#Moccasins of sin

[bladders-gate-three]

THE SAGA OF THE SPITEBOOTS CONTINUES

@orevet @morbidsparkles @todderwodders

[homeofthelonelywriter]

Let's call it Fate | Part 2

(A/N) Probably a bit of a boring chapter, I apologize. But I'm excited for Primo's relationship with the Reader to evolve.

Pairing: Cardinal Copia x Reader (no Y/N)

Warning: google translate translations, abusive parents (especially mother), arranged marriage, age gap, bullying, talk of grandparents and death of a grandparent

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13

Once in your room, a relieved sigh escaped you. This would be your safe haven for the next few months, your safe space. And you were sure you were going to need it.

While you were standing there, your back against the door, your eyes swept across the room. The furniture was simple. A wooden desk with a wooden chair to match. Above the desk were a few shelves, mostly unoccupied, but with a few books already on them. There was also a desk lamp, along with a college block and a few pens. Everything was ready for classes to begin.

On the other side of the room was a large wooden wardrobe, more than enough space for the few clothes you brought. Between the wardrobe and the desk sat a simple wooden desk with a mattress, pillow and blanket, all covered in black linen. Not something you’d necessarily chose, but it looked very comfy. Of course there was also a nightstand, with another lamp on it. And opposite the bed, a large mirror hung on the wall. Together with your habit.

You pushed off of the door and reached out, letting your fingers run over the fabric. It was soft, comfortable. Not too thick or too thin. Carefully, you pulled it off the hanger and laid it out on the bed, admiring it for a second. When you had heard of the uniform, the habit, the first thing you thought of was what nuns wore in Catholic churches. And this was similar, but so much better.

It was a form fitting, black dress that reached just above the knees. The fabric that covered above the chest and down the arms was made of a black, see-through material. The dress was beautiful to say the least. It didn’t feel like a habit or a uniform, it just felt like a dress and all you wanted in that moment, was to try it on. You reached down, and pulled your shirt over your head, but then you hesitated. You…smelt.

With a sigh, you pulled the shirt back down, deciding that you needed a shower before you could change. You quickly grabbed one of the suitcases, the one that contained all your necessities and moved to the door on the other side of the room. As you expected, it lead into a small bathroom with a toilet, a sink and a shower. Everything you’d need.

You quickly opened the suitcase and took out everything you’d need, before tying your hair up and stripping. After turning the shower on, you waited for a few moments, before you checked the temperature and once it was warm enough, you stepped under the water and let it wash away everything that happened that day. The goodbyes, the tears, the pain and the regret.

You couldn’t change what had happened, no use in worrying about it now. All you could do was make the best of it and enjoy your time here. Maybe even make some new friends.

You finished your shower as quickly as you could, not wanting to waste too much time in there. Time that you could spend exploring. Once you jumped out, you dried off, let down your hair and applied some cream. Then you made your way back to your room and put on the dress, admiring yourself in the mirror for a second or two. After all pride is one of the deadly sins, why not indulge in it for a bit?

Once you had your fill, you pulled on the black moccasins and stepped out the door. On the way out, you checked for a lock, but didn’t find one. Apparently there was a lost of trust in the Ministry. The feeling of leaving all your belongings in an unlocked room made you feel uneasy, but there was nothing you could do about it in the moment. So you decided to explore instead.

With quick steps, you left the dorm area, taking random lefts and rights. You didn’t care where you were going, you just wanted to look around. While exploring, you passed numerous siblings of sin, as well as Ghouls, but no one stopped to talk to you or stopped you. So at least you weren’t wandering into some sort of restricted area.

After about half an hour, you suddenly found yourself outside. You must’ve reached the backyard, since you didn’t see this area when you arrived. And good lord below, was it a massive backyard. Miles of grass with fields and a large greenhouse. And where the grass ended, a forest began, probably still part of the Ministry.

You slowly made your way towards the greenhouse, curious as to what was being kept inside. Once there, you noticed that the door was slightly ajar. At least you wouldn’t have any issues getting inside. And you were glad you decided to explore it. The tables along the glass walls were lined with flowers, both local and exotic. It almost looked (and felt) like you were in the middle of the jungle. Further back, in a different section, you found all kinds of different fruits and vegetables. And…strawberries. And they were ripe. You let your fingers trail over one that looked especially delicious when a voice suddenly startled you.

“Please, take one and try it. They are especially delicious this year.”

You spun around and came face to face with an elderly man. If it weren’t for the paint on his face, you would’ve thought that he was any old member of the Ministry, but he wasn’t. He was Papa Primo.

“Papa.”

You quickly bowed your head in respect, but raised it once you heard him chuckle.

“Please, no need for formalità. It is rare that someone visits me down here, so I’m just happy.”

Your heart melted at his words and you immediately had to think of your grandfather. He passed a few years ago, but Papa Primo reminded you a lot of him. Wise and kind with understanding eyes. It felt as if you could trust him with all your secrets, with your problems and deepest thoughts.

“Are you lonely?”

The question escaped you before you could stop yourself. But he just chuckled again.

“I don’t think anyone ever asked me that question…but you could say that I’m lonely. Not always in a bad way, but sometimes I really want some company.”

You nodded, finally picking the strawberry. As well as a second one. With slow steps you walked over to Papa Primo and held out the second strawberry.

“Do you want some company now?”

With a gentle smile, Papa Primo took the strawberry from your fingers and nodded, nodding towards a set of chairs and a small table. You sat down with him and as if you were holding champagne flutes, you gently knocked the strawberries together in a cheer, before you both bit into them.

You groaned as the sweetness filled your mouth, a smile spreading on your lips. You even had to cup your free hand under your chin to catch the juice escaping your mouth. Papa Primo chuckled at your reaction and took another bite.

“Told you they were good.”

You chuckled and nodded in agreement, quickly finishing the rest of your strawberry.

“How do you get them to become so sweet? We had strawberries back where I lived, but they never tasted as good as these.”

“It sounds uh…cheesy but, cura e amore. Care and love is all that plants need to grow.”

You smiled and nodded. Although the staff at your parent’s house was dedicated, they didn’t have the time and energy to care for the plants that way. But Papa Primo had all the time in the world to care about his plants. And judging by the greenhouse, he truly did care.

As soon as the man noticed that you had finished your strawberry, he slowly got to his feet.

“You looked starved, let’s get you some more food. I have plenty of frutta you can try.”

You immediately jumped to your feet.

“Oh no, please. I-I can grab it on my own, you don’t have to, really-”

Papa Primo just waved you off.

“I can’t sit still for too long anyway. My muscoli start protesting if I do.”

You nod in understanding and follow him, as he grabs a small basket and wanders towards the fruit section of the greenhouse. Once the two of you had filled the basket to the brim with different fruit, you returned to the chairs and started snacking while you talked.

You expected him to immediately ask you if you were one of the new people. The students. But he didn’t mention it with a single word, instead treating you like any other person. Knowing that being a new person will define you for the next few months, him not acknowledging the fact was refreshing. Instead you talked about Satan and the world. And before you knew it…dinner had already started.

As soon as you noticed that, you jumped to your feet, frantic.

“Shit, shit, shit. I’m late. Cardinal Copia empathised that we have to be punctually for dinner.”

Papa Primo, once again, slowly got to his feet.

“Don’t you worry. All will be forgiven if you accompany me to the mess hall. We’ll just blame it on my vecchie ossa.”

Your anxiety quickly dissipated at his carefree nature and with a smile, offered him your arm. And he was right, his pace was slow, making you even later to dinner. But with him by your side you didn’t feel nervous, you felt safe. The kind of safe only a grandparent could make one feel.

So, you slowly made your way to the mess hall. And to be honest, you were glad that Papa Primo was with, because you would have had no idea how to get back there alone. Instead, he slowly lead you through the halls, elbow interlocked with yours.

Once you stood in front of the doors to the mess hall, he stopped and looked at you with a crooked grin.

“You ready to face the wrath of Copia?”

You chuckle, squirming next to the old man.

“Don’t tease me like that.”

He joined in your chuckle, before calming down and pushing the doors open. Immediately, the noises stopped and it felt as if every soul in that hall looked at you. But Papa Primo didn’t acknowledge it, so neither did you. Instead, you slowly helped him to his seat.

“Thank you, cara. I appreciate the help.”

You smiled at Papa Primo, before bowing your head in respect towards him, as well as his siblings and the rest of the people sitting at the head table. As you walked away, you quickly glanced at the Cardinal, finding him already looking at you, a kind smile on his face.

Translations: formalità...formailties cura e amore...care and love frutta...fruits muscoli...muscles vecchie ossa...old bones cara...dear

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[longliveblackness]

On June 10, 1966, Ben Chester White went about his morning routine. He headed off to work not knowing that the day would be his last day alive. White, a 67-year-old black plantation worker, was employed at Cooper Hill Plantation. It was the same plantation at which he worked his entire life, as well as the same at which his grandparents worked as slaves.

White was described as a hardworking, humble man that keep himself out of trouble. He was not an open active participant in the civil rights movement, nor was he registered to vote.

That fateful summer day, White was approached by Ernest Avants, James Lloyd Jones, and Claude Fuller; the three men offered White $2 and a soda in the exchange for his help to find their dog. White agreed to help the men, but as he was smart to the southern ways, he knew the white men were up to no good.

The men lured White into Pretty Creek in the Homochitto National Forest of Natchez, Mississippi. The plan was to murder White so that the publicity would draw Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. to Natchez to be assassinated. However, White's death went unnoticed and unpunished; King never visited Natchez, nor did he publically discuss White's murder.

When White's body was found, it was riddled with bullet holes.

Police connected his death with an abandoned, shot up, and burned car that was discovered, which belonged to James Lloyd Jones.

Jones confessed to the murder, telling the police that when they shot White, his brains "went all over the place." Jones explained that "Fuller shot White with a machine gun," and Avants "blew his head off."

Avants was already suspected of having ties with the Klan; he refused to talk about his Klan affiliation. Rumors had it that the three men were members of the Cottonmouth Moccasin Gang, a faction of the White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan.

The three murderers went to trial separately. Jones was tried first. He confessed his role and expressed repentance; the jury was deadlocked. Avants was acquitted; his defense was Fuller had already killed White, so Avants' additional shots had no effect. Fuller claimed health problems and was able to avoid trial.

In 1968, Jesse White, Ben Chester's son, sued the KKK for his father's death.

The judge ruled in his favor and awarded $1 million. While this ruling set a precedent, being the first time that the Klan, is held responsible, Jesse and his family never received compensation.

