#and it is within his nature to corrupt souls

[metamorphesque]

I love dissecting Frodo's ("Lord of the Rings") personality and character arc through a Jungian lens, even if only as an amateur.

The One Ring, as an external object, represents the hidden darkness within all beings. It does not simply impose evil from the outside; rather, it reveals what already exists within, amplifying the ring bearer's deepest, often unconscious, desires for power, control, or survival. I see the Ring as both the Collective and the Personal Shadow in Jungian terms — a manifestation of the darkness that resides not only in individuals, but in all of Middle-earth.

By carrying the Ring, Frodo is in constant confrontation with his own Shadow — the hidden, darker aspects of the self, which Jung defines as "the thing a person has no wish to be". His journey, to me, is the psychological equivalent of undergoing Shadow work: he is forced to look into the abyss of his own nature, to confront his potential for greed, corruption, and even cruelty.

Unlike (my dear) Boromir, who denies his own susceptibility and is thus consumed by it, Frodo is well aware of his vulnerability. He knows what the Ring could turn him into, which is why he resists the temptation to use it. He has glimpsed the depths of his Shadow and understands its power. Because of this, he refuses to arm it. He knows that once he hands his Shadow a weapon, it may never let go. Thus, both in the books and in the movies, Frodo has not killed anyone. Professor Tolkien makes sure to remind us of it in "The Scouring of Shire".

Yet true individuation does not come from merely resisting the Shadow but from integrating it — acknowledging its presence without being ruled by it. This is the essence of Frodo’s transformation.

At the beginning of his journey, his understanding of morality is simplistic: good vs evil, deserving vs undeserving. He believes justice is about giving people what they “deserve". We can see this in "The Shadow of the Past" of "The Fellowship of the Ring".

'What a pity that Bilbo did not stab that vile creature, when he had a chance!'

But as he carries the Ring (undergoes the shadow work), he realizes that the line between good and evil is not external — it runs through his own soul (subconscious).

By the time he returns to the Shire, he has changed in ways that make it impossible for him to reintegrate.

His final refusal to kill the ruffians and Saruman (in "The Scouring of Shire"), even after Saruman tries to stab him, shows the full "glory" of his transformation. He could act in anger, but he knows that doing so would only feed the very Shadow he has spent so long confronting. He has seen the full potential of The Shadow (both collective and his own), and thus, he does not wish to "entertain" it but arming it.

‘All the same,’ said Frodo to all those who stood near, ‘I wish for no killing; not even of the ruffians, unless it must be done, to prevent them from hurting hobbits.’

But even as Saruman passed close to Frodo a knife flashed in his hand, and he stabbed swiftly. The blade turned on the hidden mail-coat and snapped. A dozen hobbits, led by Sam, leaped forward with a cry and flung the villain to the ground. Sam drew his sword. ‘No, Sam!’ said Frodo. ‘Do not kill him even now. For he has not hurt me. And in any case I do not wish him to be slain in this evil mood. He was great once, of a noble kind that we should not dare to raise our hands against. He is fallen, and his cure is beyond us; but I would still spare him, in the hope that he may find it.’ Saruman rose to his feet, and stared at Frodo. There was a strange look in his eyes of mingled wonder and respect and hatred. ‘You have grown, Halfling,’ he said. ‘Yes, you have grown very much. You are wise, and cruel. You have robbed my revenge of sweetness, and now I must go hence in bitterness, in debt to your mercy. I hate it and you! Well, I go and I will trouble you no more. But do not expect me to wish you health and long life. You will have neither. But that is not my doing. I merely foretell.’ "The Scouring of the Shire", "The Return of the King"

Frodo has ventured deeper into himself than most ever will, and though he has integrated his Shadow, the wounds remain. This is why he cannot stay — his journey has taken him beyond what the Shire represents.

Jungian individuation is the process of becoming a whole, integrated self — embracing both the conscious and unconscious aspects of one’s being. Frodo reaches this stage, but at a cost: wholeness does not mean happiness. His burden has re-shaped and changed him irrevocably, and though he has gained wisdom and knowledge of his "full" self, he has lost the ability to live as he once did.

[novelistwriter]

Soul of the Phantom

DP x DC Prompt (believe it or not, inspired by Kirby Soul Bosses)

Souls, volatile, destructive, but contained within all living things. The energy the souls of a being produce goes through a form of refining or some such thing through the everyday actions one goes through.

Ghosts of the Infinite Realms need to expell the excess energy their souls provide by any means necessary. Their "obsessions" are just shackles around their soul that contain all the destructive power they contain. If those shackles were denied in any way, all the destructive power of the soul of that Ghost would burst out of them, making them a literal bomb that could destroy half a state at minimum, or an entire planet at maximum, it depends on how "powerful" the Ghost is.

Dan had become the embodiment of the destructive force a soul has when he was separated from his human half.

Danny, after his main "obsession," shifted from protecting to family when his parents accepted him as Phantom, began to help out the other Ghosts indulge in their "obsessions" to help them expell their powers, after learning about why the Ghosts do what they do.

But the GIW weren't going to let this world be "Corrupted" by the ectoplasmic scum. They saw Danny as their main threat. They, too, learned that he and Phantom were one and the same. So they hatched a plan, they would expose the true nature of the Ghosts by using Danny as that example.

The Fentons (Including Dani and Vlad, Dan isn'tpart of it becausehe has yet to be reformed), along with anyone else Danny considered part of his family, that means his friends, were executed by the GIW, in public, and in front of Danny, who was contained in a new device that's like a portal cage.

With his "obsession" gone, Danny's shackles on his soul were breaking, all that destructive power held within his soul is desperately trying to unleash itself unto the world.

Clockwork, who was distracted by the Observants, finally returned to his Clocktower, only to see his favorite Halfa about to he ended when his "obsession" had been taken away. The Time Ghost acts quickly, taking Danny away from his home dimension, forcefully unlocking a new power for Danny to use as a means to expell his powers from his soul and sends the Halfa to a new place, where he will hopefully gain a new family for his obsession.

Gotham has a new rogue, a Meta Boy who makes people see those they hold dear to them die, reject them, or a combination of both. The Bats have been trying to get close to the boy for apprehending him, but maybe it goes deeper than that. They just need to overcome the pain and sorrow of seeing one of their worst fears to actually talk to the boy.

[tinysunshine]

━━━━━ ✧˖° 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑

‎ ‎ [ 𝗸𝗹𝗮𝘂𝘀 𝗺𝗶𝗸𝗮𝗲𝗹𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝘅 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 ] 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭/𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

kinks: priest/religious kink, spanking, punishment, oral sex, corruption kink, degradation, dirty talk, guided masturbation, light dom/sub, sex obviously

warnings and triggers: mentions of past sexual assault, abuse (not by klaus), blood play, literal blasphemy, death and violence, hint of stalking, this is more of a horror story than romance

word count: 12.7k

plot with porn, alternate universe. fic visual.

there’s a legend whispered among the people of your town, about a fallen angel named klaus, who resides in an abandoned gothic church, buried deep within the forest. it’s said that if a sinner is brave enough to make the journey, to admit their sins in a confessional to the supernatural entity and offer up a sacrifice of their blood, they would be absolved of all their sins.

when your name becomes disgraced in town and your parents turn their back on you, you’re out of options and decide to make the trek to the church in the forest. every sunday, you sit in the confessional booth, admit to your sins, while klaus orders you to do things for him so you can be forgiven. dirty things. sinful things. he tells you to come back every week until he deems your soul completely clean.

klaus might be supernatural, but he’s far from an angel. He feeds on the unlucky sinners dumb enough to take his legend for word, and with each passing week, each confessed sin, all the time you spend in god’s forgotten house of worship, worshipping the wrong vessel, you come to realize: that although god may have turned his back on you - at least he left you klaus.

“Why are you here?” He asks, and suddenly the fact that you’re staring into the eyes of a supernatural creature isn’t as scary as the fact that this creature is a man. A man is what got you into this mess, the reason you’re here.

He’s got no wings. No horns. No halo. He looks like the average man in your town, although much more handsome. It’s sort of a let down and a nice surprise all at the same time.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mouth opens and closes like you’re a fish out of water, and you must look ridiculous.

He grabs your chin suddenly, as if he can’t wait any longer to know the reason you’re here. You thought there’d be a confession booth for this, so you wouldn’t have to look into someone else’s eyes to admit the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

The worst thing you’ve ever done.

“Tell me why you’re here,” he orders, locking eyes with you - and you can’t stop it. It’s like you’re in a trance, and the words spill out. It feels natural, even though it’s not. It’s wrong, it’s scary, and you have no control over it.

“I’m here to be cleansed of my sins,” you say, words spilling out of your mouth like vomit, but the guilt that’s been festering for weeks goes away with the release of the words. You don’t understand how it’s happening, what sorcery you’re experiencing that’s letting you share so easily.

“What have you done, little sinner?” He asks, curiosity evident in his voice. You’re almost glad to be in this trance, because it proves something to you - that this ‘man’ is the legend you’ve been chasing, and as scary as it is, you’re going to come out of this situation pure again.

It’s all you want.

“I’ve lost my purity,” you say, and then he drops your chin and stops making eye contact. Stands back from you and looks you over, like he’s inspecting an object. Your entire body heats up, and a random headache comes on so strong that you shut your eyes for a second.

