'd be smarter 'n that, Kid. You ain't gonna like what you've done."

Before Billy could question him, the man bent suddenly, yanking you to face upwards, so your weakened eyes were facing him. To his horror, a knife was pressed to your throat as you struggled feebly, a pained whimper drawing from your lips.

Eyes widening, Billy's feet became a tangled mess as he tried desperately to get to you. "Fuckin'...bastard...you-!"

"All you gotta do is tell me where they are," the mustached man said calmly. His tone was too casual, too light. The knife made its way down your collarbone, past your breasts and down to your stomach. "D'ya think sugar's gonna spill out 'f her veins 'nstead of blood?"

Had his hands been free, Billy would have torn him apart limb from limb. Touching you, his girl with such intent was an unspeakable sin. Your dress was exposing your full left shoulder, falling dangerously close to your breast.

"Billy," you whispered, voice edging on a cry. Your hands were gripping the man's arm around your neck, chest rapidly rising and falling as your breaths became panicked. The sound of your voice made him nearly break.

Merely glaring at your captor, he kept his lips sealed. The chances of what he was doing being nothing more than threats were high. Your outline was shaky, and your lids squeezed shut, head turning to the side as you appeared to brace for the impact of the sharp blade against you.

The man grazed the knife along a torn patch of your dress, right against the exposed skin. He stared at Billy, as if with his eyes alone he could get him to confess. "Last chance, Kid. Tell me where they're hidin'."

He's bluffing. "No chance," Billy bit.

The awful sound you made as the man began to twist the knife against you would haunt Billy for the rest of his life. You clawed at the mustached man but he, numb to your resistance, paid you no mind. The image of you in pain sent a wave of alarm through Billy, and the tension built up in his body until he was saying, "I'll tell you!"

You were discarded to the ground, the knife clattering along with you as the mustached man swooped forward, eyes disgustingly eager as he nodded, encouraging Billy to continue. "Where?"

"The..." Oh he hated himself. "The house past the glen up north. A day's ride from here."

With a satisfied smile that made Billy sick, the man slowly rose. He kicked the knife toward him, saying, "Cut your binds. Ain't nobody gonna stop ya from leavin."

He retreated into the shadows briefly, and when he returned he was holding Billy's gun belt, revolver still sheathed in it. Holding it up tauntingly, the man said, "One last thing, Kid. If you or your girl ever come back to Lincoln we'll have a noose waitin' for ya." The words loomed threateningly over Billy's head. The mustached man tossed the belt in his direction. "If you know what's good for ya, you'll stay away."

With that final awful sentence, he turned away, engulfed by the darkness once more.

Billy scrambled for the knife, dragging it forward with his boot and somehow grasping the handle. The blade ate at the ropes, every cut injecting energy into his veins. He worked the knife upwards until his wrist was free, and then his elbow. Now he could reach the knots at his waist. Shrugging off those bindings, he made quick work of the ones at his feet, seizing his gun belt and slinging it haphazardly around his waist before crawling hurriedly over to you.

Touching you lightly, unsure what you would allow him to do, Billy waited with bated breath for any kind of response. "Baby...oh my sweet girl..." he carefully rolled you over, examining the mark the man had left on your stomach. It was bleeding, miniature pearls of blood beading on the slitted scratch. Even though it was hardly a wound, Billy still was horrified by it.

Using his sleeve to staunch the blood, he ran his other hand over you, checking for any other injuries. Bruises littered your skin, dust and dirt caked over your usually soft skin. Your eyes fluttered open as you weakly looked up at him. "Billy..." Soft though your words were, they held a world of hurt and pain. They hadn't even bound you...what had they done when he was out cold?

"Shh, I've gotcha," he whispered, carefully sliding his arms under your body.

You whimpered, shaking your head. "You...you told him where they are..."

"I didn't tell the truth," Billy said softly, looking into your eyes. He positioned his hands to support your body. "They moved from that spot a long while back." Your limbs reacted to his movements; arms sliding around his neck, knees bending slightly. "Alright...'m gonna stand up, mkay? Here we go..." Billy carefully got to his feet, taking care not to stumble and frighten you.