•••

El 10 de junio del año 1966, Ben Chester White siguió con su rutina matutina. Se dirigió al trabajo sin saber que ese sería su último día con vida. White, de 67 años, era un trabajador de plantación, trabajaba en Cooper Hill Plantation. Era la misma plantación en la que trabajó toda su vida, también era la misma en la que sus abuelos habían trabajado como esclavos.

White fue descrito como un hombre humilde y trabajador que se mantenía alejado de los problemas. No fue un participante activo abierto durante el movimiento de los derechos civiles, tampoco estaba registrado para votar.

Ese fatídico día de verano, Ernest Avants, James Lloyd Jones y Claude Fuller se acercaron a White; los tres hombres le ofrecieron a White $2 y un refresco a cambio de su ayuda para encontrar a su perro. White accedió a ayudar a los hombres, pero como sabía sobre las costumbres sureñas, sabía que los hombres blancos no tramaban nada bueno.

Los hombres llevaron a White a Pretty Creek en el Bosque Nacional Homochitto de Natchez, Mississippi. El plan era asesinar a White para que la publicidad atrajera al Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. a Natchez para ser asesinado. Sin embargo, la muerte de White pasó desapercibida e impune; King nunca visitó Natchez, ni discutió públicamente el asesinato de White.

Cuando se encontró el cuerpo de White, estaba lleno de agujeros de bala.

La policía conectó su muerte con un automóvil abandonado, baleado y quemado, que pertenecía a James Lloyd Jones.

Jones confesó el asesinato y le dijo a la policía que cuando le dispararon a White, su cerebro "se descontroló". Jones explicó que "Fuller le disparó a White con una ametralladora" y Avants "le voló la cabeza".

Avants ya era sospechoso de tener vínculos con el Klan; se negaba a hablar sobre su afiliación al Klan. Los rumores decían que los tres hombres eran miembros de Cottonmouth Moccasin Gang, una facción de los Caballeros Blancos del Ku Klux Klan.

Los tres asesinos fueron a juicio por separado. Jones fue juzgado primero. Confesó su papel y expresó arrepentimiento; el jurado estaba estancado. Avants fue absuelto; su defensa era que Fuller ya había matado a White, por lo que los disparos adicionales de Avants no surtieron efecto. Fuller alegó problemas de salud y pudo evitar el juicio.

En 1968, Jesse White, el hijo de Ben Chester, demandó al Ku Klux Klan por la muerte de su padre.

El juez falló a su favor y otorgó $ 1 millón. Aunque este fallo sentó un precedente, siendo la primera vez que se responsabilizaba al Klan, Jesse y su familia nunca recibieron compensación.

[poeticarnis]

And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, counting this row and that row of moccasins waiting on the silent shelf.

—Anne Sexton, You, Doctor Martin; The Complete Poems

[socklickersworld]

BIG SLOPPY OLD SOFT SOLED MOCCASINs AND VERY NOTICEABLE SOCKS. THERE IS NO SIN LIKE A MOCCASIN!

[6peaches]

Gerardo Azpiri Iglesias - Peach Vodka in Sodom

I thought about him in my bed—sober— when images of sunsets in Tel Aviv and Louis Vuitton moccasins at bar mitzvahs

could’ve appeared in my head but didn’t. I remembered the cold nights when I kissed him, how he made me feel as if I had brimstone

for blood. Pain came back in Shabbats with the memory of his skin on my Ferragamo belt. Leather and flesh, that’s all there ever was—all there’ll ever be.

I knew it even then but I liked it, and wanted more. Even the rabbi’s words in the synagogue tempted my tongue to sell him my soul. My father believed

that I was a good boy. That I read the Torah, that I didn’t eat pork, and that I never bit any apples. Instead, we swallowed liters of peach-flavored

poison. But he never knew about that. He never knew anything about that night. Not about the bad lamb kebab we threw into my neighbor’s backyard,

nor about the bottle of limoncello he bought in Milan, and how we took shots from it. Not about the laughter in the kitchen, not about the boy

teaching me that Versace cologne had more uses other than to smell like my daddy’s wallet. There were no embers left in my heart

so I called it nothing. But of course it wasn’t nothing. I floated on the Dead Sea and the red buoys in the distance looked like crosses. I tried gulping the water,

and I thought about him in my bed, unable to move, unable to unsee the sins I’d committed. And it was then that Lot’s wife and I began to share a certain thought:

the most unbearable part of becoming a pillar of salt is that we have to keep looking back, long after the flames have been extinguished.

[spiritsoulandbody]

#DailyDevotion Cling To God In Love & Know His Name

#DailyDevotion Cling To God In Love & Know His Name Psalm 91 9If you have made the LORD, who is my Refuge, the Most High, your Home, 10He will not let any harm come to you or disaster come near your home, 11because He orders His angels to be with you and protect you everywhere you go. 12They will carry you in their hands and not let you stub your foot against a stone. 13You will step on a lion or a cobra and trample on a young lion or a serpent. Quite a promise. Chances are, we don't always make the LORD our Refuge and our Home, which is why we get into so much trouble. Of course there are also those times when we do, the LORD tests us to purify and strengthen our faith. I think overall, the LORD does do this. We have no idea how many arrows of the adversary are pointed and shot at us throughout the day and the LORD sends His holy angels to guard and protect us. This is one of those passages that teach we have guardian angels who look after us. I'm pretty sure while growing up I must have had a legion looking after me. I was such a mess. There weren't too many lions living around me, though there were black panthers, alligators, water moccasins and copperheads. Who knows how many were kept from biting me in the woods or taking a chunk out of me while swimming in the bayous. Here again we have those words, machseh-Refuge and mâ‛ı̂yn-Home or Dwelling place. The LORD really wants us to take these words to heart and look to Him as such in every aspect of our lives. In all things, He wants to be our God. But we are not to test Him with these promises. The devil tried to use this verse to tempt Jesus to fall from the pinnacle of the temple to prove He was the Son of God, in whom these promises are most manifest in. Jesus refused to be tempted to test the LORD's promises here. We are called just to live out our daily lives trusting in Jesus for all good things and living our life because He does not lie. 14“Because he clings to Me in love, I will rescue him and put him in a safe high place, because he knows My name. 15When he calls Me, I will answer him, be with him in trouble, rescue him, and honor him. 16With a long life I will satisfy him; and have him drink his fill of My salvation.” The LORD responds in these verses having heard Moses' words which precede. Jesus is the fulfillment of these words. He is the one who clings to the LORD in love. He is the one who knows the LORD's name. He is the one who called upon the LORD when He was in trouble, that is crucified, dead and buried and who was rescued from the grave by resurrecting Him to eternal life seating Him at His right hand. When we are baptized into Christ Jesus and we cling to Him in love, know, we too have been placed by the LORD in the heavenly places (Eph. 2). Through faith in Jesus we begin to know the name of the LORD which is mercy, kindness, steadfast love, forgiveness and discipline when we sin. Our Father in heaven hears us when we call upon him and answers our prayers, rescues and honors us just as He did to His Only-begotten Son, Jesus Christ. He will resurrect us from the grave on the Last Day and give eternal life to us. He will bring us into that Promised Land, the New Heavens and New Earth where righteousness reigns. This is not a promise to not have crosses, trials and tribulations in our lives—Jesus has promised we will share in His suffering in this life. However, just as He was gloried we too shall be gloried. They will have no long lasting effects upon us when we make the LORD our Refuge and Home. Heavenly Father, ever give us the faith of Jesus that we may make You our Home and Refuge, that we may love and cling to You in all our life, that we may see Your promises to us in Christ Jesus fulfilled when we are raised from the dead even as He was raised from the dead. In Jesus' name we pray. Amen. Read the full article

[novastellavox]

There's a type of snake called a Water Moccasin...

They commit sins by watering down their mochas

[italystation]

Tod"s t buckle gommino loafers XXW00G0CY765J1 Nero - See details & discounted price here: https://tinyurl.com/tck8lqa

[sleepythug]

taylor swift nailed to a cross atoning for her sins - using a private jet liberally to pickup her nonfat chai latte mocha frappa two pumps of french vanilla intravenous drip, and to get to her hot yoga classes taught by a tupac hologram: 😔 😔 😔

every other celebrity driving one of their 7 different hummers, running an underground sweatshop that makes biodegradable moccasins, having a backyard mass gravesite because of their midget fight club operation: 🤣🤣🤣

[solradguy]

would be an easy choice, and someone else is probably going to do it, so how about Ky?

No Sol for the Sol blogger 🥺🥺🥺🥺 jk Ky's good haha

⚡ Overall opinion of them:

Tbh I really didn't like Ky when I first got into Guilty Gear because he was the "stick in the mud law abiding citizen" guy at first glance, but his lore is so complex and his character is a lot deeper than that now that I know him better. He's probably not in my top 5 favorite GG characters or anything, though I don't dislike him. He's neat. I'm looking forward to getting to work on his novel and learning more about him.

⚡ Gender/sexuality headcanons:

It's hilariously easy to make gay jokes about him and Sol because of the official art from X thru XX but, if I had to put Ky on the Kinsey scale, I think he'd be either a 1 or 2. Straight for the most part with the occasional gay/bi moment. I also think that if you asked Ky about his sexuality (assuming the person asking him was someone he was comfortable opening up with) he wouldn't have an answer right away, like sex/sexualities aren't something he dedicates a lot of time thinking about. Heteroflexible-romantic with asexual leanings, or something like that? He would NEVER. EVER. even SLIGHTLY consider cheating on Dizzy.

⚡ Favorite moment in canon:

It was raw af the first time I watched the Xrd story and Elphelt shoots him and he just gets back up because he had the Gear stuff going on at that point. I think that was the scene where my opinion of him started changing because him being a Gear went against like EVERYTHING I thought I knew about him up til then.

⚡ Favorite moment in a fanwork:

I'm gonna skip this question because I don't read fanfiction and don't really have anything to put for it dngkd

⚡ Favorite line, in canon or otherwise:

The change in Ky's match dialog with Sol throughout the series is really cool. Starting with Missing Link, his dialog has a lot of self-doubt in it up until about Rev where he starts getting some confidence in himself: [ML] "Sol! Why did you hold back!? Am I not worthy..?" [X] "That look you're giving me...I feel as if I haven't won." [Xrd] "Sol... Victory is mine." [Strive] "You were supposed to give it your all."

With the Strive quote especially, he says the line with a lot of force/annoyance, not in a way where he doesn't feel like he deserves to have won. I know this isn't like a single quote/what this prompt asks for, I just really like this part of his character development.

⚡ Characters I love seeing them interact with:

Sol, obviously lmfao. I have to admit that I'm not really familiar with his interactions with many of the other characters... It would be interesting seeing some healing with his relationship with Sin in the future.