When you open them, he’s looking at your face again. He’s wearing a sinister smirk that only highlights how handsome he is, and you grab onto the cross on your neck, scared. It’s a nervous tick. You’d never guess that being under the scrutiny of an angel would feel so…sinful?

“Do you know what I am?” He asks, crossing his arms. His shirt is black and long sleeved, and in the dark lighting of the church it’s hard to see anything, but it’s like he glows. Skin pale, sculpted face. You nod.

“You’re an angel,” you reply simply, and he actually lets out a little laugh. You wonder why.

“Call me Klaus,” he says casually, and the change in his demeanor is confusing to you. He takes a step back and his eyes trail over your body one more time, from your feet up to your face, although his eyes linger on the cross necklace you’re still firmly grasping in your hand. You quickly let it go, and he chuckles lightly one more time.

“You’re going to be fun.” 

────

You walk into the church and head straight to the altar, palm throbbing in anticipation. There’s an offering dish waiting for you, the bowl gold and gleaming, and you swallow hard with anxiety. 

This is your third visit, and you know what to do. Step into the church and walk straight to the altar, where a bowl sits, ready for your offering. Klaus explained it to you during your first visit. Handed you a small pocket knife and told you to give him your blood. 

Your heart races just thinking about it, the sting of the blade, the way his face looked when he heard the drip of your life essence into the offering dish. His nostrils flared as you squeezed your palm, watching your blood slowly cover the bottom of the bowl. “Enough,” he snapped after a few more seconds, directing you to the confessional booth on the other side of the church. You didn’t look behind you as you followed his directions, but you could hear him drinking from the bowl. 

The light ding when he set it back down on the table. The moan it sounded like he made it when he was done drinking your offering. A shiver ran down your spine. 

You know the routine now. You walk into the church and to the table in the front of the room, the pocket knife waiting for you. You cut open your palm with your eyes closed - it hurts more than the first time because your skin is trying to heal itself, not given a chance to scab over, bright pink. You drop some blood into the dish, and make your way to the confessional booth. 

You don’t know where Klaus waits, but he’s always somewhere, because he always arrives at the confessional booth after you. You always hear him. 

Silent until he clears his throat, the sound of his chair screeching against the floor. “Little sinner,” he says, like he’s surprised you come back every single time. You don’t know why - you’re coming back until he says you’re clean. Your palm burns and you press it against your pants to stop the bleeding, letting out a hiss at the rough fabric of your jeans against it. 

“Forgive me, for I have sinned,” you say through clenched teeth. You swear you can hear him smirking on the other side of the booth, although you’re not sure why or how you’d know that. Why he would think any of this is funny. Maybe human pain is silly as an angel, when nobody or nothing can harm them. 

“Forgive you,” he says, humming like this is a casual conversation. Like he’s contemplating if you deserve forgiveness. “What have you done now?” 

You’re not sure how to answer that. “I’m still impure,” you start, speech rehearsed in your head. You try to get all of it out as quickly as possible, not wanting to carry the weight of all your wrongdoings. You wonder how any one else survives on this planet without sinning so horribly, because a week can’t even go by without you fucking up. 

You don’t let this thought hit you, but it’s definitely there. Ever since you stepped foot in this church, you can’t go a week, a day, an hour without thinking about Klaus and the possibility of a gleaming clean soul.

“I’ve upset my parents. Again. I’ve upset my…suitor.” You don’t want to go into details. Maybe if Klaus doesn’t ask, you won’t have to tell him all the ways you fucked up this week. 

That you didn’t remember to recite your prayers after a long day, that your shirt was too low cut and almost gave your mother a heart attack. That you fed yourself first before serving your brother, and that you’ve been ignoring Peter, your suitor’s, apologizes that are, in your father’s words, not necessary.

You don’t understand how he did the same thing as you and his reputation isn’t tarnished. Just yours, but you’re used to life being unfair. 

Klaus doesn’t answer for a second. You wonder if he wants you to continue. His reply is sudden and sharp. “Yes, well,” you hear him standing up, and you get ready to follow him, because it goes without saying that you’re supposed to go with him to the altar. “You shouldn’t be argumentative,” is his response. You want to say I’m not, but you don’t. You just nod, forgetting he can’t see you. 

“Yes,” you reply, voice caught in your throat. 

“Come,” he orders, and you know he means to meet him at the altar. He goes a different way than you, but you follow him all the same. When you get there, you lose your breath, take in what he’s wearing and sit down on the stairs of the stage while he makes sure your offering is in order. 

Klaus is in a short sleeve grey shirt, and when he lifts the bowl to his mouth to drink your blood, a few drops splatter on the material. You wince, because you know how hard blood stains are to take out - you look down at your jeans and know they’re probably done for, thanks to your bloody palm. 

Klaus finishes his drink and sets the bowl down, looks down at you from the step above with a poker face expression. “You’re still bleeding,” he comments, and you nod, thinking he’s going to offer you a bandage or something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he walks down the steps, past you, to the pew that’s right in front of you. He leans back in the seat and looks at you like you’re on stage to perform. 

“You said suitor,” Klaus says, and you furrow your brows, wondering why he’s honing in on that. He knows about Peter. But does he know something you don’t? Can he read your mind, find out about the truth of your unholiness? 

The thought makes your heart rate pick up, anxiety knotting in your gut. You feel like you’ll start sweating, wondering if the truth about what happened will come out. You’d rather have Klaus believe that you chose to debase yourself - not that you tempted someone into sex. That’s even worse, isn’t it? Being so sinful you’re not even aware of it. Like there’s so much bad in your body that it’s just seeping out of your pores. 

You grip your necklace in nervousness, and Klaus notices. He sits up, leans his hands on his knees, and fixes you with a look that makes you look away. You’re scared - of him, and of him doing that weird sorcery thing he did the first time you were here. 

“Take your clothes off,” he says instead, lighting your entire body on fire. You work up the courage to look at him, and you find yourself obeying. Standing up to kick your shoes off, your jeans, your shirt off too. When you’re left in your underwear and panties, you hear him let out a low whistle, the kind you hear whenever you walk around in town with one of the shirts your mother hates. 

You’re not sure why it doesn’t bother you when he makes the same noise as when other men do. Or why Klaus saying, “Beautiful, every inch,” makes you want to show him more, slip the straps of your bra down your shoulders and let him have a show. “So perfect, it’s a shame you’re a filthy sinner,” he’s smirking as he says it, but you don’t see the playfulness because you’re avoiding his eyes. 

“Stop,” he says suddenly, voice low, speeding over to you with a swiftness you know isn’t human. He grabs your hand that’s at your side, and as he does, his knuckles skim over your stomach. You feel your entire body scream with want. Lit up, like fireworks. You’ve never felt anything like it before. Have never met a man who’s gotten this reaction out of you. 

Although, you suppose, you’ve never been this close with a man in this state of undress - aside from Peter. But this feels different. 

“I can smell your blood from here,” he says, picking up your hand and looking it over. It looks disgusting, torn up and scabbing, fresh blood coming out of the half closed up wound - and it’s embarrassing that he can smell it. 

“Who told you to come here?” He finally asks, and you don’t know how to reply. You weren’t expecting that. “My father,” you answer honestly, confusion evident in your tone. Klaus nods, before pressing his thumb into the wound on your hand. You let out a cry, and you swear that for a second you see a dark satisfaction grace his face. 

“Father,” he murmurs, with more weight on his tongue than the word should carry. He’s silent, looking at you, gazing over your body while putting pressure on the wound. His gaze lingers a little too hard at the bruise on your hip, one that came from Peter the other day, shoving by you while you ran into him when buying groceries in town. He’s so rough since you refused to forgive him, always looking for excuses to be cruel to you. 

“Did your father give you that bruise?”

You don’t answer. You look away, once again afraid of the truth spilling out. Because you don’t know Klaus, or anything about him - but you’re frightened that he, someone heavenly, might deem you too imperfect if he knew the truth. You don’t want to answer. 

Klaus is impatient. When he lets go of your hand, he storms out of the room for a quick second, only to enter again with his own wrist all bloody. He grabs the back of your head before you even know what’s happening, and shoves his wrist in your mouth, tells you to suck. 

“You say you want to be cleansed,” he accuses, venom in his voice. “But you won’t talk. You won’t open up and tell the truth,” the taste of his blood in your mouth makes you want to puke, and you wonder if he’s trying to kill you or harm you. You can’t tell, but you cry out against him. It’s hard to breathe. 

“Withholding the truth is just as bad as the sin itself, you know.” He pulls his wrist away from your mouth and focuses on your reaction, but all you can do is look down at your hand. It tingles because the wound heals on its own, so fast you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re in front of a being that's literally magical. You almost start shaking. 

You wonder why he doesn’t just use sorcery again to get the truth out of you. But you begin to understand.

He wants you to stutter. To slip up with your words and make a fool of yourself, so that he’ll have an excuse to punish you. You recall what Klaus said the last time you were there - the more blood, the more pain, the more bruises - the cleaner the soul. You gulp at the reality that you’re about to hurt. 

Klaus sits on the steps of the stage and pulls you over his lap. He manhandles you like you weigh nothing, spanks your ass red and raw, grips your wrists and your hips and your thighs to keep you in place until they’re almost purple with bruises. “How’s this for purity?” He asks, fingers pressing into the cotton of your panties that covers your core. You’re aroused, and if he can smell your blood, you know that he can smell that. Your entire body heats up in shame.