"What's happening?" you mumbled, face right against his neck. Billy rubbed your side, kissing your forehead.

"Shh," he murmured, beginning to move forward. "We're gonna get outta here. Gonna find somewhere safe where we can be together."

"Not going home?" you asked in a small voice. His heart broke in two, the strain of your obvious discomfort weighing on him.

"No," he admitted, squinting in the darkness. There was a flicker of light close at hand, and he pointed his steps in that direction, sure it was the exit. "We're gonna go somewhere else, darlin'. Somewhere safer."

You were too weak to argue, and so you settled for resting your head on his shoulder. He was glad you were resting at least.

Billy would rather dig his own grave and be buried alive in it than ever put you at risk again. You and him would be putting as much distance between the two of you and those who'd kidnapped you. Their malignity was sickening, and it cut into the divinity of holding you. Now he did it in a protective frenzy.

The dot of light turned out to be at the top of a crude stone staircase, and he climbed it carefully, mindful of you in his arms. The whole time he was wary of any attackers, but the space appeared empty.

When Billy ducked under the makeshift doorway, emerging from dusty captivity, he caught the last of the sun's rays sinking behind the rolling hills. Peering around for any sign of danger, he noticed a lone horse a few yards away, grazing. It was fully saddled, tied to the branch of a tree.

Boot and hoofprints in the dirt suggested a speedy exit. Billy hadn't even heard anybody leave- he'd been too focused on you. he wasn't sure if the beast left behind was an act of kindness or a warning to get away as soon as possible. He decided not to question it.

Billy spared a glance at you, making sure you were still lucid before he began to walk to the horse. He hoisted you up on the saddle first, hooking his foot in the stirrup and pulling himself up. You were positioned in front of him, nestled between his thighs, back against his chest where he wanted you.

In his element now that he held the horse's reins, Billy secured an arm around you, ducking his head to kiss your temple comfortingly. You turned slightly to look in his eyes, a look of fear and uncertainty combined in yours.

He held your gaze, determined to stay strong. Oh, how quickly he'd forgotten before. Billy lived for you. You were the lone reason he kept going, the only reason he had any hope of heaven. Throwing aside his previous regrets of loving you, he resolved that if trouble was going to follow him, and by circumstance, you, he would always get you out of it.

Billy smoothed your hair carefully, pressing a gentle kiss into it. The ineffable feeling overtook him, and he suddenly remembered why people fell in love. Even after danger's daunting shadow, he was set alight by the simple knowledge that you were his. He'd surrendered himself to you long ago, under the whim of your heart and soul.

Tugging on the reins of the horse, he spurred the horse into action, every new step a promise to you.

We're going to be okay.

[powdermelonkeg]

Gale of Waterdeep assorted headcanons: 2

Headcanons 1 here, Tower layout here

He overshares when he's drunk. It's a good look into how his brain works, but he has a 50/50 chance of putting his foot in his mouth

He has a handful of custom spells, one of those being an illusory campsite. Gale's Minor Mirage, he calls it. You're welcome!

The stitch scar on his neck is from being held at knifepoint by a particularly opportunistic thief. Said thief got hit with a lightning bolt

His spellbook is beautifully scripted to the untrained eye, but contains additional notes written in invisible ink. He presents himself as neat and tidy, but his real scribblings are anything but

While inflicted with the Netherese Orb, his blood leaves rashes on other people wherever it touches. Not severe ones, but it doesn't feel pleasant. Like a mild sunburn

Quothe (the raven familiar) is his. It's named that because it loves to listen to Gale read literature (and occasionally recite lines where he leaves off)

He owns a fancy lanceboard set; it was a housewarming gift from his parents when he first got his tower

When he was little, he used to wear a ribbon as a headband to pull his hair back with, and a cape. His hair was fluffy and fell to his chin

His favorite color is blue, but he thinks he looks more refined in purple. His mother thinks he looks most dashing in red

His favorite hobby is helping Tara adapt spells with somatic components for tressym use

His first staff was a Sun Staff, gifted to him by Elminster

His most recent staff was a Staff of Power

Both of these, he had to consume. It was a very, very hard choice to make

Other things he's had to destroy that he cared for dearly:

Emerald Pen (left over from days at the academy; worse that it wasn't worth it, as it didn't give him more than a few hours)

Chromatic Rose (given by a lover upon breakup)

Duplicitous Manuscript (The Art of the Night is one of these)

Needle of Mending (kept it on his person after the thief incident)

Wand of Enemy Detection (carried it with him on excursions with Tara)

Wayfarer's Boots (his favorite travel pair)

Arcane Grimoire (one of his first found artifacts, copied a few spells from it into his own book)

Candle of Invocation (a gift from Mystra)

Crystal Ball of Telepathy (Tara used it more than he did; her little paws can't cast Sending)

Songbird Sage's Signet (wore it everywhere, only used in a pinch; he misses the weight of it and rubs his finger occasionally)

Crown of Whirling Comets (wore it to the Blackstaff annual balls, partly to show off)

The 6th level spell Program Illusion is what appears during his Death Protocol. As it needs to be tied to an area within 30 feet of where it's assigned, it's what his briefs are enchanted with. His reasoning is that he'd always have them, and no one would take them off him while dead

When he's panicked, he burns through the magical item he fed the Orb with faster. That's why he puts such a weight on keeping calm

The reason you have 2 days to resurrect him before exploding, and why he can still live for a bit if you don't give him an item immediately, is because without careful management, it consumes HIM. He has 2 days worth of magic to his person

He doesn't like to turn people down outright. To him, the gentlemanly thing to do is to go on a first date to indulge whomever asked. He's had a lot of first dates

He's been accused of using Enchantment as to why he's so dashing once or twice. It absolutely stoked his ego around his looks

Quipper fish and hundur sauce is the dish he's most proud of, but his favorite is a good slow roast

He'll make illusory ceilings for dates with starry skies and auroras. Maybe floating candles if he's feeling fancy. Yes that extends to the bedroom

If left to his own devices, he will relax in a bath for HOURS. Tara thinks he falls asleep in there (she can't prove anything)

Before the orb, he and his mother had a pseudo-competitive exchange of cookware. They'd take turns making the most ELABORATE dishes in the same fancy glass pan, and send it back and forth trying to outdo each other. Whenever one showed up with the pan, it would always be with a healthy seasoning of smug satisfaction and sweet compliments about the last meal

He likes picnics on the beach. If you show him shells and things he'll happily tell you where they came from

He always dresses just a smidge too warmly for the weather

He can sleep just about anywhere, and frequently does in his tower. It's not good for his back. When Tara finds him, she always tugs a blanket over him

His family symbol is a crescent moon setting in the water

Bonus Tara headcanon: her opal collar is her spellcasting focus

[slutty-transformation-stories]

The Blogger

In a small town where the internet had become the playground of the young and the bored, Maddie, a plump, bubbly teenager, ruled the social media scene. Her blog, "Chubby Unicorns," was a breath of fresh air, a digital sanctuary for girls like her who didn't conform to the waifish beauty standards of their peers. She posted selfies, videos, and motivational quotes, all with the same message: love your body, love yourself. Her followers grew like a well-fed garden, each comment and like a droplet of water nurturing her confidence.

Emmie, the school's undisputed queen bee, watched Maddie's rise with a mix of contempt and curiosity. Her own social media was a curated gallery of perfection—thin, toned, and perpetually pouting. Emmie couldn't fathom how someone so...ordinary could amass such a devoted following. Jealousy gnawed at her, a feeling as foreign as kindness. It was a threat to her reign she could not ignore. So, one evening, in the quiet of her room, she rummaged through her mother's dusty bookshelves, her fingers tracing over spines of books long forgotten. Her eyes fell upon an ancient tome titled "The Art of Subtle Envy." A smirk played on her lips as she pulled it out and began to read, the words whispering dark secrets into her ear.

The next day at school, Maddie noticed a peculiar change. Her jeans hung looser, her t-shirt swam around her torso. She felt...lighter. Not just physically, but mentally as well. Her thoughts grew sharper, more critical of those around her. A sneer formed on her lips as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, noticing that her cheekbones had become more prominent. It was the start of a transformation that would not be easily undone.