⚡ Last thing before sleeping headcanons:

Oh you just know this man's got a whole bedtime ritual haha. Brushed teeth, mouthwash, face wash, and a quick comb through his hair before bed. Maybe he reads a little from a (non-work related) book before lights out too.

⚡ Sleeping habits headcanons:

I can imagine Ky's bed and pillows being so perfectly comfortable that he doesn't move like at all once he gets into it. I do think he owns multiple pairs of matching light blue and white pajamas with his initials monogrammed onto the chest pocket, though (and comfortable soft brown leather house moccasins).

⚡ First thing after waking up headcanons:

Good morning smooch for Dizzy <3 Ky seems like the kind of person who wakes up and then immediately gets dressed and ready for the day, but also skips breakfast and has only coffee more often than he'd like to admit...

⚡ Favorite locations headcanon:

Hmm... I don't know Ky well enough to get a feel for the kinds of locations he seems like he would enjoy... Maybe sneaking down to the farmer's market with Dizzy when he can to buy little baked treats that he normally can't get the chefs at the Illyria castle to make? He seems like he might enjoy walks in nature parks too but doesn't ever have the time to get away to go on one...

[creature-wizard]

Stratford positions herself as someone who is qualified to help abuse victims through their struggles due to her personal experiences. She says:

Then I think of you who are longing to identify with someone who knows and understands the hell you're living in. The old Indian proverb says it well: "Don't criticize me until you've walked a mile in my moccasins." Friend, I've walked in your shoes. I've lived through your hell. I can honestly look at you straight in the eye and say, "I know what you're going through, and I know what you're feeling."

What. A. Ghoul.

She claims that:

"Oh dear Jesus," I cried out, "I don't care who's to blame. It doesn't matter anymore. I don't want to hide behind the word 'victim' any longer." Even as I said that one sentence, I began to feel a burden lift from my heart.

Crying out from the deepest part of my soul, I asked the Lord to forgive. "Lord, for everyone who has abused me, I forgive them. And especially for everything I have done that has been sinful and displeasing in Your sight, please forgive me."

Finally I asked the Lord to forgive me of things I had only blamed on everyone else. My dear friends, I cannot begin to describe the incredible peace that flooded my soul. For the first time in my life I felt that there was nothing that anyone could hold against me.

So! Lauren Stratford totally understands you, survivors! She wants you to know that you just need to get over your victim mentality now! You just need to forgive your abusers! You have to stop blaming everyone else for your problems!

Of course, it's entirely unsurprising that someone who lied about her history of abuse has such awful "advice."

It would seem that Stratford wanted to live in a world where she could dismiss other people's struggles and suffering, and just not have to think about it, much less actually deal with it. "Oh, you're just playing the victim, you just need to forgive your enemies and get right with God" is the kind of rhetoric that's often been used to dismiss both personal difficulties and systemic inequalities. How many financial or business cults use some variation of this? How many Black people have been told this by white conservatives?

Once again, the only good thing I can say about this woman is, at least she's dead. The world is better off without her.

(CW: This post is talking about exposed fraud Lauren Stratford/Laurel Rose Willson's book Satan's Undergound, in which she claimed to have experienced CSE and satanic ritual abuse. There will be some pretty dark topics discussed, so feel free to skip this post/thread if you're not up to it.)

Stratford claims that she started repressing her memories after Victor kicked her out of the cult, though it's not clear exactly how much she's supposedly repressed.

Stratford also claims that many members of the satanic cult had been given spirit guides from Satan, and that while many of them seemed fond enough of their spirit guides, one woman was afraid that her spirit guide would kill her if she ever disobeyed its commands.

She claims that after leaving the cult, the satanists sent her a spirit guide, who took the form of a kindly, motherly woman, who was apparently sent to keep an eye on her and make sure she didn't... do anything the cultists didn't want.

We also have another oddity in the story. Earlier, Stratford had claimed that she'd been given drugs to keep her under the control of the pornographers. But now that she's been sent away from the cult, there's no mention of needing any sort of detox or rehab or anything.

In fact, she claims:

I finally managed to finish my college credits and graduate. I had no trouble getting good jobs. My college work was broad enough to qualify me for a number of professional positions.

Not that she isn't having troubles. Her trauma makes it difficult to work in counseling positions, and for some reason Victor is stalking her, even though... he discarded her?

She claims that:

Obscene phone calls, threatening notes, and the stress and pressure of my latest job would build once again. I also began to feel the inevitable accumulation of the years of physical abuse. I became too tired and was fast becoming too ill to keep running. Finally my body gave out and I was hospitalized.

But yeah, like, the whole drug thing just goes unmentioned here. No mention of withdrawal symptoms or anything.

She claims that she was "hospitalized off and on for treatment of a chronic and life-threatening disorder that was possibly triggered by my years of abuse." Strangely, she doesn't name the disorder, though she mentions that it caused pain. Then she says that the hospital had a social worker take her through guided imagery sessions. During her session, she supposedly remembers some of her repressed childhood memories.

Stratford claims that her spirit guide's behavior changes, becoming abusive and threatening. She basically tries to stop Stratford from uncovering her memories, because this would somehow free her from the cult.

She claims that the process of uncovering her memories leads to severe panic attacks, and blames her speeding on Satan. She reaches the "how can I, a Christian, be unable to deal with this Demon Problem??" stage, which is also a thing that happened in The Satan Seller.

She apparently gets her answer when she learns - for the first time, apparently - that Satan was already defeated at the cross and the only power he has over her is the power she lets him have. Somehow, she apparently missed this one despite her mother taking her to church every Sunday.

Eventually she starts writing and speaking out about her alleged abuse and of course the satanists can't do anything about it because they never existed in the first place because the Lord is protecting her.

Oh, and in the next chapter, Stratford is about to drop some new info about her life in the cult... info that it seems kinda odd she didn't mention before, almost as if she's making shit up as she's going along.

She now claims that she gave birth to three babies while she was in the cult.

[yandere-society]

pjm | “carnal lechery”

pairing: yandere! vampire! jimin x novice nun! virgin! fem. reader

rating: M

genre: yandere au, supernatural (vampire) au, smut, angst

word count: 10.5K

Headline: Halloween Night Massacre; Police Baffled By Murdering Spree

warnings: yandere themes, dub con, angst, graphic sexual content, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, oral (m.rec & f.rec), bonding, blindfolding, biting, loss of virginity, virginal blood worship, overstimulation, use of feathers and chains, mentions of blood, graphic descriptions of slaughtering, mentions of religious cults, mentions of christianity, mentions of sacrifices, gore.

synopsis: Attempts to precede his arrival made you ornery as he slipped like thin air from your fingers, even when you’d have him so close. You had almost ultimately fixated in your mind that you’d never know your secret admirer. Meanwhile— mysterious murders, disappearances and uproars about the return of the most fabled coven of vampires: ❛The Rouge❜ leads you to expect your imminent death. However, you do not expect the turn of events and the appearance of the one you’d been seeking for.

admin: @unfurlingtwinklingstar​

It was one of those macabre mornings when you’d find an oh-so-familiar garland at your doorstep.

The very same kind of flowers that you’d prefer for decorating your little reading nook with, would lay wrapped in a delicate paper foil. The dew on its petals would appear golden as it would kiss the ray of dawn streaming through the porch of your fern-scented cottage.

A feverish shiver would run through your spine at the sight of a caramel-colored envelope right underneath the lavender foil in anticipation of what this letter would say about you.

It would be hard to persist the laden need to find the giver first when the lovely pink petals would almost frown at your resistance.

You cherished calla lilies. There wasn’t a day when they’d not sit on your vase with their trimmed stems soaked in lukewarm water, smiling as they bloom.

Every Friday, this was to be expected. Yet, you weren’t fully comfortable with the handwritten cursive that’d make your fingers slack at its message.

The meander cursive masked the obscene descriptions of your curves, the filth in the mind of the writer was impeccably reflected in the flow of the dark ink.

The first time you had gotten such a letter, you had a recurred session reading it with obscure scrutiny, only to find the title ‘Third youngest of the Rouge’ in the sender name column.

The letters had chanted your name like a prayer, it’d beckon for you to have a taste of the kind of pleasure that you were trying to celibate yourself from, the kind that’d be a sin to indulge in.

It made your body thrice warmer, your body blazed into a pretty rouge like the robes you wore during service hours in the church.

Eroticism and romance were taboo subjects to conventuals and canonesses at the convent of Volterra. Being a novice in service to the almighty, you were taught to be a holy carmelite, a slender benedictine, devoted especially to scholarship and liturgical worship.

But the intimate descriptions highlighted the black traces of sin in the depths of your soul as if the devil awaited his chance to stand erect and applaud in sheer satisfaction at the sight of your crumbling control.

Sucking in shaky breaths, you grab hold of the stirrer and kindle the crackling flames dancing in your fireplace.

Without a second thought, you toss the expensive pieces of poetry into the topaz flames and watch as the fire comes to life and blazes the parchment to ashes.

You were considered too much of a vestal to submit to this admirer of yours.

The choirs at the convent church were different compared to other choirs that didn’t sing hymns. Their voices were almost like the angels’, high notes soaring over the clouds, graceful notes dancing on the staves, they sang for the almighty only.

This was halloween at the monestery. Whilst the town wore spooky robes and went around sharing treats in exchange of spared tricks, you sang along with your fellow sisters, honouring the almighty and paying tribute to saint Marcus.

You sang along, keeping a low voice and swaying to the gentlest harmony in devotion. The stanzas are clutched to your heart and you cherish this moment when you feel the string between you and your god. You cannot fathom how satiated you feel. Your mind strays to your past, when you were under foster care.

You were a doting, little child despite how the other girls prayed for a future where they can possess expensive goods and glittery jewelry. You only kept away from their notions of want and sinful desires for pleasure even as you became an adult.

You chose to bake cookies, share blankets, study the Bible, smile and croon at the praises the church would give you, rather than read obscene novels and join the young woman of your age in subjects that were atrocious in the eyes of the holy.

Sister Siena walked you to your dwelling at the convent’s residence while she chattered about her moss garden and herbs that could treat flu. You listened quietly, letting out little nonchalant hums. Gardening wasn’t a subject of your interest and you were much more fatigued to feign enthusiasm.

“The halloween rituals might probably need an addition of prune juice, don’t you think?” she asks while you unlock the latch and walk into your home.

You let out a small smile and usher her in whilst nodding to everything in your surroundings. A little envelope peeks out from the gap between the floor and the hallway door, making your chest tighten at the realisation.

A letter from your mystery admirer was unforeseen and definitely unwelcome, especially in the presence of a fellow nun in your dwelling.