Euphoria too. You’ll never understand how what Peter did to you makes you unholy, but this, with Klaus, somehow makes you pure again.

But with religion, you’ve learned to not ask questions. 

This moment with Klaus tells you that you’re in the right place - because what kind of person gets turned on, feels arousal, when being punished? 

When he’s done beating your behind, he pulls up your panties and practically shoves you to your feet. You’re shaky as you stand and put your clothes on, tears falling down your cheeks. Less from the pain of the punishment - more for the pain in your soul. 

Klaus shakes his head, almost talking to himself. “It’s dark now. You should go. Come here again, next week.” You nod, and try not to show just how scared you are of walking home in the dark again. Whenever you leave the church, you practically run the whole way, wanting to get home fast, the sounds of all the animals at night absolutely terrifying to you.

You slip on your sweater, your other jacket (you learned your lesson after the first visit, how cold it gets), and your pants slowly, all while Klaus watches you for reasons you’re not sure of. You wonder, now that your body is bruised and hurting, if he’ll give you some of his blood again to heal you up. But he doesn’t. 

When he walks away, cold and cruel, you leave the church and begin to walk back home. You’re only halfway home, the moon as your only light, when you see it. 

A massive looking wolf halfway behind a tree, loud as it steps on crunchy leaves and twigs. You freeze, but to your relief, the wolf just walks the other direction. 

You consider yourself lucky, although the rest of the walk home, you swear you hear the sound of something following you. Maybe you’re just paranoid. You spend the rest of your walk home replaying how it felt to be over Klaus’ lap like that - how arousal pools deep in your belly at the feeling of pain. It’s different than when you’re hurt without expecting it. You knew the smacks were coming, and maybe, just maybe -

You can enjoy that you will be free of sin soon. How nice it feels, just to put yourself in Klaus’ hands and not worry about the future of your soul.

You make it home and sneak in through the window. Your parents know you left, but it’s not like they care. They just seem surprised to see you every morning when you join them for breakfast. Maybe because they can’t believe you’re taking this soul cleansing thing so seriously. You’re not sure.

You’re quiet as you change into your pajamas. As you look in the mirror and gaze, although with a wince, at your bruises - you realize that Klaus healed you of the bruise Peter made so he didn’t have to see anyone else’s harm on your body. 

So the mark of his pain would be the only thing on your skin.

You’re flush red at the thought and turn away from the mirror, walking to your bed. You’re just about to turn out the lights when you catch a glimpse of something moving outside your window. It’s a little ways away, but it’s clear what it is. 

The wolf from the forest followed you home.

When you shut off your lights, it walks away.

────

You stand in front of the altar, wondering where Klaus is. You wait for him to call you from a pew, to appear out of nowhere. Maybe he knows you’re expecting him now, know his little tricks, and is coming up with another one. You walk to the confessional booth, the church feeling unusually dark, but then again - you’re here at a later time than usual. 

You’re in the hall that leads to the confessional when you see Klaus. Only - 

He’s not waiting for you. 

Klaus stands against the wall, just a few feet away from the confessional booth. You only see the side of him, but you can tell that he’s smiling, the same kind of grin he gives you when he finally gets you to confess or beg him for some mercy. You think back to your last visit, when he had you over his knee, counting out loud as he spanked you for the sin of lying to one of your friends. For the sin of being impure. 

For the sin of getting aroused while he punished you. 

Something negative stirs in your chest at the thought of Klaus doing that to another woman like you. That he might use his corrective powers to make another woman pure again. To touch her body and look her over, to lick her blood from the offering bowl. 

Only now, you take yourself out of your thoughts and look down to Klaus’ feet. There’s a man on his knees, quietly sobbing, and you realize you know him. He’s a baker from your village, a man that has constantly picked fun at you for years. You remember times you were a few pennies short, or when he just wanted to fuck with you - would tell you he’ll give you bread for your family if you’d just flash him in the baking room. 

You wonder why he’s here. What he could’ve done worse than harassing women to show their breasts for bread. But it seems pretty bad. 

Something inside of you feels pleasure, at the fact that this man that you hate, who’s caused you so much discomfort, is actually hurting. You wonder what Klaus is going to do to him - if he’ll ever be granted salvation. Surely Klaus isn’t going to spank him? 

“Too late for redemption. Pathetic. Up,” Klaus says, voice much louder than necessary. The man stands on shaky legs and wipes his face. It happens so fast, you can hardly make sense of it. Klaus grabs the man by the shoulder and brings him close, lunges for his neck while the man screams. There’s a grotesque sound, one you’ve never heard before, but it’s predatory, the grip Klaus has on him. 

It all clicks, just as the wheels turning in your mind tell you that you need to go. You run, fast, out of the church.

Klaus drinks blood. He drinks your blood. He drinks blood from the neck of the people begging for his forgiveness. 

Panic surges through you as you run through the church. Klaus is not an angel, you realize, and your body breaks out in goosebumps as you run through the forest away from the church. 

The man thats’s been touching you, hurting you, drinking your blood - he’s no angel. He’s not from Heaven at all. 

Whatever Klaus Mikaelson is - it can’t be good. 

The moon makes the graveyard you’re running through look like sharp fucking teeth. You have a feeling that’s similar to the one you felt after the…incident. After your suitor touched you. The reason you’re here in the first place. Because it’s one thing if Klaus is an angel, but taking advantage of you the way he did? 

Why don’t you care more? 

He’s touched your body. He’s seen you naked. He’s -

Right behind you. 

You can feel him. He must’ve finished with the baker and is now following you. You want to keep running but your body freezes in fear. You stop, because he’s closing in. There’s no way you can outrun him, so you decide to hide instead. Make it to a tree and stop there. 

You try to control you breathing, because you’re really scared. Klaus never gave an inkling that he’d kill you, but there’s no way the other man survived that...feed. Maybe Klaus was just waiting for the right moment to hurt you, harm you. 

There’s a crack of something stepping on a twig. 

You close your eyes as he rounds the tree, but when your eyes open after a second it’s not Klaus. Unless…no. It’s a wolf - large, predatory, its eyes glowing in the night. 

You take off running, your mind reeling with the fact that it’s the same wolf you saw outside of your window weeks ago. You run until you hear the wolf growl, stupidly going in the opposite direction of your home, but as long as you get away from the wolf you’re fine. Maybe you can make it up a tree, hideout for the night -

But then you fall, over a log, your body shaking with fear and adrenaline. “Why are you following me?” You cry out. “I didn’t see anything, I,” you realize how dumb that sounds. You obviously saw something to act the way you just did. 

Slowly, the wolf walks towards you. Big, tawny paws, eyes so scary you shut yours. You wait for it to pounce but it never does. Instead, it stops a few feet in front of you. Looks at you, as if contemplating you. 

You look away, but the sound of bones cracking, the horrible sound of muscle rearranging, has you looking again. The wolf’s shape contorts, shrinking, morphing back into the angel you thought you knew. 

Klaus.

He looks normal again, although - he’s completely naked. You don’t know if your heart is racing from his perfect, naked body - the first fully naked man you’ve ever seen, or the fact that he’s no longer a wolf looking to kill you. 

"What are you?" you whisper, barely able to form the words. Klaus is just looking at you laying on the ground, cupping his…package like you haven’t felt it rubbing against you all the those times you were over his lap. 

But if he’s a wolf that means….he was the one following you home? 

“Not an angel, love. That much I’m sure,” he says, like this is funny. Like it’s a joke to you. He steps forward, eyes softening in a way that seems almost affectionate. It makes no sense to you.  

"I'm a hybrid," he answers, voice smooth.

“Hybrid?”

────

You stand at the entrance to the church again, trying to work up the courage to walk inside. It’s funny, how this time your hesitation is not because you’re scared - it’s because you feel pathetic.

Seeing Klaus as he truly is - not an angel - it should make you run. It should make you never come to this church again, should have you knocking on every door of your village at home, warning everyone of the danger that lives so close to home. You don’t know how long this legend has gone on, you don’t know how long Klaus has been making the perfect trap for the people of your village. Like easy food.

You know now, that Klaus doesn’t have the ability to heal your soul of anything. That the things you did with him - maybe they’re just as bad as the things Peter did to you. You wonder, if that’s the case - why it feels so different then.

After what happened with Peter…you felt ashamed. Wanted to cover your body up. Wanted to hide from the world. But being around Klaus - you kind of feel the opposite. Sometimes you even linger in your window, hoping he’s there in his wolf form, slipping your clothes off and taking too long to put on your pajama top, hoping he sees. You don’t know if he does.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you. Why the monster masquerading as a angel doesn’t have you screaming and locking yourself away in your room for good.

All you know, is that the guilt you felt the first day you came to this church, lessens every single time you see Klaus - and you don’t want that feeling to go away. So you’re here, at night, because you weren’t scared this time to walk here. The greatest threat in these forests has walked you home to ensure you safety before. Has had ample opportunity to kill you - and hasn’t.

You push open the church door. Even though you’re choosing to be here, you can’t help but feel like you’re walking into the mouth of the beast. You take a deep breath, pushing the door open, and step inside.