Her followers began to comment on her sudden weight loss, showering her with praise she hadn't anticipated. The words "you look amazing" and "how did you do it?" flooded her notifications like a river in springtime. The attention was intoxicating, and Maddie felt a strange sense of satisfaction each time she posted a new photo, revealing a slimmer version of herself. Her confidence grew with every pound she shed, but it was a cold, brittle confidence, built on the shaky foundation of others' opinions.

Emmie's eyes narrowed as she watched Maddie's transformation from afar. She had hoped the curse would bring Maddie down, not make her stronger. The blog posts grew fewer and farther between, each one less about self-love and more about flaunting her new figure. The comments sections turned toxic, filled with thinly veiled spite directed at those who hadn't found the same "secret." It was all going according to plan, and yet Emmie couldn't shake the feeling of unease.

Maddie's blog, once a haven of acceptance, now read like a manual for self-loathing. She posted about the joy of fitting into smaller clothes, the thrill of strangers' compliments, and the power of looking "good." Her chubby unicorns grew thinner and fewer, replaced by a flock of ravens, eager for the crumbs of validation she tossed their way. They mimicked her newfound confidence, but it was a mirage, a reflection of the harsh light Emmie had cast upon them.

The comments on her posts grew colder, a stark contrast to the warm embraces they had once been. Maddie reveled in the power she held over her followers, manipulating their emotions with each post. She began to pit them against each other, praising the ones who had shed the most weight, leaving the others feeling like failures in their own skin. The echo of her own insecurity grew louder with each passing day, but she drowned it out with the sound of her own name chanted in adoration.

Her transformation was complete when she posted a picture of herself in a tight, red dress, a look that was pure Emmie. The caption read, "Who needs a crown when you've got confidence?" It was a declaration of war, a silent taunt that sent ripples through the school's social hierarchy. Emmie's followers took notice, their loyalties swaying like a leaf in the wind. The once-chubby girl had become the epitome of what they aspired to be—thin and cruel.

Emmie watched her screen with a sinking feeling as the likes and comments on Maddie's post skyrocketed. The cruel irony of it all was not lost on her. This was what she had wanted, wasn't it? To bring Maddie down, to reclaim her throne? But as she saw her own following wane, she realized the monster she had created. The girl who had once been her prey now had the power to make or break reputations with a simple click.

@corruptedcaps

[vitaminseetarot]

Lenormand PAC: Messages From the Eclipsed Sun 🔆🌑😎

Sup y'all. Welcome to my lil end-of-March reading! Thank you for voting in the polls for April's next PAC topic for the 1 year special, which will be coming up next. Also thank you very, very much once again for participating in my 2nd tarot game! I'm still answering feedback and I'm glad so many of you enjoyed it as I did. I'm looking forward to the next game in summer (possibly a Midsummer game? 🧚‍♀️🐈🎶☀)

I was shuffling my Alchemy Elements deck and noticed that three random cards I pulled out were from the Sun suit (the four suits in this oracle are Moon, Sun, Star, and Earth). I had no topic in mind, so I allowed different mystery messages to come through. These light messages will be relevant to you as you pass through the new moon solar eclipse and all through the next lunar month.

Pick which one of the three sun cards resonates with you:

Flower 💐 Animal 🐎 River 🌊

Pile 1. Flower 💐

Gratitude, Bird of Paradise, Knowledge; Mountain, Astral Travel, Tower, Promise, Garden

The world outside is calling you, pile 1. You can't smell the roses blooming if you keep containing yourself under the roof. The beautiful days want you to explore and wander like a child discovering nature for the first time. Perhaps there are flowers you've never seen up close, maybe it's been a while since nature gave you new things to learn and marvel. Botanical gardens are filled with surprises, as are concrete cracks in the city.

Your hands seem too easily tied up in the working world, fulfilling task after task as if every day was meant to be the same. I see a person staring outside their cubicle, wondering when they'll find the time to make it to the park. Wondering when they'll be able to go to that fair, or practice surf lessons. Wondering, hoping, dreaming of the day when the walls can come down, and there will be no separation between daily life and the life filled with endless creative possibilities, waiting to be picked and weaved into crowns.