The attention of sister Siena is brought back at the sight of a cream-coloured envelope with a rather unfamiliar stamp on its surface.

Her olive eyes narrow to two slits and makes perspiration bead out and down your clavicle in fear. In the blink of an eye, the envelope’s seal is torn and the letter is perused by the chestnut haired female at once.

Her response however, gives you a cursory shock. Her lips turn into a smile and she stares up at you, eyes in awe as if she had witnessed the grand work of Caravaggio.

“You have an admirer”, she infers and you scour her face for signs of offense only, to find nil. She seems rather, glad.

“I— I usually burn them there” you point to your fireplace and her shoulders buckle in a brief fit of giggles, as if you had shared an anecdote.

“Who would pray to have a vestal nun? It is like counting the stars.” she mumbles into her mug of tea, eyes flickering from your face to the letter, absent-mindedly.

You shrug and get seated opposite to her, straining your eyes on the flickering flames that warms your numb, cold toes. You sigh in bliss at the tranquil frame of your nook and almost the next minute, your eyes flutter shut and you sink into the lulled sounds of the crackling fire.

Unbeknownst to you, the young nun seated at your opposite has her nerves ossified at the glimpse of the sender’s title. Comprehension of ‘third youngest of the rouge’ sends her mind into frenzy. Dismay sinks into her heart and makes it thud and toll like church bells at the realisation of the plight that you have been pulled into and she shudders.

Without so as to even a noise, the letter is slid into her crimson tunic and the envelope is thrown into the fire.

The coolness of the midnight is deceptive; the sun has barely risen and this altitude is always cooler. Siena’s destination is low down and deep into the interior, well away from the onshore winds. When she reaches, the heat of that region makes her compare the temperature to her kitchen’s, on a baking day— like a friendly warmth instead of the inferno it always is.

Her footsteps are ushered as the heels of her moccasins rap against the laid out cream carpet in dull thuds, her breathing is in a frenzy too for, hundreds of thoughts swarm in her head at once.

Siena is cold to the bone despite striding across the blazing heat of the deep, dim chambers of the three elderly canonesses, at the convent. The canonesses— head nuns are rather reserved and hostile about their roles in the society.

Before the 17th century, such chambers were often considered clandestine— precisely, before the battle of Tuscany. The battle held a significant place in history, for how saint Marcus and his veterans fought and impeded entire Tuscany off of sanguinarians— a term used to describe vampires.

The rise and fall of the most fabled coven of vampires was inscribed in the olden scriptures and was forgotten to tell tales about wizards and curses as of the present. Siena had studied about them at school.

The mere image of the counts brings shivers down the woman’s spine and she shudders as she holds onto the letter and walks, toward the canonesses’ chambers.

It is dark when she arrives; gnarled trees hung low over the baronial church, creaking ominously in the howling winds. The heavy oak doors broke open, echoing around the empty church.

The moonlight shone through the heavily cracked stained-glass windows, casting an eerie glow onto the dusty alter. Thick cobwebs hung on every surface and her footsteps sounded deafening on the cold stone floor.

Two elder ladies sit perched on their carpeted thrones with their veils over their heads and backs turned toward Siena. They hold hands in a circle and mutter chants to themselves.

Siena’s eyes capture the silent movements of their fingers and the incessant nods of their heads. She gently walks— almost stalks, until one of the elder canonesses perk at her arrival and seek her to sit with them.

The chamber walls radiate off its warmth and the conversation is lulled as Siena breathes out her concerns with utter respect, her expression remains composed despite her rapid breathing.

The canonesses nod with eyes widened at the size of fire lanterns, their fingers tremble slightly in comprehension of the magnitude of issue that the young nun had brought to them.

In the next hour, right on the death of halloween, nuns and monks are summoned from the monastery and a ceremony is held right in their place to seek peace once again.

The seven Rouge sanguinarians, the fabled coven of vampires have returned to Volterra.

The four canonesses sit in a circle and one of them draws a circled figure at their center. The symbol seems ominous to Siena, it seems almost like a satanic pentagram. A silver crucifix is fixed right at the junction of the chalked lines and the series of chants begin.

For almost a quarter of a hour, Siena sits— rooted and in the careful look-out for queer changes in the surroundings. The next minute, one of the canonesses jerk as if she had felt a foreign presence and collapses on the canoness next to her.

The chamber queerly begins getting chilled as the chants get more louder in unison. Whooshing noises of the wind soon fills the chamber and an eerie figure settles through the open window, making Siena freeze, petrified.

At the end of the hallway stands a slender yet, robust, almost surreal, young-looking man sheathed in a heavy, scarlet cloak. His eyes are shut, as if he is in deep thought, and once they open, they make Siena jump out of her seat in fear.

Skin almost translucent, a bloodless hue, reminiscent of cave dwelling creatures that never saw the light of day, as pale as the living dead, as pale as a corpse. His bleached skin was as white as a sheet of paper next to the sleeve of the black woolen sweater, his orbs seemed bloodshot, yet, they held a life of their own like the burning rouge of a ruby.

“Third youngest of the Rouge”, Siena hears a canoness announce, the latter’s voice seems both startled and in disbelief.

“Ann. Fancy seeing you there, you seem older than in our last meeting, don’t you agree?”, the young count seethes and takes steps toward the eldest of all the canonesses.

Siena stares at the duo, perplexed. The two seem to know each other like old acquaintances yet, their eyes hold an unexpressed rage that she does not fathom.

“I am afraid greetings will have to wait, Park. You and your brothers must be well aware of the treaty you have broken.” Ann almost hisses, stepping in front of the rest as if she is unafraid to emphasize her point.

The ethereal man quirks an eyebrow at Ann’s actions in disapproval yet, curls one side of his mouth in a smirk, eyes reflecting a certain devilish glint.

“Ah. You accursed humans never seem to learn, do you? Fifty years ago, we made a pact. For our coven to never be disturbed by you humans, in exchange for us to move our grounds”, he accentuates the words and sets his eyes on Siena, making the latter freeze.

“Twenty years ago, there was a lovely young woman with round orbs and curves more enrapturing than the meanders of Tuscany’s hills”,

At the mention, something turns in the face of Ann as it hardens like wilted musk. Park further continues walking and retracing his steps, eyes glued shut and jaws clenched in raw rage.

“She was bonded to one of the youngest counts and the war—” he pauses in his steps with his sculpted back turned toward the canonesses, as he stares blankly ahead, grieved.

“The war, it killed her. She lost her life, she died in vain. She was destroyed by her own race. The pact was shattered broken at that moment, that moment when the light left her bewitching eyes.” he croaks a bit, shoulders slacking as if the memory was his venom.

“She was innocent yet, she was killed. By your people.”

There’s a shadow casted in the slender man’s eyes and it was quite clear. The rage for revenge that was cloaked in it.

Even whilst his back was turned, his head seemed calculative of the canonesses’ immediate response. Ofcourse, humans never seemed to learn.

Ann’s eyes reflect death and almost the next second, she strides forward with the silver crucifix in her hand and tosses it at the empty black space where Park stood, moments before.

The next second, a heavy, red, mushy liquid is splattered onto Siena’s face as she screams and crawls toward the exit, horrified for her life.

The canonesses’ throats had been cut and they lay like butchered animals in a waste of blood. One corpse had slipped from the low throne to the right of the door and lay staring up at her, the mouth open, the head almost cleft from the body. She saw again the severed vessels, sticking like corrugated pipes through the clotted blood. The second was propped, ungainly as a rag doll, against the far wall. Her head had drooped forward and over her chest a great mat of blood had spread like a bib.

Tuscany’s most esteemed dignitaries of the church society lay like ghoulish mannequins, the esophagus and arteries sticking out like so much corrugated and rubber tubing. The smell that vapoured from their bodies could only come from slaughtered animals.

Thick, warm blood crawled into Siena’s throat and clawed at her air sacs like muck. Spewing with every glance at the mass slaughter, she struggled to wipe away the splutters of blood stuck to her skin and crawled on her limbs not any different from a five-sensed mutt, heaving and croaking for mercy.

Her pleadings for mercy fell upon deaf ears. When the bone of her ankle was seized to pull her toward the ghoulish young count, Siena thought the night would take away the last of her breath.

Her jaws were clasped in the count’s fingers and her eyes were a hair away from the orbs of death. The young count was sheathed by the moonlight in a silvery halo.

Without the traces of blood on his mouth, skin resembling the late winter and rage on his sculpted visage as red as his name, anyone could mistake the monster to be an angel.

His temper was on a hair-trigger and his eyes were lethal.

“You will run to the town’s mayor. If you want your soul to be spared, you will run there and shout to those mucks that the Rouge have returned”, the count spewed venom with each word.

“You will throw this parchment on their faces and demand that they comply to every syllable that’s scribed in the sheet!” he speaks, spelling out thunder claps and boulders at the poor nun.

“If not, Tuscany will have every breathing and crawling creature slaughtered like its canonesses”. He warns and whooshes away like smoke— ungraspable by bare hands.

Even in the wintry morning when town folks discussed the daily’s headlines with an uneasy settlement in their guts, you pursued boiling tea and folding your blankets neatly, unmindful of their great fear.

The afternoon too was eerily quiet and folks everywhere preferred to speak in a whisper and contain themselves in their abode. It seemed rather dubious and as heedless as you were, you never perceived that your innocence would lead to your downfall.

The sun sank lower in the sky, draining away the golden hue of the warm and gave path to a velvety dark night. The same moment when the crickets came out to chirp, dusky colours subdued in the fading light as shrieks and collective roars were heard at the heart of the town.

You, along with some of your fellow nuns peaked at the commotion and threaded through the crowd that swarmed in front of the Mayor’s office. On the board was a derogatory notice. Although, the crumples and rusty stains gave away the fact that the notice wasn’t pinned by the authorities. Its calligraphy looked eerily familiar to you.

“Tunic as red as our coven’s name, skin shining like beacon, tresses sheeny and burnished, eyes like the forest floor and gentle flowers with mirth, feminine curves softer and untouched like a laden bush of peony,”

The fear is a weight on the Mayor’s ribs and there exists a dull ache in his eyes, an unwillingness for his mouth to lift past neutral, to charge against but, words are lost in the hollow of his throat. Fear stills his lips as he pursues it to read out the rest.

“—The young vestal nun with a name that echoes across valleys of Tuscany, the one who dwells in the only fern-coated cottage near the gates of the lush forest.

Bring her to the place where human ritual pyres blaze, those who dare do otherwise, prepare to meet death as painful as a swine’s.