There, standing at the altar, is Klaus. His arms are crossed, and he’s looking right at you, which is different than the usual times you’ve arrived. Normally, Klaus lets you linger before making his presence known.

You’ve never been one interested danger - you’re a good girl through and through. Or, you were, before the incident. But there’s something about Klaus - something dangerous that calls to you in a way you don’t understand. Maybe it’s the fact that this legend being a sham opens up a world of other possibilities.

Maybe the world as you’ve always known it - a world with god - is a sham as well. You know that should make you scared, but all the thought does is send a crazy relief throughout your body.

You’re going to burn in hell.

But Klaus might be there.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is soft, but there’s a meanness in it as well. His tone is an odd mix of surprise and something that could almost be considered a warning.

You step forward, ignoring the rush of anxiety in your chest, the voice that tells you to leave, dummy. But you don’t listen. You don’t want to.

“I wanted to come back,” you say, voice wavering only slightly.

Klaus exhales sharply, shaking his head and doing a laugh you can tell is one that comes from anger. “Why?” he repeats, his voice suddenly booming. “You know what I am. You saw me. And yet you come back, after all of that? Are you stupid, or just more naive than I took you for?”

You take another step. The pull toward him is like a magnetic force that’s impossible to run from. “I don’t care,” you say, though the words are barely audible. “I don’t care what you are. I just...please don’t make me leave.”

Fuck, why are you so pathetic? It’s embrassing, that you came back here. It’s embarrassing, that you hold onto this beast’s every word like gospel.

Why am I not scared? You scream to yourself. As you get closer, a little voice pipes in from the back of your head.

You are, it reminds you, and you like it.

You think that Klaus is going to ask you why. You think that he’s going to kick you out - although, judging by the way he looks at you, with irritation someone only has for something they don’t despise, you know that’s just your anxiety talking.

A sudden burst of confidence explodes in your chest, and you let it carry you. “I feel…light around you,” you try to explain. Klaus won’t even look at you. Whatever dynamic you two have is insane. It’s cold. There’s no warmness from him, and it’s not like you lead anything to even feel like a part of an equation. Klaus is on a pedestal, literally - and you like it that way. You can’t explain why, but you do.

And he might not be an angel, but he’s powerful enough for it to mean something. Supernatural - and maybe it’s not a gift from the heavens, but one from hell, but you’re not even sure if that matters. Magic is magic. Special is special.

And Klaus is the closest thing you’ve ever come to something extraordinary.

You’re standing by the altar now, on the opposite side from Klaus. He looks at you, with something like pity in his eyes. “Light. You know what that feeling is, don’t you?” he asks. You shake your head. “It’s adrenaline.” You’re still at a loss, not understanding what he means.

“You’re scared of me,” he clarifies.

“I want to, can I - can you,” you cannot believe you’re saying this. “Show me more. Please.” You grip your necklace again, a move that you swear makes Klaus almost roll his eyes, but then you think about what your teacher used to say - at least attitude means youn feel comfortable around me. You wonder if that’s how Klaus feels.

He probably thinks you’re so naive. You play into that.

You worry that he’s going to ask you to say more. Describe in detail what you want him to show you - and even though you’re feeling bold today, you’re not that bold.

He doesn’t.

“Have you ever made a man cum with your mouth?” He asks blunty, stepping around the altar and into your space. Your body heats up, your heart speeds up so fast you’re sure you’re going to pass out. He smells woodsy, warm, like the trees outside - and you wonder if that lingers from his wolf form, or is just what he smells like as a person. You breathe him in, feel his strong hands on your hips pushing you against the altar so you’re trapped.

All these weeks, and you haven’t seen his dick, haven’t felt him in a sexual way beyond the feeling of his hard bulge under your thighs when he has you over his lap, or his fingers teasing you about your wetness through your panties. Little touches, but you’ve memorized them. Think about them whenever you have the chance, to be honest.

You shake your head in response to his question.

Klaus lips curl into a dangerous smile. He’s so handsome, it’s unfair. Like the devil knew looks meant something in this world, and sent his prettiest soldier. “Present your offering to me,” he says, you furrow your brows, confused. Weren’t you just talking about giving head?

You look for the bowl, but Klaus grabs you gently by the chin and chuckles. He lets go. “Your mouth can be the offering today,” and fuck. He pushes you to your knees, and you go easy, looking up at him in all his glory.

He really is glorious. Sculpted abs, pale, perfect skin without an imperfection. It makes sense, if his blood that can heal is running through his veins. You’re a little jealous, of what that level of untouchable means.

“You’ve never done this,” he says, and you can’t tell if it’s a question or not. You nod, confirming. “Shame,” he says, “With lips like that it seems like the first thing a girl like you would learn.”

You blush. Again, you’re reminded about how weird it feels to enjoy what he’s saying - because when Peter talked to you like this, all you felt was disgust. But when Klaus says it, you know that wetness is probably pooling in your panties, your knees jello from how turned on, overwhelmed, you are in this situation.

You open your mouth and look up at him, and then Klaus unzips his pants. He’s hard already, and you can’t deny the thought that you’ve been thinking about this ever since you saw him naked in the forest. It’s primal almost, the strength of this man - it makes sense why you, someone weak and totally human, is on your knees in front of him.

You lick your lips, and Klaus wears that delicious smirk again. He pumps his hard cock in his hands a few times, before running the tip all over your lips. His precum wets them like lipgloss, and you wonder what’s got him so aroused since you just walked in.

Another sinner? A woman, that he plays with like a cat with a mouse? The thought makes jealousy and something in you stirs to be better than her. If she even exists.

But then you see his hands. You didn’t notice the blood at first, but his nails are stained red. It only takes a second for you to realize, and then you get it -

Klaus is hard because he killed someone before you arrived.

“Like what you see?” He asks, looking down at you. You widen your eyes, and he teases you by shoving his cock halfway in your mouth, and then pulling it away. His dick grazes the side of your cheek and he chuckles, and the way you feel on the ground is so utterly degraded.

But it’s controlled, if that makes sense. You know it’s happening. It doesn’t feel like you did, walking through your village with your clothes ripped up after dealing with Peter. It’s - safe? in a way.

Klaus takes a step back to look down at you, thumb and pointer finger running over the smooth head of his cock. He looks like he wants to moan at the feeling, but restrains himself, if only for a minute.

He fucks your mouth after that. Lets you suckle on his dick as he gently pushes it between your lips, so you get used to the feeling. Your mouth stretches, and when he hits the back of your throat you nearly panic.

Klaus grips your hair and reminds you to breathe. “That’s it, love,” he says, voice a coo - almost mocking. He cups your face when he gets a little rougher, slips his finger into the side of your mouth to stretch it even more. Like you’re a toy he’s playing with. He licks over his lips.

“Your eyes,” he murmurs, and you open them wider as he says that. “Like an angel.” It’s not a dirty comment - it’s actually kind of sweet, and that takes you off guard. You sputter around his cock because you forget to relax, and then Klaus lets go of your hair.

He leans against the altar and puts his hands on the back of his neck, arms bent at the elbow like he’s stretching. As you look up at him, gagging around his cock in your mouth, you notice that he’s standing in front of the cross on the wall. He’s a ways away from it, but in this position, it makes it look like he’s meant to be there. Perfectly in the center, his hands and arm position like wings on either side of his shoulder.

He said you look like an angel - but you could say the same about him.

────

“I’ve been too easy on you,” Klaus says the next week, when you’re sitting at the confessional booth. You don’t know why sometimes he chooses to have you talk in the booth all proper, and why sometimes he wants you somewhere else in the church. Nothing with Klaus makes sense - in fact, nothing about this situation makes sense.

And you’re not the only one who thinks so. Everyone in town has been acting weird around you. Avoiding you still, yes, but more so than usual. After your first visit with Klaus, when you came through the door early the next morning, your father literally jumped up from the kitchen table where your mother was serving breakfast. Spilled his coffee all over his newspaper and exclaimed, “What on earth are you - doing back so early?”

You didn’t answer. Just walked to your room and closed the door, ate after the rest of your family left the kitchen.

“Easy on me?” You ask, because you have no idea what Klaus means. Nothing he’s told you to do has been easy. You think about it now, squeezing your knees together as you sit on the other side of the booth from him. The spankings, the blowjob that ended in him cumming all over your necklace.

“Playing naive doesn’t make you holy again. Being meek doesn’t make you immune to sin. You need to learn that,” and for the first time, you actually laugh a little. Because what does Klaus actually know about sinning? He admitted the truth of what he was to you. He knows you come here not to be holy again - but to feel free.

“I know,” you reply, and it’s like something in him snaps. When he speaks again, his tone is mean.

“You know? Well, by all means, show me just how confident you are.” You’re confused. You don’t know what he means by that, and luckily, you don’t have to worry about, because he tells you.

“Tell me what you want. I can smell your arousal from here.”

Woah. That takes you off guard. It’s like your body is trained, to be aroused the minute you walk into this church. To crave the feeling of Klaus’ hands all over your body, to crave the feeling of the pain he brings. The feelings he brings out in you, although not right, are more holy and healing than anything you’ve ever experienced before.

It’s addicting, the feeling of slight freedom you get when you come here. Addicting and appealing enough that you’re able to ignore the different faces of god on the walls of the church as you walk inside.