The path is neither just up ahead, nor light years away; it's right in front of you now. Accept the moment you find yourself in, even if it's impossible, because the surprises you are looking for are already surrounding you. It may feel like you have to climb far to see any hope of change, but you're asked to find stillness and beauty hidden within the climb. Even if you're not wandering through a field of wildflowers yet, there may be chance blossoms within your reach. Be thankful for the present peace you find. Ivy wraps around ivory walls; nature will find a way to you.

Wherever you intend to go, you may need to leave behind the opinions of others that don't help or encourage you. Let them have their perspectives, for they have their own paths to walk. You have yours waiting just outside the door. The light outside may overwhelm you, but it beckons you to appreciate what it has in store for you. So much more awaits you. But what you have today is just as beautiful.

Pile 2. Animal 🐎

Balance, Lenten Rose, Insight; Letter, Mirage, Heart, Bouquet, Moon

I hope the sun brings you brighter days, pile 2. There are friends (including animal friends!) who want to bask under the warm luminous skies with you. This time encourage us to stretch our arms out, walk with an extra skip, and enjoy what tomorrow has in store. However, there is anxiety keeping you held in, preventing you from racing ahead. You are being called to expand, move your body, and find ways to embrace joyful freedom more.

Before email and mail trucks were a thing, we had pony mail, which could take weeks to arrive to your mailbox. The information you're receiving doesn't match up to the reality you're soon living in. By the time you're reading the newspaper you have, another one will be on its way, contradicting the one in your hands. Reading over and over can help us feel ready to take on the world, but does it? Or is it keeping you in a loop of confirming news that confirms the news that conforms to the news you're expecting?

Newsflash: the most important place, the space that occurs before it's recorded in the papers, is the place your attention should focus on. If you can meet up with your friends in person, try hanging out with them outside of chatting online. Allow yourself to experience life alongside someone, to feel the wind in your hair as they drive; if you have a pet, spend an afternoon with them on a long walk. A friendly person who can help you desires connection.

Life is a mix of bright and sunny days, mixed with cloudy and rainy days. There are days to be serious and days to be goofy. There are times to stay at home online and times to go out with others. There are moments to feel sadness and worry, and moments of humor and happiness. Take it easy on yourself, pile 2, and whatever topic has you fixated on it, allow yourself the chance to step outside, walk away, and feel the light of the sun and moon on your face.

Pile 3. River 🌊

Desire, Cyclamen, Reminiscence; Tree, Protection, Animus, Star, Crossroads

It's okay to not know everything about your path ahead, pile 3. You may be figuring things out as you go along, without any set marker. You're being reminded that whatever path you take, things will turn out okay. Many twists and turns can make a long river, but you will be prepared. It's safe to keep moving in the flow with the currents. When the rolling waves seem slow and steady, it's best to ride along with it, for you have more time than you think to row through.

At times you may desire to keep your boat docked, unable to leave the shore and its many amenities. You may look back on what you used to love (or perhaps found addicting) and wish it were easier to wave it away. Don't be afraid to take souvenirs with you, to remind you of the good times you had. It'll make the transition smoother for when it's time to depart to your next destination. Big changes often require carrying things lightly.

Your north star is shining its beacon out to you. To find it, you must make it; to make it, you must find it. You must set your course by getting clear on where you most want to go. No one else can make this choice for you, for it's your unique trip. The map is with you, provided to you by years of experience and growth. There may be many different distractions, and it's okay to stop to them first just to explore instead of making it to the end goal right away. It's all part of your grand adventure, and the many secrets and surprises make it all the more exciting..

When there's a wish, there's a way. You have the drive within you to set sail towards your greatest yearning in life. Even if it doesn't seem it, you are able to channel the bravery and passion from within. When the skies are dark and you cannot navigate with the stars, you can look to the light beaming out from your soul to find your own way.

This reading has not been evaluated by the FDA to diagnose, prevent, treat, or cure any disease or infection. Please ask your physician before going online.

2024, @VitaminseeTarot ™