Against you rise, prepare to pay a deathly price.” he ends and mutters hurriedly in the commissioner’s ear and you notice the skeleton of his wrinkled fingers tremble at the slightest.

There’s a hushed eruption of conversations that bubbles ever so slowly amongst the townfolk at the astonishing notice and you freeze, petrified when eyes stray toward you, almost accusingly. You realise, with horror, they’ve recognised the vestal nun in the description.

You breathe heavily and your gut begins to twist into an uneasy coil when the commissioner’s fingers point directly at you.

Your desire to evaporate heedily rushes into your mind and something akin to being a criminal overwhelms you. When you step away to sprint far, you are seized by heavy men as they haul you off the earth by your limbs.

The thousand pair of ears at the town’s center fall deaf to your scattered pleadings— screams. Heartlessly, they drag you to the threads of your last few breaths and you helplessly submit, falling prey to your fatigue from the endless stream of tears that races down your rosy cheeks.

Your wails are unheard as the elder women of your town shield you from the public view, sit you in a warm creek and wash you in the clear stream, no different from a creature to be sacrificed for their religious rituals.

You croak out the last of your pleadings before the sun sets, and the women only watch you with nothing more than pity in their eyes.

Their hands are hurried as they strip you and dress you in the most rouge of all cloaks in the town, steam your hair dry, stain your lips with sliced beet, trace the lines where your lashes lie with charcoal.

Other than the sizzling charcoal that dries your tresses and your dull sobs, the creek is silent even as the herd of women stand together.

When you are sat and tied to the sacrifice stone, you shriek with more violence than gales. The ties that bound your limbs to the stone would not come loose at the desolate way you cried.

You sobbed and sobbed and sobbed until your throat closed on itself and you felt the heaviness on your eyelids. Fatigue beckoned you and you obeyed, submitting to it unconsciously.

The stillness of the air seemed to suck even the sound of the chain’s clanks when you moved your limbs into the nothingness of the cave. Even the trees seemed not to rustle as if they were tense with nerves for what was to come.

You jostled awake when the trees rustled and a strong wind blew from nowhere, chains rattling at your limbs’ sudden motion.

Trees stood naked as they had before, but their twigs curled in a distorted way, as if the tree itself screamed in pain.

The sky was a mass of grey cloud, again so ordinary for autumn, but instead of letting small shafts of light through they emitted an ethereal glow.

The wind was just as bitter as before, coming straight from the north, but the scent was something else, metallic almost, with a tinge of acrid burning.

The fire that kept you warm flicker, casting an ominous glow throughout the tunnel, causing shivers to ripple across your body. You drag your legs across the surface of the sacrifice stone, gathering yourself into a ball.

Wind streams through the tunnel, waking the bats in the cave, twirling them in the air, only to drop them off into the void. All signs of life vanish from the tunnels that were once so full of warmth and the fire becomes extinguished.

You peer as you stare at the mangled stone beneath you.

A heinous laugh echoes throughout the tunnel, rebounding off the crumpled walls, and you crawl closer to the wall in sorrow. Like the cave, your soul is too abandoned and then all fades to black.

You shut your eyes and sit, quivering in fright as footsteps echoed menacingly. There was a hoarse breathing heard dully and you began to hear your own whimpers.

At an unexpected chime of the hour, through the empty night, a gentle voice calls out your name.

Your arms tighten around your body and the curtain of your hair falls around your face, shielding your view of the silhouette growing in front of you.

“Tuscany’s most loveliest lily”, the voice shallows into a soothing whisper and a woody fragrance tickles your nostrils. Your mind ticks at the familiar syllables uttered out and something blossoms in you besides fear, your features contour into slight puzzlement.

“I climb so high, lost in the sensation, I succumb to the scent of the stream that runs in your veins”, you listen more closely.

“I cry out in pleasure, my body on fire, I cling to your scent, hunger feeding my desire”, by then, you are sure of the stanza. It was what licked your insides, it was what beckoned you to sin. The lines were your admirer’s.

Then, it pauses.

The voice is gone, so is the scent. You push your tresses off your eyes and cautiously look in the dead of the night that seemed alive a few moments prior.

Something creeks and rustles at the faintest— right behind your neck, causing its hair to stand. There’s something behind you. Or rather, someone.

Your eyes shut at the feeling of a cold breath tickling the locks of your hair. When a thick strand is pulled and a deep inhale is heard, you whip to find only emptiness.

There’s a few moments of listening to only your anxious breath and thuds of your breathing heart before a fine piece of silk is wrapped around your eyes.

You let out a startled scream at the sudden hindrance of your sight and the feeling of a glacial pair of brawny arms sheathing around your waist. A set of black dots disperse in your vision and your mind is lulled by a hushed, smooth voice into your ear.

“Found you, my little fawn”.

You regain consciousness in a dimly lit room, on a lush, oak-coloured duvet. With the movement of one leg the tell-tale clink of wine bottles rouses you and one blink of the eye tells you that your head is just as bad. You squint, dry mouth sticky with thick saliva and your legs are immediately pulled to your chest at the queer recognition of the place.

You feel as though you have lived a very long time in this colossal manor.

The Manor grew out of the manicured lawn like an infant castle. It’s nascent stone walls were a pale grey and were barren of the moss or ivy that clung to the walls of the older homes in the village. Its large oak door was double wide and was sheltered under a wide porch supported by stone pillars. The entry way was grandiose, sweeping into a wide circle in front of the dwelling with an ornate fountain in the center.

As seconds advance, your mind harks back to unfamiliar images in the same space— a young woman in an elegant frock chortling as she gets chased by a burly yet, slender man who looked youthful as well.

His laboriously chiseled face, cheekbones that had near pierced his flesh had led to sunken eyes, puddles of avarice set about them.

Dark hair covering his head, long and fragrant with rose thorns.His chin, one such extremity which sought to put his cheekbones to shame, it succeeded in its purchase to pierce its own flesh. A small scab could be seen about it’s exit, to which his hand tended to itch.

A thick, velvety cape traces his sturdy steps— chasing after the woman and you gasp when her face comes into your sight.

It is you.

Only, more alluring in the gown that hugs your— her curves. Her laugh is unceasing and sultry mostly, seductive.

Your eyes dilate when you see her unhitch the ties holding her robe to her curves and like a vixen, she steps out of it, lying back on the duvet, beckoning for the ethereal man to her.

He seemed ravenous, his irises iridescent as they turn from raven to crimson at the sight of the slick between her legs.

She seemed brazen, like a cur in heat, in need of flesh when she crawled upon the alluring man, rolling her hips into the air provocatively, she caused the balls of the man to get filled, none similar to your dainty facet.

She takes his girth into her lips, making the count seethe in pleasure, her tongue wrapping around its head, she makes him bellow like a buzzard when she takes him deep into her throat and teases his balls.

He looks feasted, satiated beyond syllables when she licks every inch of his hard wood and takes him to a state of druken stupor.

Your breathing comes out in strained huffs as you watch him take her— you as he presses his lips against her skin and utters words that make her keen and bawl in pleasure.

You watch as their naked flesh twist gracefully into one and something else begins to unravel in your memories.

Where there should be blank space is blank memories, like a soft beige wall bereft of photographs. It brushes through the subconscious, recalling memories that bring out the deepest spark of nostalgia of the soul.

You recall every single one of it, your eyes shut intuitively and you sink into a rather familiar abyss of lost memories. In it, you hold hands with the same man who appeared moments prior. Only now, you know his name.

The one who loved you past all the years that went like streams to the sea, in all your lives as a mortal.

“Soft. Your hands. Soft and warm - on my face, on my chest, in my dreams, in the umbrella of dawn, under the first streams of morning light. Your hands in the pitch black of night, muscles and tendons dancing between each other in a lover’s dance. Fingertips like matches grazing my skin with flame, our scars being the measure of our love. I bare my scars, because I remember the time when your flame danced on me forever, before your hands turned to ice.”

All of your admirer’s words make sense to you. The lost passion, the lost memories, the lost life of yours as the light left your eyes when humans attacked the manor you had peacefully lived in.

There was a deep cut in the skin of your neck from the shattered pieces of glass and a heavy cry escapes the throat of the man at the dreadful sight— you, on the Jimin’s thighs, in his arms as he cried for you to not leave him.

You had smiled and reached your hand to his cheeks, engulfed his lips in one last passionate kiss before your eyes shut on its own, soul departing your frail body.

You see him, your past lover begging for you to return, you see his brothers lifting you into your grave.

Shudders rack your body and your cheeks are wet when you open your eyes to the present, to find the shadowy, familiar presence sitting right across you, his arms prop his chin upright and his eyes drink you in.

Jimin steps from the shadows, stealing your breath and the heat from your skin. Suddenly your defences are just paper, paper that is being soaked by the rapidly falling briny drops.

Before you can draw in the air your body needs, you have melted into his form. You feel his firm torso and the heart that beats within. His hands fold around your back, drawing you in closer.

You feel your body shake, crying for the missed time the two of you will never make again, crying to release the woe of long years in separation.

He caresses your cheeks and wipes the tears with a calloused finger, even this roughness brings more relief than your heart can hold. He is eating you with his eyes, running his hand through your hair, as if he cannot quite fathom you are not part of an almost forgotten dream.

When he kisses you, it is sweet, gentle, and it tastes of your tears. You want to speak but all you can do is croak,

“Jimin”.

His mouth paints a soft smile and he kissed you once before folding you in his arms again.

“My beautiful peony, my little fawn, my love, my heart, my entire world. It was never your fault”, he mutters and you keen closer to him, pulling his mouth to yours once again. You close your eyes shut at the feeling of his tongue twisting with yours and your knees lose strength, sending you spiralling into his arms.

“Oh, how I missed having you close to me, seeing yet, not being able to ravish is a curse” he whispers and you feel the heat pooling in your core when he noses at your jugular and inhales your scent.

“The scent of your blood remains heavenly through the ages” he sings, arms digging further into the curve of your waist.

“And this musky arousal—”

You gasp when you feel the tips of his nimble fingers brush the crotch of your undergarment, relishing in the heat of your wetness.

“This time, I’ll have you breathing for eternity, little fawn. I’ll turn you into what I am”. He declares with a stern voice, consuming the breaths that escape your lungs.

When you stare into his crimson irises, you pray for his touch, beg for what he promises. “Claim me, my lord. I’ll spend an eternity in your arms. Touch me, make me yours”.

Surely, it would be yes. The count was a notorious rake and libertine. He was called a thorough and absolute rouge, true to his name. How could he possibly turn down the chance to debauch the most delicious little fawn tempting him to revel in her taste?

With one kiss, Jimin swooped you off the floor and completely into his arms, transporting back to the cave you were sacrificed in.