“I don’t know what you mean, Klaus,” you say shyly, squeezing your thighs together for some relief. It’s warmer out today, so you’re wearing a skirt - maybe that’s why you’re so obvious. Klaus chuckles.

“You step foot in this church and immediately are turned on, little sinner. Practically cum all over yourself when I get close to you. You’re not the shy, inexperienced girl you were when you came in. At least  - your throat isn’t. Tell. Me. What. You. Want.”

He punctuates it for effect. Your mind begins reeling, but maybe super religious people are right - not being able to see his face, sitting in your own part of the confessional - it gives your confidence you wouldn’t have face to face.

“I want,” but he cuts you off again.

“Tell me what you think about when you’re under the covers of your bed at home,” he urges, voice low. He’s turned on too. “You really should turn your lamp off at night, by the way. Anyone from the window can see you through the mirror.”

And fuck.

Has he been - ?

“I imagine a mouth,” you admit, cheeks red. Looking down at your hands that you’re playing with in your lap.

“A mouth?” Klaus asks, clicking his tongue. “Or mine?”

“Yours.”

Klaus hums. He’s pleased with your answer.

“Tell me more.”

Your face burns. “I can’t, I, I’ve never done that before. Your…dick in my mouth made me think about what it’d be like…” you trail off.

It’s silent for a moment. You never expressed your desires before, and you feel fucking embrassed. But it’s also empowering. A little spark inside of you burning up the anxiety you always feel about your own needs. You rarely speak your truth. Maybe the shallowness of expressing your desires can be the catalyst for expressing yourself in other ways.

“You want me to lick your pussy, is that it?” Klaus asks, so vulgar you actually choke on some spit. You cough, and can’t see him but you know he’s smirking.

“Don’t be shy, little sinner. You are a sinner, aren’t you? Bad girls ask for what they want, isn’t that right? Haven’t you been raised to be good?” He’s not wrong. “So do the opposite of what you think you should do. Tell me how badly you want me to push that little skirt up and lick you to an orgasm. It’ll be better than your fingers.”

Oh my god. Like a dirty sermon, the words spill out of his mouth. But he’s right.

“I want,” you can’t get it out. Klaus sighs, frustrated.

“You say the words, and I’ll leave my side of the booth and drop to my knees in front of you. I’ve always wondered how you’d taste. Being the first to bring you to the brink of pleasure with my mouth - I’ll never forget it.”

You want this so bad. You sigh, bite your lip, squeeze you legs together again.

“Klaus, I. Please - will you lick me?” God, how fucking embarrassing. How fucking shameless. Your parents would literally dig their own graves if they ever knew you were saying this. You came home with ripped clothes and bruises all over your body after Peter tore your innocence from you even when you said no - and they hate you for it. Imagine how they’d feel now, looking at you begging a creature straight from hell to lick your cunt.

“Good girl,” Klaus says casually, and you feel proud. Nobody has ever said that to you before. You expect to hear the chair squeak, for him to move, to give you what you want now that you did what he said.

Instead, he’s still talking. “Lift up your dress and feel yourself over your panties, sweetheart,” he orders. You do what he says, fingers pressing hard over your pussy through your cotton underwear. It’s painful in a good way, and you’re wet. Probably have a wet spot.

“Tell me. How wet are you? Just from my voice, no?” He’s teasing. Such a cocky, confident bastard. But you nod, and then he reminds you. “Words. Can’t see you.”

“Yes,” you spit out. “Your voice. This place, I,” you rub yourself.

“Take the panties off and touch yourself. How you do at home, with your hands under your covers in your panties and your hand over your mouth.” You open your mouth to ask how he knows this, but you fall short. You do what he says, stand and up to take your panties off, wanting to hear another good girl. After a life without praise, you want that hit of it again.

You sit back down and flip your skirt up, rubbing your clit gently while little moans leave your mouth. “A finger inside. Have you done that? I want you to. For me.”

You’ve never done that. Never tired, but you do what Klaus says and slip a finger inside of yourself.  After so much time so pent up, you’re close already. Really. Just a few minutes rubbing your clit, that’s how backed up you are. Klaus must sense it. Because your pussy clenches around your measly finger like it’s hungry and then there’s a slam and he does that speed thing that lands him in front of you.

Your legs are vulgarly spread wide, and Klaus is on his knees in front of you. It feels wrong, him in a position of worship to someone like you. You almost want to tell him to get up, but you’re not that selfless. Not when his necklace hits your leg as he dives between your legs, his hands spreading your knees even further apart. He looks hungry - similar to how he looks when he drinks your blood from the dish.

“Shame you’re not on your cycle,” he says grossly. “That’d be an offering all in itself.”

Klaus licks between your legs and laps up your slick, his warm, skilled tongue feeling like what you imagine heaven feels like. He moves his tongue from your clit down to your aching core. You don’t know why it aches - have never had more than one person inside of you, but god do you want Klaus.

He makes you cum right there in that confessional booth. Three times. Once, on his tongue, and the next two with his fingers buried inside of you. He says you taste sweet, that you could convince a good man to take a deal of eternal damnation for a taste of you, that he’s never seen a pussy so perfect, and all you can do is whine and moan and call out to god.

Klaus pulls away when you do, handsome face covered in your wetness. Smelling like you. Your heart races as he licks his lips. “Call me Klaus.”

────

You stumble backward as Peter shoves you, his hand pressing sharply against your shoulder. The force of it catches you off guard, and you try to regain your balance, but the ground feels slippery beneath your feet. His laugh rings out, harsh and mocking, and you fall backwards, your hands scrambling for purchase. You can’t believe this is happening in town, with people around you watching this - not giving a shit. 

Your knees hit the pavement with a sickening scrape, the rough concrete cutting into your skin before you even have a chance to break your fall. A sharp sting bursts across your knee, one ten times worse than the feeling of the pocket knife you use for your offering. You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that sting your eyes. The pain is immediate and raw, the kind of sting that burns and throbs all at once.

"Oops," Peter sneers, his voice dripping with amusement. He says he cares about you, that he still wants you, yet he can’t stop tormenting you whenever he sees you. Boys will be boys your mother keeps saying, but surely this can’t be what someone does when they want you? You start to cry, trying to sniffle back the tears. 

You glance up, gritting your teeth against the pain, and you meet his eyes. Peter’s smirk widens, and there's no apology in sight - only the cruel satisfaction of someone enjoying the sight of your discomfort. He was bad before the incident, but after it, he’s so much worse. You wish he’d just leave you alone. You can’t believe you ever thought he was handsome - that you were ever excited when he’d come pick you up, or take you out. He’s ugly to you now that you know who he is on the inside. 

"Get up," he snaps, his tone cold and dismissive as if this is some sort of game to him. You try to push yourself up, wincing as your scraped knee protests, but your legs feel unsteady, and there's a humiliated heat creeping up your neck.

"Come on, you're not gonna stay down there forever, are you? Oh, well - maybe you are. Spend enough time on your knees at that church, don’t you?" His voice drips with sarcasm. What he says stings more than the wound on your knee - because you’re only going to the church because of what he did to you. 

On the flip side, you only know Klaus because of him, so maybe things do happen for a reason.

You want to say something, to snap back at him, but the sting of the scrape and the weight of his presence presses down on you, leaving you feeling small, and it’s hard to muster the energy to fight back. He reaches down for your necklace, and for reasons you don’t understand, rips it off of you.

You look down until he waks away - you don’t want to let him see you cry.

────

“What happened to you?”

His voice makes you jump, and you almost stumble over a gravestone that’s half toppled over. You catch yourself and stand steady, but your heart is beating at an alarming rate at your surprise. This is the first time, in all the weeks you’ve been coming to repent, that Klaus is standing outside of the church. 

You’re almost to the front door, but not quite, about to open the door to the broken, barbed gate that was once a protection for the church, but now sits as a reminder of how long it’s been since this place of worship was properly used. Every time you walk past it, you feel something like sorrow in your chest, looking at the locks different couples throughout the years have clasped on the broken fence when it wasn’t so decrepit. 

They probably thought their love would last, you think, something like bile rising in your throat at the thought. It’s pathetic and sad, that anyone could ever think that love or another person could save them. That’s the angry, negative part of your brain. The other part of you, the one that wants to believe in good so bad you can almost taste traces of it when the moment is right - well, it can’t even make the locks romantic. Can’t even turn love that’s frozen in time into something sweet. 

Maybe the couples who put these locks on the fence are still together, your brain reasons, trying to think on the bright side, but your thoughts quickly tumble to the negative as they always do. It doesn’t really matter though, does it? Those couples, even if they stayed together, are dead now anyway. 

So much for a bright sunny day. 

You grip the gate with one hand and lean against it, hoping it doesn’t topple over - but you need something to support you to be in the presence of Klaus this close. He’s in a black, long sleeved shirt, a rosary around his neck, and he looks so angry you worry about your safety. 

“What?” You ask dumbly, so lost in his eyes and the symbol of devotion around the neck of such a monster you don’t even remember what he said when you first walked up to him. You swallow hard when he sighs, obviously irritated, before crouching down and pulling your knee high sock down to your ankle. 

You blush, at Klaus on the ground in front of you. His hair is almost golden where the sun hits it, hands strangely soft where they touch your skin. You think about a story your father used to tell you, about the devil; how he’s not a man with red horns and skin, but a beautiful angel that turned rotten. 