He had planned for the entire town to hear your wails of pleasure. When you felt and heard the rattling of chains around your limbs, you shrieked, startled.

“No need to be afraid, my lovely fawn. I only wish to show these mongrels who you belong to”. Jimin expounds, making your core clench in need.

“Touch me, my lord” you scrounged like a fox, coaxing the ravished count with the tantalizing motions of your hips.

“Disrobe for me, little fawn. Take that sheer robe off, I want your naked flesh”, Jimin snarls and his mouth waters when your dainty fingers scramble to untie your gown. You sputter, your cheeks flush a vivid red at his grimy words.

Fear. Nerves. And illicit, forbidden, wrong physical desire. You felt it all at once.

Jimin bent to you and pressed his lips to your neck. The oddest jolt of fire leapt from there. It rushed through your veins like flames licking at the sky.

His hair tickled the bones of your cheek as he stroked and hollowed his mouth along your throat and reached the rim of your ear. He brushed back your hair. Surprisingly, his breath was cool. Almost icy. You had heard women speak of men blowing their breath by their ears—something that hadn’t sounded at all enticing—but the maids had described warm breath. Jimin’s breath was cold.

Still, the brush of it did feel surprisingly … good.

He nibbled your ear, making shivers tumble down your spine. He stroked the exposed skin at your collarbones. Goodness, how could it feel so hot—like a candle’s flame flickering close to your skin?

He tugged your cowering hands away to expose the swell of your breasts. His body tightened with arousal at the sight of your full, generous curves, erection bucking against his stomach.

Pushing you on the boulder, he ravaged your mouth, letting his hands venture down to the cleft of your arse. You bucked at the foreign feeling, gasping at the feeling of his tongue suckling the soft flesh of your lips into his mouth. His tongue curls around yours and he suckles it too, making you melt into a puddle in his full hold.

His mouth traces your throat and when it ghosts over the curve of your breasts, you shudder and your skin breaks into goosebumps.

He suckled. God, you were delicious. And you were moving beneath him. You arched to press your breast to his mouth.

Your scent reached his nose. And, he was lost. Lost in want. He rolled over you, coaxed your legs apart with his, and settled between, caressing your sweet cunny all the while. You gasped at the feeling of his thumb rolling your pearl and whimpered when his middle finger found your entrance, dipping to revel in your slick insides.

Oh goodness, he had flicked that most sensitive place—the little bump that lay between your nether lips, and you almost rolled her eyes back into your head at the pleasure.

Your hips arched up. He stroked you a little harder, as if he had known the rocking of your hips was a wordless signal that meant: I am begging you for more.

Then he slid his finger inside you. Between your nether lips, parting them gently. Goodness, he was inside you. You were doing the most intimate thing possible. With the man who remained an enigmatic admirer in your mind until the touch of his fingers tainted your soul, with the man who held your heart for eternity.

“Open your eyes.”

The first things you saw were thick, velvet-soft black lashes and gorgeous crimson eyes. Eyes that glittered at you in the firelight. “I want your eyes on me” he ordered huskily.

Then his finger slid deep inside, and you gasped at the sudden sensation—an intense quiver that rushed through you. You heard a shocking wet, sucking sound as his finger thrust in and out. It was the sound of your arousal.

“Let your moans out, little fawn. I wish to hear your sweet voice” he coaxed.

Biting your lower lip, you whimpered. You didn’t want to speak. The pleasure his wizardry brought was fervent, it felt foreign yet, acutely compelling and delicious. It made you drool, you needed him, flesh, bone, heart, soul.

His hand moved and he stopped stroking the little nub that vibrated with such intense feeling. You gasped in frustration.

He wrapped his hand around the shaft of his erection—you could feel the brush of his fingers against your stomach as he took hold of himself. Then, with his hand tight around it, he stroked the head of his erection against your nether lips. They had stuck together, resisting him, but he gently eased them apart.

Your arms were splayed on the mangled boulder beneath you and your eyes appeared to have gotten a taste of heaven, hands clenched in tight fists, toes curled and digging into Jimin’s hips at his ease into you.

Deeper he went, and his manhood stroked a place inside you that made explosions of light in front of your eyes. Then a twinge of pain rushed through you and you gasped in shock.

His fingers traced the curve of your cheek. “Shh, my fawn” he whispered. “Easy. It will hurt when I go past your little maidenhead. But after that it will be very, very good.”

“Jimin—”

He thrust. You squealed. You clenched. You tightened. You wanted to back away. But you couldn’t vanish into the boulder. Nor could you push him off. There was a searing pain that burned the walls of your insides yet, the delicious stretch of his girth brushed the softest tissue that made your mouth open wide, soundlessly and expose your luscious throat for his mouth to marr.

Jimin’s lips suckled every inch the clammy flesh of your shoulders and breasts— until lilac bruises respired in its wake. The perked peaks of your breasts were soft and toothsome in his mouth. And the tiny heels of your palms digging into his chest felt euphoric, he wished for it to caress his veiny member instead.

His nose nudged into your sternum, imbibed the scent of rushing blood to your breasts. His eyes shut as he sniffed deeply, his fangs grew in length and a gravelly groan rumbled from his chest at the redolent aroma of your blood.

“You feel warm and soft, my delicious little fawn. I could forever inhale this toothsome stream running through your veins”.

Without stalling, Jimin enveloped the teat of your breast into his mouth and laved, before piercing his honed fangs into the soft flesh, guzzling at the divine, rouge liquid that leaked onto his pearly teeth and sharp tongue, making you hiss at the feeling.

The feeling was gut-wrenching at the onset, it made you scream into Jimin’s shoulders.

He pressed against you, seating himself all the way inside, and he didn’t move. He stayed motionless, and he rained kisses on your forehead, cheeks, lips. It was hard to feel pain with such glorious kisses stealing your breath. And little by little, the stinging sensation ebbed.

A few moments of incessant suckling and your strained huffs at the strokes of his tongue on your tormented peak unfolded a queer pleasure, obscure to be produced by human males.

Soon, each suckle and lave from Jimin’s mouth pulled you to the white, hazed edge of pleasure and you cried out in ecstasy. Your cheeks were riddled hot, body spasmodic, in graceful waves as you began to roll your hips.

You whispered, “More”, Then you saw his sculpted visage.

He looked starved, ravenous. He looked raw, ravaged, tormented. His eyes were wild. His mouth was a slash, bracketed by harsh lines. He looked as though his control could snap in a heartbeat.

“My lord?” you called for him.

“You are tight, sweet, and perfect, my fawn. So no, I am no longer all right.”

You let your arms slip from his neck, but your legs were still wrapped around him, and his groin, hot and hard, was pressed tight into you. Then came the gratifying wave of pleasure as Jimin rolled his hips into yours, his girth slipping in and out of you, wholly, fulfillingly.

Gods, he was huge. The thick, hot, pulsing hard muscle of his legs throbbed against your thigh. His big manhood twitched inside you— feeling as thick as your arm. He groaned, kissing you fiercely as he moved his hips and nudged his swollen head further inside, almost into your cervix. You cried out, feeling it pulsing into your drooling slit.

With a moan into his lips, you strained your thighs and allowed him to pound in and out of you, the thick, slick shaft of his cock sliding wetly out from between your lips as you groaned throatily.

“Have a screaming orgasm, little fawn.”

He circled his hips as he said it, stroking his long shaft within you. He planted one sweet, sensual kiss after another on your lips, and kept your gaze locked with his.

You watched a smile touch Jimin’s full, handsome mouth. Then groans deepened the lines framing his lips. His eyes glowed as if they were on fire, and his deep, throaty moans … You drink all of them.

You were weak with pleasure, yet driven to rock with him. You clung to him, arching your hips, panting. Your nipples had hardened, and each thrust brushed them against his chest. Lips tingling from kisses, breasts throbbing from swift brushes, your quim pulsed … and fire raged in you, hotter than fire and you screamed as you came, body spasmodic.

He held you as his lips slurped at the slop of blood from the punctured marks on the peaks of your breasts.

It is when he pulls out of your body, he turns. This time, his eyes travel below your navel and licks at your core. There’s a thin stream of his release that flows from within you and there is a whit of warmth that seeps along with it, making his stomach clench with carnal hunger.

Carnal lechery for your blood and the musk of your release, it blows like a breeze over him.

Your fragrance consisted of a scent that represented freshly cut timber, like the damp forest after a rainy day; you smelt heavenly, like fresh-scented pine and honey, he wanted to indulge in the depths of the hint of cinnamon-like musk it produced.

It is the blood that reflected your lost virginity, your lost innocence. You are no more vestal, he has made you sin.

In the depths of night, your eyes were dew, scattering the nascent rays, ever illuminating the dark in his soul and he lusted vigorously for the taste of you, to let him be consumed by everything you offer to give him.

And so, he chains your limbs again, and blinds your vision for the nonce, for your senses to get heightened, for your slick to stream like nectar from ambrosia.

You gasp quietly at the impairment of your vision.

His fingers pluck a pair of pampas grass fluttering in the wind and when you feel it caress the tiny puncture holes at your sensitive nipples, you whimper, your slick caressing Jimin’s chest.

His lips find purchase at your inner thighs, fangs shallowly sinking into the soft flesh. The feeling makes your toes curl and you croak his name out in pure bliss.

“How delicious, your scent is divine, my fawn” he growls and pulls your core to his nose with vigour while you attempt to slither away, shyly.

“Trying to escape my grasp is useless, little fawn” he warns, making you cry out at the feeling of his arctic breaths blowing over your sensitive core.

“I’ll catch you faster than the wind could sheath around you” he gutturally breathes and spreads you beneath him, holding your soft thighs in his metal hold.

He moved lower, his breath teasing over your thigh. And then, you felt it, and the moan of pure ecstasy tore from your lips.

Jimin’s hot, wet tongue delved between your lips, dragging slowly and wetly up every bit of you until it flicked across your aching clit. You moaned in pleasure, crying out as his powerful hands pushed your legs wide apart and his wicked tongue pushed deep between them.

With a moan, your eyes flew open to see his face hovering above your delicate and exposed core. His eyes glinted wickedly at you, and you watched, panting in pleasure as he slowly licked his lips clean.

“Like nectar,” he growled. “Lie back, little fawn. Lie back and let me taste you.”

He moved back in, and suddenly, you moaned loudly. The feeling was like nothing else you had ever felt — this perfect, electric feeling of his icy tongue teased over your lips and clit. His wide, strong tongue dragged up and down your pussy, making your whole body arch and tremble for him. You balled your fists and cried out into the flickering firelight of the cave.