You think that’s accurate, looking down at Klaus. His beauty. When he looks up at you, still frustrated at your lack of response, you finally realize what he’s talking about. 

The white of your sock has a red stained circle where you knee is, some dirt covering it. Your exposed knee burns, now that you focus on it, from when you fell down. 

When you were pushed.

You try to push those thoughts out of your head, because you’re here now, and it’s time for you to repent and move past it all. Isn’t that what your father told you to do, after the fight you had with Peter again? Confess. Repent. Get over it. 

“What happened to you?” Klaus asks again, his patience wearing thin. You’re no vampire, er, hybrid, but you swear you can hear his breathing. Heavy, like he’s angry, like he’s upset, and then he locks his jaw and looks up at you and you realize what he’s really mad at. 

You really can’t go one day without fucking everything up, can you? You made Peter mad today, and now you’re making Klaus mad. Both have the ability to hurt you, one worse than the other. You feel unwanted tears start to burn in your eyes, and you wish more than anything that you’d had a chance to breathe and change your clothes after you fell into the trap that is Peter. 

“I fell,” you say meekly, hating yourself for being mousy, average, annoying. Quiet. So utterly ordinary and useless it makes you want to rip your skin off just to start fresh. Be someone, anyone, new. 

“You wouldn’t skin your knee this bad if you just fell. Someone pushed you,” Klaus replies, hand still on your thigh. You try to focus on that feeling, his hand steadying you, anything to keep you grounded so you don’t cry. It works a little bit, because you don’t even hear the concern in Klaus’ voice. “Tell me who pushed you.”

You shake your head and try to pull your leg out of his grasp. “I fell, Klaus, I swear,” you lie, and you hate yourself even more, if that’s possible. You feel bad, after the vulnerability you’ve shown Klaus before, that you’re acting like this now. Why should you protect Peter?  It’s so wrong. You’re just scared to admit how badly you fucked up today, how you made Peter mad again, when you’re supposed to be getting better. That’s what Klaus has been helping you with, hasn’t he? 

You’re such a failure. 

Klaus doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans forward and licks at the bloody wound on your leg. It’s disgusting, and you hold you breath, the feeling of his wet, warm tongue on the owie on your leg such a horrible sensation…

Until it’s not. 

He cleans off your knee with his mouth, in broad daylight, before standing up. He looks at you all disappointed, because he can see right through you. Knows you’re lying, knows you’re a screw up, and him looking at you with that expression is just too much. 

Your eyes water. You instinctively go to grip the cross on your neck, a nervous tick - only to be reminded that you’re not wearing your necklace. Klaus’ eyes follow the movement. He clicks his tongue, disappointed. 

Not like the amusement he usually has when he makes that noise. The fun he gets, out of making you confess. 

“Come, little sinner,” he orders, a hand on your shoulder to direct you past the run down gate, into the even more worse for wear church. You follow, doing your best not to stumble, wound on your leg still burning despite the way he licked it clean. 

You ignore the other burning you feel, always feel, around Klaus. In this church. Burning of your cheeks, burning of arousal in your core, burning with want in every inch of your body he touches and doesn’t. 

When you’re inside the church, Klaus leads you to the altar and orders you to strip and kneel. 

“But my knee,” you say before thinking it through, another sin for not just obeying. A woman is supposed to obey, you hear your mother’s voice in your head. 

God, you ask, and not as a curse - it’s a genuine plea. A genuine question. Why can I never do anything right? 

“When you tell me the truth about what happened to your knee, you’re free to go. Already got my offering,” he reminds you, referring to the blood he lapped up off of your knee. Klaus is sitting a few pews down to watch as you get your shoes off, pull your socks off, something dark in his eyes that you’re not sure is desire or frustration or something else entirely. 

He looks too beautiful to be watching you be so useless, the sun shining through the stained glass window casting his pale, handsome face in a mosaics of bright colors. What you wouldn’t give, to look like that. Painted by the sun itself. Instead you’re dreary, dumb, a punching bag who can never get anything fucking right. 

You do what Klaus says, get on your knees and stay there until you can’t take it anymore. It hurts, putting all your weight on the wound, but the position is uncomfortable anyway. And Klaus just watches, in the third pew from the stage, while you cry, trying to come up with the words to say what happened without admitting the whole truth to him.

I made Peter mad, you want to say. You want to cry out. I asked him to apologize for what he did to me, and I should’ve left it alone. That’s why he pushed me. Please, just clean my soul of this. 

Nothing comes out. 

Klaus sends you home an hour and a half later, knees bruised, cheeks wet with tears. He brushes them away roughly when he helps you stand, pulls your socks back up your knees and helps you out the door. 

“You waste my time when you lie to me,” he reminds, which you know. “How can I help you if you won’t tell me what what’s wrong?” You don’t hear the pleading in his voice. 

All you hear is how big of a disappointment you are.

────

“Here,” Klaus hands you a box just as you pick up the pocket knife from the altar. He comes out of nowhere, behind you, and you can’t help but think that he chose to make himself known that way so he could press himself against you. Your body burns where he touches you, and you find it funny that he put a nice looking box on the altar where you slit your hand open for him.

“A gift?” You ask. You can count on one hand, the number of gifts you’ve received. Your parents don’t belive in shit like that, but you’re excited nonetheless. You don’t wait to open it, and your surprise when you see what’s inside must show on your face. Klaus does a shy smile, an expression you’ve never seen him wear before.

It’s a necklace. Like the one Peter broke. It’s gold, heavy - the same material as your cross one. Only -

There’s no cross on this one.

Just a K.

For Klaus.

It’s a weird gift. You don’t know what to say to it, because Klaus expects you to wear this? An initial of his name? You’re not sure what’s happening here, only that you feel like this is…serious. Sensitive. What?

He must see your face again. But you don’t want to disappoint him. You grab the necklace and hand it to him, turning around and moving your hair out of the way so he can clip it on you. His hands linger, and then cup the sides of your throat. For a split second you wonder if he’s going to snap your neck, but he doesn’t.

“I want you to wear it, when you’re here,” he says, like an order he knows you’ll obey. “But if you ever wise up and choose to…get out of this town, you could probably sell it for a pretty penny.”

You furrow your brows and then to face him. “Leave? What else is there? More shitty towns?” Klaus looks at you like you’re crazy.

“You’ve got no idea what’s out there, do you?” You shake your head, confused. “It’s part of your appeal, little sinner, that naivety - but there’s so much more out there. Art. Music. Beautiful places, and cities. Places where men don’t,” he pauses, and your breath hitches. You wonder what he’s going to say. “Nevermind.”

“You talk like you’re going to leave,” you say, insecurity showing in your voice. Because you’re not sure what you and Klaus are. Aren’t stupid enough to even think that you’re something. But the thought of him leaving when he’s the only thing in your mind, the only decent thing in your life, is just too much to handle. What’s wrong with you? One man shows you a lick of kindness and suddenly you’re worshipping at his altar?

Klaus steps closer to you, grabs your waist. “I’m not leaving.”

You open your mouth but Klaus cuts you off. Looks at the necklace on your neck, his initial, like a brand. “I want to fuck you,” he says suddenly. Your body responds, you feel your nipples harden and your stomach tighten, turned on with just those few words.

You look down, shake your head. You want Klaus to fuck you - of course you do, but it doesn’t change the fact that the thought of sex makes you freeze up. You’ve done everything else, naughty things with Klaus, yet -

You can’t run from your past.

“Klaus,” you want to explain yourself. You’re ready this time, to tell him what happened to you. Why you come here. You want to share. “There was this man. My suitor. He pushed me and he hurt me and -“

“I’m not going to force you.”

You’re frozen after that. He knows. Even better, he seems to understand what happened to you by the hands of Peter, and he doesn’t seem to blame you.

Klaus bends to his knees and runs his hands down leg. It’s gentle, for no reason other than the fact that he wants to touch you.

“What are you doing?” You whisper, and he doesn’t say anything. Just kisses the scar on your knee, up your thigh, and then pulls your panties down your legs. He stands, gets his own pants off, and when he bends you over the altar and stuffs his cock inside of you, you realize that sex was never the issue at all.

Peter was.

“Beautiful girl,” Klaus murmurs. “You’ve got no idea the power you have.” He grabs your hand as he puts his weight on your back, using the altar to to support you while he fucks into you with slow thrusts. You think he’s just going to hold your hand, but instead he bites into it, takes his own offering while he claims your body. He feels so fucking good, stretching you out. Going slow, tender. You never imagined someone like Klaus would fuck you like he actually has a soul.

When you cum around his cock, you keep your eyes open, locked on the cross in front of you at the back of the room in the center of the wall.

“Klaus,” you call out like a prayer.

────

You walk into the forest with Peter, his friends trailing behind you - and you wish you hadn’t come. When he showed up at your place a few hours ago, your father and mother all but shoved you out the door with him. You don’t understand how or why they’re still pushing you into his arms, but you know they just want to get rid of you. It hurts. 

Their laughter echoes off the trees. They’re all drunk, except for you, and it’s insufferable. Peter keeps pulling on your wrist, trying to grab your hand, and eventually you won’t be able to fight him off.