He slid his tongue deep inside, spreading your lips with his fingers, dragging your sticky wetness up from your opening to slide electrically across your aching clit. You arched my back and cried out as his tongue made contact there. It curled at your bud, bringing whimpering mewling sounds to your lips before sliding down through your folds again. You stiffened, and then moaned as you felt that hot, wet tongue slide wickedly against the opening of your arse, making you gasp as it slid over the sensitive ring there.

You couldn’t believe the sensations flooding your body at the touch of this rough, powerful, demanding, gorgeous man — from the rouge who was gentle to a creature with hound-like   lust for your dripping arousal and blood.

His tongue pushed against your opening, pushing in to curl sensually inside of you. His thumb moved to your clit, his growl rumbling through me as he teased your little bud and tongue-fucked your slippery core, making you clench and arch your back off the stone under you.

You screamed as the orgasm exploded through you, hips bucking against Jimin’s perfect mouth. Your core clenched at the invading tongue, spasming around its thick wetness while the orgasm ripped through me. The famished count hungrily growled and pushed his tongue deep inside, tasting all of your virginal blood as the aftershocks exploded through you.

Slowly, he pulled away, his lips trailing over the little seam of your inner thigh as your whole world spun under you.

The feathery leaves of the pampas grass caressed the seams following his mouth and you felt his arms lifting you onto his lap, straddling him. He gently entered you again, mouth tracing the prominent vein at your jugular, tongue teasing it.

You shook and rippled around his thick wood, chains rattling loudly as you bite at every inch of his skin that your mouth could reach.

“I am going to turn you, my sweet fawn. Tonight is perfect, the moon is hidden and the branches sing for us. Let it all out, scream my name” they are incessant breaths against your jugular and you clench around him, hearing him cry out his devotion for you.

“I am ready, my lord. Turn me, I— I belong to you!” you cry out as the tip of his girth brushes your most sensitive spot.

Then the whooshing wind caresses your bare bodies, you feel the chains loosen and fall to the ground while Jimin embraces your shaking body entirely, increasing the pace of his inhuman thrusts.

His mouth takes yours and swallows your pleasured pants, yours tongue mulls his own when he feels your fingers thread through his soft locks and dig into his scalp. His hold on your hips are deathly and when he feels you clench and pant harder, he bites into the inside of his cheeks, closing his eyes as his blood trickles from his mouth, into yours.

Your throat closes at the repulsive, metallic taste and you gag, making Jimin tighten his hold on you. He twists your tongues together and urges you on, making you swallow down the thick drops of his blood.

When you feel his member caressing that sensitive spot of your insides once again, you gulp faster and Jimin smiles blissfully into your mouth as his tongue traces the sharp lines of your protruding canines, they course rapidly into pointy knives and he relishes in the sharpness of your fangs, tongue drinking your breaths in.

There’s an ethereal glow of light sheathing around the two of you. For a nonce, the bright, golden-silvery stratum panelling over you in particular makes the deep, dark abyss of the night seem like day. The round curves of your orbs sparkle an aurish dust and makes you look more beguiling than any other supernatural power to ever exist.

Jimin feels the illuminance and shuts his eyes in ecstasy for the warm streams of your blood chills into familiar ice, the same temperature as his. Your thrusts are gentled and you cry out in a new found lust for Jimin’s blood.

He can feel the urgency in your gulps as you grow more hungry for blood, his blood. He shudders when you sink onto him again, tilting his head to pierce your fangs into his throat.

He groans at the pleasurable feeling of your mouth gulping his blood hungrily and he forces you to pause, for his eyes to drink in the birth of your vampiric form.

The moment you open your eyes and stare into his, his breath catches.

Your orbs are a beautiful, fierce topaz-crimson and there is a bleached tone added to the luscious sheen of your skin, when you lick the drops of his blood from your lips, exposing the knives of your fangs, he feels the carnal lechery for you boil in his heart and stir at his manhood.

You are fully turned, looking like the goddess of death herself, veiled in an ethereal halo in the deep, dark, inked night.

His eyes drink your appearance ravenously and he concludes. Carnal lechery for you, that’s what possessed him all those years ago, that’s what drives him to sink his fangs into your flesh and drink your sweet blood over and over.

You are turned and you are eternally bonded to him, there’ll be no mongrel mortal in this universe to take you away from him.

Autumn days wane toward the inevitable colder weather ahead, each nightfall coming sooner that the one before.

Seven days were gone ever since you were welcomed and brought to the Rouge’s dwelling, the rocky fort miles away from your grim, little mossy town.

Topaz leaves dangled from the shadowy skeletons of trees, each one like as ominous sword of Damocles. The river was almost ice, showing reflections of the heavy, ashy sky so thick. The chill breeze rattling at the closed windows of the fort seemed to cry autumn, the roads were moist with stealthy dew as the season deepens their graceful boughs will be the prettiest of charcoal sketches, drawing themselves tall, reflecting the light of a wintry sun.

You are huddled in the silky red sheets of Jimin’s large duvety mattress, the lines of your naked legs traced by the sheets. You lie fatigued after a thorough session of lovemaking with your mate while he wordlessly caresses your hair, eyeing your curves, breathing the essence of your hair as he licks the remains of your dried blood from your breasts.

The sudden slam of the door came like a punctuation. There were panicked calls all around in the veranda and one of the maids peek their head through the door to the master chamber, her chest rising and falling in urgency.

“Forgive me for barging in, master and mistress”, she breathlessly bows, making you both rise, startled. You scatter to cover your body with the sheets while Jimin groans and ties his night robes to shield his body.

“Master, we seem to have an intruder. The other masters summoned you to the court immediately”, she keeps her eyes low and Jimin barks at her.

“How would we have an intruder? This fort is well protected!” he grunts and turns to you, placing a soft kiss on your lips as you eye the maid scurrying away, bowed.

“I’ll be right back, my love. You might as well get dressed".

You smile and pull on your silky night robes to your body, mindlessly staring at the creaking trees in the wind while Jimin marches to the veranda, his booming commands slowly ebbing away.

For a few ticks of chime, you hear nothing but the rustling leaves, sparrows chirping at a distance and the echoes of voices downstairs. When the door to the chamber you lie in opens on the spur of the serene moment, you fall back and onto your elbows, on the cottony patchwork of the carpeted floor.

A loud gasp knocks your lungs at the sight of the familiar fern-eyed, thick woman looming over you, offering her hand.

Siena. She is puffing out harsh breaths and her legs tremble, hasten. She seems too afraid as her eyes cavort to the door in trepidation and you realise, she is the intruder.

“Y/N! Y/N. You should listen to me, you should run away, the one you are with is a monster!” she hastily whispers, gripping at your arm.

You yawp at her gnawing grip and attempt to pull your arm to yourself and grit your teeth. At the sight of your crimson eyes, Siena’s hold gets loosened.

“H—he turned you, didn’t he?” she utters in shock, something in her eyes clutches at her back again and she pleads you again. You sigh and move to the chamber’s doors, pulling the latch to lock and you turn to face her.

“I am sorry sister Siena, but I must ask you to leave. History does not tell the truth. The Rouge were innocent, it was the people who broke the treaty”.

You eye her pitifully. She had come all the way for vain.

“Jimin is by nature of laws, my soulmate. I cannot live apart from him, I am no longer one of the mortals”. You proclaim, clasping your fingers together.

“Now, please leave—”

“I am afraid you do not know everything” mumbles Siena quietly, her olive eyes swimming in a stream of exigency, her limbs still tremble.

“Who has Park claimed to have murdered you in the past, Y/N?”

The will to not let her affect your resolution faintly faltered at the sight of her tenacity, she shakes similar to a leaf jostled by storm gales yet, her eyes remain adamant.

“Tell me, please”, she begs to the extremity of crumbling, her orbs trembling just as much as her limbs do.

You release the air from your lungs and mutter softly— “Humans. The ancestors of our town. I saw it, the evocation of my past self, I was killed by the town folks”.

Siena shook her head, her face contouring into a brew of disdain as well as pity, you were almost uncertain if it was aimed towards you.

The whooshing gales and Siena’s voice seem the same when she mutters out what earth had not devised itself ready to hear.

“No, my dear. It was not the town folks who had killed you, it was the very man you share this bed with, the most conniving, astute count amongst his brothers— Park Jimin of the Rouge!”

And in that light the carpet of leaves became crooked, and all aurish colours vanished, the wind tumbling around the empty space. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest and your face morphed into one of disdain, you were abhorred yet, shattered to the ground like the dry twigs stepped on by passing carts.

You knew nuns took an oath to preserve and authentic despite the unembellished life they lead because you were one too. Siena was not lying, every single word of hers proves to be true only by the contours of concern etched on her face.

“H-how? I—” you flounder like a fish taken out of the pond.

Siena sighs dismally. “When I went to the elder canonesses on halloween night, the eldest of them apprised a hidden tale of a young town girl and her lover— Hyun woo whose throats were silt by the third youngest of the Rouge”,

“Only sister Ann knew the story behind it”. You listened carefully, feeling prostrated mercilessly.

“Park Jimin had found his consort and by the scent of her blood, he knew she was destined to be bonded to him by nature’s law. But, she was irrevocably in love with another mortal to whom she had been having love affairs with, even as she was taken against her will to the Rouge fort”,

“An infuriated Park had butchered the young woman’s lover in front of her whilst the woman pleaded and cried for the man’s life. As days passed, Jimin’s consort became coldly vacant in grief",

You were turned into stone at her words.

“She had ultimately repudiated to consummate their bond. The same night when Jimin had killed her to erase the memories of her lover, the town folks declared a war to avenge Hyun woo and rescue the young woman. Park Jimin had promulgated to his brothers that the woman was killed by humans, he must have recast your past self’s memories, Y/N! He is not the gentle lover you loyally surmise him to be!”

One time when you were blind in a tree, waiting motionless for wind to wander by, you dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on your back. It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from your lungs, and you lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.

That was how you felt at the moment, your ribs felt crushed into a mere refuse, fear and disgust of your past killer’s touch burned everywhere, the faded puncture marks on the peaks of your breasts, thighs, neck, shoulders felt as if touched by the flicks of flame, you felt abhorred.

Even the loud rap of knocks and thuds on the door to the chambers were heard, you were frozen into ice. Eyes teary, vision blurred, you fell to the ground, crestfallen.

Siena shakes you harder in panic at the sight of the door’s latch rattling violently, the sundry of voices with Jimin’s voice rack unpleasant shudders through her spine as she attempts to resuscitate you to the present.

A single squawk like a squall causes the doors to shatter as if hurled to the ground by a tempest. Park Jimin stands sited at the other side. There is not a sliver of a plinth to hold his rage in place, he looks irked to the brim of extremes.