His hand isn’t Klaus’. And you wish you weren’t such a pushover - wish you stood your ground and never let your parents tell you, a grown woman, what to do and with whom.  You don't want to be here. Not with Peter, and not close to the area where you walk through the forest to see Klaus. You don’t want those memories, the only thing positive in your life, tainted by Peter. 

You zone out, breathing in to try to calm down. If you just get through whatever campfire they want to go to, then you can go home. The air is thick with the smell of pine and earth, and for a moment, it almost feels peaceful. But then, Peter’s voice cuts through the calm, teasing.

Mean. 

“You really went to that church again this Sunday? This is a far walk from home,” he says, his tone dripping with mockery. The others chuckle, and you feel your face heat up. He’s not asking because he cares. He’as asking to make fun of you.

You bite your lip, trying to ignore them. You’ve heard it before, the constant jabs, but it still stings every time.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” you reply, your voice a little sharper than you intended. You don't know where it comes from, when you’re shaking from being so bold. “It’s important to me.” You want to scarem that he's the reason you have to go, but you refrain. Because these days - he’s not. Not anymore. 

You hate him so fucking much. 

You should just run back home, but the only thing stopping you is the fact that Peter’s holding the only flashlight. You should have brought your own. 

Peter snorts. “Yeah, I get it. You want to be cleansed. You’re all about that holy stuff,” he mutters, and then one of his friends chimes in. “Weren’t so holy when you let Peter pop your cherry though, were you? 

His friends laugh again, and you can feel the heat rise in your face, but you try to hold it together. You don’t want to give them the satisfaction of watching you cry.

You say nothing. Peter tries to wrap an arm around your shoulders, but you’re seething so hard you pull out of his grip. Stupid, maybe, because in retaliation, he shoves you, just a little too hard. 

Your feet slip on the uneven ground, and you lose your balance. It’s a rough part of the woods, and you twist your ankle. The world tilts as you fall back, your hands shooting out to catch yourself, but there’s nothing to stop you. You hit the dirt, your head on a rock, with a sickening thud, the breath knocked out of you.

For a moment, everything is still. Your heart races, panic spreading in your chest. Peter doesn’t move, just watches, face unreadable.

His friends are silent now, their laughter gone, replaced with something else. Something you can't quite read.

You slowly push yourself up, your hands shaking, dusting off your knees. But even as you rise, the hurt from the fall doesn’t compare to the sinking feeling in your stomach. This is more than just a push. You can’t stand up. You can’t move. Everything feels hazy, and then you hear the urgent voices of his friends. You’re not sure how you missed it before, but now, it’s undeniable. Something’s wrong. 

And then everything goes black.

────

You wake up on the hard, cold ground of the forest. Your head is aching something fierce - you’ve never experienced this level of pain before. The minute your eyes are fully open, you let out a cry, laying your head back down on the dirty grass underneath your body. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, covering your eyes with your arm. You breathe in, coughing immediately. You sit up with another cry, your body stiff and heavy feeling, every nerve on edge. 

That’s when you realize the smoke. There’s a fire at a distance, that much you can tell. You smell the charred odor, along with something earthy - but the scariest smell is the smell of something metallic. Sour. 

It’s blood. Coherent enough to look around now, you notice that even in the dark, it’s clear that wherever you’re lying is a crime scene. There’s blood everywhere - but strangely enough, not a lot on your clothes. You know you should stand, but you can’t bring yourself to. The air is too thick, too choking, and your head and your limbs just feel too heavy and  -

“You’re up. Fantastic,” you hear, along with the crunching of leaves that tells you someone is walking towards you. You know that voice anywhere, but you’re not sure why it’s here. 

Klaus. 

The last thing you remember is Peter, and his friends, and walking into the forest together for that stupid bonfire. So how are you here, with Klaus right now? How - what?

Klaus crouches down next to you. 

“There’s enough blood here for a baptization,” he says, voice a little too cheery for this eerie situation. You ignore him, even as he touches the back of your head, like he’s checking something. 

That’s when you realize - the back of your head is covered in blood, hair matted against your sclap. No wonder you’ve got a headache, but even scarier - with this much blood loss, how are you even awake? 

“What? Klaus, I,” he cuts you off. “You’ll feel better once you eat something, little sinner.” He stands up and walks away from you, and you watch him, heart beating too loud and too fast in your chest. You could gag at the smell around you, and your head pounds at every step Klaus takes. Why is it so fucking loud? Why are you feeling so much?

What happened?

Klaus returns with a bloody paper bag. You don’t understand. “What’s going on? Why are you here? Where’s Peter?” But you don’t finish again. Klaus shoves the bag at you, and you open it, a cream threatening to escape your throat when you see what's inside. 

“Now,” Klaus starts, crouching back down. “I would never force you to do anything, but in a few hours, you're going to be feeling worse than you’ve ever felt in your entire life. Hunger, like you’ve never known. I would suggest, love, that you take a bite out of the heart, just to keep your appetite at bay while we find you some clean clothes,” the immediate reaction in your body is to hurl. 

You want to throw the paper bag with a heart inside of it, but instead your own beats faster. It's like your veins throb, your stomach growls, so hungry for this organ that you can barely contain it. What the fuck is happening to you? And why is Klaus so calm? 

“Klaus, explain, please,” you look at him, noticing only now that he’s entirely drenched in blood. Up to his elbows almost, so thick it looks like he’s wearing gloves. Your head spins, making you dizzy, and you stand up because you don’t know what else to do. 

Klaus looks at you like you’re crazy. “That’s a heart. You’ve never seen one before?” As if you've seen an actual heart outside of a body before. You lean your back against a tree, your own heart about to leap out of your chest at the disgust you now feel for yourself - because that heart - why does it smell so good?

“Why?” you manage to get out, and Klaus actually laughs. He’s having fun, you realize. This is the first time in all you’ve known him, that Klaus is actually fucking smiling. 

“That suitor of yours. He pushed you, although I do wonder what you were doing in the woods with him and the others, without your necklace on,” you want to tell him that you keep your necklace somewhere safe, as to not draw suspicion from people in town. But he just keeps talking, on a high that only death can give him, apparently. 

“I tried at first to get him to cut his heart out of his own chest, but as you know - people don’t like to be forced to do things. Even him. So I did it for him. Kind of me, I know.”

Peter is dead. Klaus found you in the forest with him and he killed Peter and the others. 

But more than that - you can’t breathe. Can’t think. Klaus takes a step closer to you and places a bloody hand on your shoulder. You’re full on crying now. 

“Don’t cry,” Klaus says, as if that helps. “He deserved it. Think about what happened. What you last remember. After we were intimate, before you left - I fed you my blood to heal the wound on your hand,” and you remember that. So why does Klaus sound…desperate for you to understand? 

But then everything comes back, and it only takes a second for it to all come together. 

Peter - he pushed you. You had Klaus' blood in your system , and all the vampire facts he told you after you found out he was a hybrid came flooding back. Peter -

He killed you. You must’ve hit your head when you tumbled down the hill. And because Klaus’ blood was in your body you -

You turned. You're a -

“No,” you shout, pushing past Klaus. The fear in your body is enough to push past the pain and stand up. “I can’t be this. I’m going to hell, Klaus.” You've never felt an emotion this devastating. This is horrible. You’ve experienced self hatred before, but nothing quite like this. You have an eternity to accept this disgusting, disgusting truth. 

Klaus actually looks offended. But he doesn’t get it. How could he? You’ve been trying to be someone new, but the beliefs that have been drilled into your head since you were a child are strong. And you’re scared. 

You drop to your knees and plop on your ass, holding your legs to your chest. Klaus comes to you, but not to comfort you. To twist the knife deeper. 

“Look around,” he says, voice loud. You don't want to. To see what - blood, smoke? “You’re already in hell. Your father let that man around you. He told you to come to me. You don’t think he knew what I’d do to you?”

You don’t understand what he’s saying. Your father - ?

“He was hoping I’d kill you. Don’t you see?” You don’t know what to say to that. But it’s all clicking, and you’re going to be sick. Your father sent you here to die. It makes sense why he was surprised every time you came home. You cry even harder, body shaking with sobs. 

“But don’t worry. I took care of it. You’re holy now, you understand?. Safe. Untouchable.” You look in the direction of the smoke and realize it’s coming from your town. Did he - burn the town down? And maybe supernatural sense are even crazier than you thought, because you focus on the scent of char and pinpoint that the scent is coming off of Klaus’ fingertips. 

He grabs the paper bag and sits beside you. You shift away from him. This is too much. You can tell he’s upset by your reaction, but what did he expect? He moves closer to you. “Leave your faith and follow me, and I’ll show you things the Bible never taught you.” But he still drops something on your lap.

It’s your old cross necklace. All bloody. He must’ve got it from Peter. It’s a thought you’ll have to go back to later, to understand - Klaus, giving you back a piece of yourself. Even one he doesn’t agree with.

“I’m going to hell,” you repeat, frozen. You’re looking forward, unsure if you’re even blinking. You can’t process this. You will never, ever get over this. 

Klaus waits a moment, before he opens the bag and hands you the heart. It looks smaller than you imagined, but softer. The smell is so vile it’s good and your stomach rumbles. 

“Welcome to the club, little sinner,” he says, and without looking at him, you grab the heart and bite into it. 

Klaus grabs your free hand and gives it a squeeze.

this fic is a gift for @myklaus ♥︎ thank you for the yaps, the laughs, and the idea!