“Seize her!” he barks and by the tick of a second, Siena is hefted into the air by a couple guards, their grasps cause her to bawl in pain.

“Y/N! My dear, what did she do to you?“ Jimin’s voice is mellowy as he gathers you into his arms, perusing your form thoroughly.

Like the mountain river under sunlight, like snow melting under the beaming sunlight, like the gentle song of the topaz leaves swaying in the autumn breeze, his voice was pleasant as beautiful as his perfectly sculpted face.

You shake away weakly from his grasp and his face withers, twinging a deep cut into your heart.

“You cold-blooded murderer, let her free”. You mutter, abhorred and stare at him, as empty as the ocean at night.

Jimin peruses Siena and you wordlessly, taken aback by your sudden disgust. When you see his head lift and lips curl to one side, you see the once loving mate of yours turn into the callous, blood-thirsty hound of a creature that slaughtered so many lives for its own illiberal gain.

“I see my little fawn has discovered the truth”, he heinously chuckles, making you swallow down in utter disgust.

“It was worth the effort, was it not?” he perches himself on his lush seater loftily, a wicked grin stretches his lips at Siena’s struggles.

“Now that I have the maiden of my dreams to myself”, he wickedly whispers, his sharp eyes travel down your body as he slips his lower lip into his mouth.

“I can debauch her to my heart’s content” his eyes are demanding as they meet yours, his slender fingers tipping against the mahogany handle of his seater.

“What causes you to think I would submit to you?” you spew the words like venom as the haughty count feigns hurt, crumbling to the ground.

In a blink of an eye, Jimin whooshes at an inhuman pace across the chamber to you, gripping your jaws tight from the behind as he has his own clenched. Your wrists are pressed together at your back and he presses his chest to your back.

You attempt to wriggle away at the bulge pressing into the cleft of your arse and you screech at his hold.

“What can be done by a little fawn like you, against me? There is a reason why I did not wait even for an hour to turn you that night”. He lilts mockingly, lips brushing the lobe of your ear.

“Oh, little fawn. I had become the master of your body, soul and mind duly after turning you. Every single thought that runs in this little head, I can hear it”. He declares, arms slithering around your body in a vice-like grip.

“After decades of longing, I finally had you. Would I not have prepared for the same mistake to never occur again?” he presses his nose to your jugular, breathing your scent. It makes him roll his eyes in pleasure as the heavenly scent tickles his lungs.

Your fighting limbs fall limp as his fangs pierces the skin of your jugular, taking little gulps of your sweet blood.

Siena screams as she realises the actions performed on you by the count. She seethes and cusses, fighting against the guards’ hold on her.

“Forget everything that makes me bad in your eyes, little fawn”,  Jimin whispers pleasantly, making you fall into a lull of sleep with a soft hum.

“Only I am your love, only I am your lord, no other mongrel of a mortal owns you, forget it all, my one and only little fawn”, he sings soothingly, lifting you in his arms more delicate than a priceless treasure, cooing in adoration at the sight of your angelic face in peace and parted lips, memories flitting you away from him washed away profoundly.

In the course of a mo, Siena’s head is snapped and the poor nun’s body is embedded into the fertile earth heedlessly.

A famished count with an endless carnal lechery presses a soft kiss to your lips and envelopes you in a lover’s embrace, waiting for your eyes to open and say his name sweetly, oblivious to events that have unfolded a very few chimes ago.

Carnal lechery, it was what possessed him to possess you.

© unfurlingtwinklingstar 2020 | all rights reserved | do not re-post/translate

[julesofnature]

“Many winters ago, on the shores of the Great Lake lived a young Ojibway maiden who adored her older brother…The tribe gave him the task of messenger for the village. He taught his sister his skills, but never took her with him when he ran to other villages to relay news. Others fell ill with fevers and weakness. Soon everyone was struck. When more villagers sickened, the chief had no choice. The young brave would cross the frozen lake the next morning to find and bring back medicine. But when her beloved brother became ill, his sister decided to take his place and make the dangerous journey across the frozen bay to the medicine woman’s village. She put the pouch of medicine around her neck and slipped down to the lakeshore. She sank deeply into the snow with each step. When the maiden reached the opposite shore, she was free of the deepest snow, but her moccasins were missing. Her feet were red and raw and her footprints marked by blood. The medicine she carried back saved her village…..Early the next spring, the maiden and her brother searched the woods and lakeshore for her moccasins. Instead they found beautiful pink and white flowers shaped just like moccasins. There was one for every drop of blood that had fallen from the maiden’s feet on her journey to bring medicine home from the other side of the lake." The Ojibway people named the flower ma-ki-sin-waa-big-waan. We call it Lady’s Slipper. Sometime in late May or early June, from the forest floor will come the tiny shoot of the ma-ki-sin-waa-big-waan. It will carry, for those who choose to listen, a reminder of an old Ojibway tale, a story of a young woman’s courage, compassion and sacrifice on behalf of her community.

http://cedartreeinstitute.org/2005/12/legend-of-ladys-slipper/

[childofchrist1983]

And he went forth again by the sea side; and all the multitude resorted unto him, and he taught them. And as he passed by, he saw Levi the son of Alphaeus sitting at the receipt of custom, and said unto him, Follow me. And he arose and followed him. And it came to pass, that, as Jesus sat at meat in his house, many publicans and sinners sat also together with Jesus and his disciples: for there were many, and they followed him. And when the scribes and Pharisees saw him eat with publicans and sinners, they said unto his disciples, How is it that he eateth and drinketh with publicans and sinners? When Jesus heard it, he saith unto them, They that are whole have no need of the physician, but they that are sick: I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance. - Mark 2:13-17 KJV

Would you choose to go to a doctor that you were friends with in high school? Or you had as a student if you were a teacher? Sometimes, we question the abilities of people we know too well.

Well, today we read about the call of Levi - Matthew - the tax collector. Although Levi immediately answered the call to follow Jesus Christ, there were a lot of raised eyebrows! Does Jesus know who He's eating with? Doesn't He know these people are sinners?

Have you ever caught yourself judging the worthiness of others? I know I sometimes fail in that. But Jesus answers them by stating that He came to call all sinners. Do we think that the churches should be filled with saints? Is that what we think we are? Lots of questions in this reflection but sometimes we need a wake-up call and the beginning of the year is always a good time to do this.

Jesus tells us not to judge, but due our sinful and human nature, we can't seem to help ourselves. There is a Native American saying that tells us not to judge anyone until we have walked a mile in his moccasins. It's a new year, and it's time to strive for a new attitude. None better than Jesus Christ! We must remember to pray for and love others and display all the Fruits of the Holy Spirit as often as we can everyday. His will be done!

Thanks be to God! Blessed be the name of the LORD! Amen!

Dear Lord Jesus, thank you for choosing to call us while we are still sinners, for choosing to save us in spite of our unworthiness.

Give us the courage to follow You and Your Word and give us the willingness to change. Thank you for everything You've done and continue to do for us everyday. Your will be done! Blessed be Your mighty name! To You and Your Kingdom be the glory forevermore! In Your name I humbly pray, Amen and amen

[chazz-anova]

I thought I was an atheist until I realized: I’m a god.

And Wrath Becomes The Wraith ❦ Introduction

Fandom: Far Cry 5 Word Count: 600ish Summary: What do you become when you lose who you are? A/N: I’ve been wanting to play around with a Herald!AU for a while, so I wrote a little drabble dipping my toe into this world! I’m excited to experiment more with it, and really capture another side of Veronica 💜 shoutout to @consumedkings​​ for helping me with similes 😂

                                                           ⎯

It was a simple choice, really. The choice to stop caring. To stop catering to everyone else. To shut out their incessant bitching. What happened to putting yourself first, after all?

After John had captured Veronica the second time, he’d been weak. He couldn’t bring himself to put her through atonement after all they’d been through together. Of course, he couldn’t just let her go. Such was the will of the Father. 

So- Veronica had been sent up to the Whitetails to meet the eldest brother. 

Jacob Seed had not been a gracious host. The former deputy had been starved, beaten, and caged like an animal until she participated in the man’s trials. First he broke her body, and then her mind. Under the influence of his music box, she had killed so many of her friends. Members of the Resistance that she had worked with every day- shot down by her bullets. It wasn’t the act of killing that broke her, she was used to that. It was numbness. 

The numbness she felt when she went into that red fog; the void she was sucked into as the little box played its song. Even as she’d shot, stabbed, and hunted her way to the finish line, the feeling of blood washing over her hands like water and the sight of gore on her boots only made her more empty. John didn’t visit during the months Ronnie spent at the Veteran’s Center, part of her wondered if it was because he couldn’t bear to. 

At the end of it all, she’d become a beast. A twisted, broken little monster who lusted for the kill. She’d been trained well. 

Jacob had promised her a reward if she finally gave in, if she finally told him. “You’re our weapon now, you can’t ever go back. The Resistance is crushed without you- and everyone knows it.” He’d whispered dark truths through the bars of her cage, the bars of her mind; the two were now the same. 

In the end, she told him. “...Southwest of the Moccasin River. If you take a bird, go about two miles out, you’ll see a helipad. The rest should be easy.” As Veronica spoke, she’d noted how little emotion was there. His reward was what she craved: salvation. 

The Wolf’s Den was nothing but a mass grave at the end of Jacob’s fun. He got his revenge on Eli, and what was left of the Whitetail Militia disbanded with their leader dead. More importantly, V had proven her loyalty.

The church doors had groaned under the weight of Veronica’s sins as she pushed them open. The shock on Joseph’s face when she walked through would have made her smile, if she’d felt capable. “The lamb has come to slaughter.” She’d said wryly, receiving an instant frown from the Father. 

Disregarding her comment, he’d come closer. When his warm hands cupped her face and he touched his forehead to her own, she’d never felt so empty. “You’re home now, child.” The Father reassured her quietly as he’d gently taken her gun from her hands. She’d let him.

And now, here she was. With him. The man who showed her what she was. He was all she needed. Everyone else would only leave her. These were the painted lies that had fallen off her lover’s lips. Veronica felt like a stone that had been long buried in the ground, and the Baptist was the tender man who unearthed and polished her until she was new once more. In his presence, she finally felt alive.

Black candles encased in iron lanterns ornamented the trees above and cast a golden glow out on the lake. As the blonde emerged, soaking and wrapped in John’s arms, the candlelight bathed her in a holy glow and her purpose was renewed before God himself. 

Under the chilled waves- a calm washed over her with the dark waters. ‘This is where I’m truly meant to be.’ She thought as a serene smile came over her features. 

‘I’m finally home.’