[justaz]

post magic reveal arthur is like “:/ mmm i’ll open up communications with the druids but idk about repealing the ban :/“ and merlin is like “??? why??” and arthur’s like “well magic is evil, that’s all i’ve been taught and all i know. i know you’re not evil but idk about other sorcerers, i can’t just let them free.” and merlin’s like “what’ll get you to consider it” and arthur’s like “well you say that magic isn’t something you chose, it choses you. alright, but people still chose to use it.” and merlin who has never followed this train of thought before is like,,, “you wanna test it? experiment? i can stop using my magic and we’ll see what happens” and arthur who has been playing his father’s lessons on magic through his head for the past like month since he found out and has been trying to figure out a way to get merlin to stop corrupting his soul jumps on the opportunity and is like “great idea :] nothing could go wrong :] you stop corrupting yourself and i don’t have to set magic free :]”

merlin stops using his magic for everything. he makes a conscious effort to force it all down and away and the first few days pass by fine. then he starts to get a little dizzy and then he gets spacey and distracted but not rambly, just staring off into space. then he’s just like. not there anymore. druids come to camelot to speak with arthur but can’t stop staring at merlin and eventually cut the conversation off to point at merlin and ask whats wrong with him

when they find out whats been going on they go all “oh shit” and urge everyone to stand still and not make a move. arthur inquires and they answer. magic has built up within him. magics natural state is free, it wishes to be used and to fly free, to be cooped up within someone is like caging a wild stallion. it bucks and kicks at the gate, bites at its handlers, and fights like hell to be set free. the magic thats been trapped within merlin for a couple of weeks is practically tearing him apart from the inside trying to set itself free. but! they can’t just tell him to use magic here. even the smallest use of magic would be a crack in a dam that would crumble like ash and set all the magic free. and with all that magic - all of emrys’s magic? he could very well flatten the city.

they cautiously, EXTREMELY cautiously, guide merlin out of the room, out of the castle, and into the middle of the woods. they urged everyone (who followed which is like arthur and his knights) back and out of the forest. then from a distance, the eldest druid mentally reached out to merlin and instructed him to let his magic loose. within seconds a blast of pure golden light shoots forth and flattens the entire forest, the druids casting a large shield to protect themselves, arthur, and his men.

merlin staggers to his feet in the distance and the eldest druid reaches out again, for safe measure, and tells him to let loose once more. merlin obeys and reaches down into the ground and pulls all the trees back up and imbues them with life so they thrive once more. the druids claim the forest as their own, sacred by order of emrys. arthur allows it. and then goes home to draft up a magic ban repeal. and an apology to merlin.

[cosycafune]

JEALOUSY; EREN JAEGER:

a summary of this chapter: your boyfriend is mad at you for dismissing him the whole night, chatting away to your puny friend. naturally, he wants to have his way with you — just so your full focus is on him.

a synopsis of acts: smut, rough sex, corruption kink, sadistic tendencies, cumming, creampies, sizing, crying, brat taming and potentially more.

“Eren, please!” You so desperately spewed, your drool inevitably on display whilst Eren’s ample cock laid upon the bottom of your curling stomach.

“Please, what?” Eren bluntly questions you, the largeness of his delicious cock swiftly moving towards the soppiness of your folds.

Eren has sufficiently ruined the entirety of your resolve, mindlessly committing sexual acts that he know would have you eating out the palm of his broad hand. His hand. Not no random man your gaze steers upon, to elicit jealousy within the neglected aspects of him.

Inevitably, Eren knew you were his to indulge in — to stuff the vastness of his cock within and consistently breed you until you’re marked and tinted with a beautiful ivory.

“P-Put it in!” Whimpering, tearing and extremely dazed, you chew your bottom lip with the uttermost shame. Shame as the liveliness in Eren’s viridian, emotion-packed eyes completely admire yet scrutinise the desperation within your choked pleas.

“Why? You spent all day pretending to ignore me, just to talk to that aloof man,” At Eren’s harsh statement, his thick brows furrow before he skims the girth of his cock between your nimble thighs — unable to fathom the concept of not overwhelming and dominating you.

“B-Because I’m yours,” Gulping at your bestowed announcement, your eyes widen as Eren swiftly burrows himself within your cunt — leaving your eyes to widen erratically.

“Say it again,” Loathing the lack of repetition you gift, Eren greedily presses his hips upon your pelvic structure. Cock stricken, your purpose completely flees your lips at the impenetrable closeness of his blessed hips.

“‘M yours! All yours! Ah!” Your melodically generated moans command Eren into beginning to harshly pound within you, yearning to completely break away at the bratty exterior and interior you had settled upon him.

“Then, don’t do that shit again,” Eren grunts out, his eyes lovingly cloudy while he bucks his hips loudly within you — slamming into you at an inhumane pacing.

“F-Fuck! I won’t!” A barely comprehensible mess, you feel the beautiful within Eren’s pace — entwined with unwritten emotions.

Eren’s usually so whiny, so seeing him dominant, complex and riddled with anger heightened your emotions but also played upon your building guilt.

“Say it again!” Eren’s eyes boil and soothe at the concept of you lovingly taking his thick cock, completely overwhelmed and worshipping the heavenly feeling of it all.

“I love you…and I’m yours,” Softening slightly, Eren continues to abuse his reckless pace — his lips instinctively kissing your unchallenged lips.

“I-I love you, too,” Wavering momentarily, Eren lips delicately smother your own — all before he safely buries his head within the crook of your neck.

“Ah!” You harshly moan out, feeling yourself subconsciously cum upon the entirety of his inhumanely-thrusting cock.

“G-Got to be quick, I’ve got a concert soon,” Despite Eren’s suggestion, you innately wrap your toned legs around his sculpted waist — knowing that he’s bound to cum.

“I’d…get you pregnant, just so you’d be all…mine,” Eren chokes out, his delicate breaths laboured before he constructs himself into filling your flowery womb with the soul of his thick, white seed.

“Y-Yes!” Panting with false agreement, you glance into Eren’s strained eyes — drawing him into your homely arms.

“S-Shit,” Carried away, Eren comfortably pulls out of you — glimpsing at you with subtly glassy eyes.

“I’m sorry for making you jealous, Eren,” Apologising so sincerely, you press kisses upon his lips — uncaring for the arrays of cum that spew from your pulsating, abused cunt.

“Just don’t do it again,” Eren groans out, “I love you, though.” Muttering, curling into your hair stroking, Eren relishes all the love that you have embedded within him

“I won’t,” Kissing the crown of his forehead, you apply a kiss upon the top of Eren’s crumpled mind.

—

do not copy my work; all rights reserved. cosycafune, 2024.

[yanderes-galore]

This is completely self-indulgent... I'm not on Beast-Yeast Episode 7-8 so this will just be my general ramblings about the insane jester. I might make follow up HCs if I need to add anything.

Maybe I'll do one for Mystic Flour Cookie when I finish Episodes 3-4? Waiting for stamina takes forever, even when I AFK farm in Town Square :(

Yandere! Shadow Milk Cookie Concept/HCs

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulative, Possessive, Jealousy, Isolation, Murder, Blood (or whatever the equivalent is), Kidnapping, Clingy behavior, Gaslighting, Stalking, Forced relationship/companionship.

Shadow Milk, like most of the Beasts, would be an overwhelming yandere.

This is because of how he works as the Beast of Deceit.

SM would definitely mess with his obsession regardless of his intentions.

He loves to toy with others and cause chaos within their minds.

He'd probably torment you in a similar way to what he does with Pure Vanilla.

Except while SM wants to torment PV for revenge at the fact that the pitiful hero has his Soul Jam...

He wants to toy with you because you've caught his eye...

Erm... many eyes?

He's associated with quite a few eyes.

He picks you out and manipulates you originally because the Beast finds you fun.

Since his time out of that silver prison he's been looking for a good source of entertainment.

Luckily you happen to be right there for him.

Oh, he loves torturing his counterpart's fragile mind for fun...

But you entertain him for different reasons.

As a master of deceit, it's nearly impossible to read SM.

He's skilled in manipulation and will leave his obsession always guessing.

If you think about it, he'd probably have the easiest time isolating his obsession.

SM knows how to get in the heads of others.

He knows how to knead and form your mind like it's dough.

With a few well placed lies and whispers... He can make you think your friends hate you.

He can sabotage any relationship you have, no matter the nature.

SM is no doubt a possessive being... Safe to say he has his fair share of jealousy.

SM watches your every move like watching a show.

You're never not in his sight.

Even when he's busy putting down a few heroes... He always has at least one conjured eye around to judge you.

You're under constant surveillance with him.

Then, if he doesn't like something going on, he quickly sets out to remove it.

SM is perfectly capable of murder, like many of the Beasts... others feared him for a reason.

But a fate that's much more fun would be... corrupting your friends into puppets, right?

He'll have your friends or loved ones made into puppets and performers to entertain him in his shows.

He'll even have them perform a few acts for you!

Although... afterwards...

He'll no doubt crumble them.

He doesn't need them around, after all!

Not if it takes your attention away from him!

SM loves to overwhelm your sweet little mind.

He appears out of nowhere to scare you and clings to you.

I imagine it's nearly impossible to leave his hugs, listening to him whispers small lies into your ear to make you more reliant on him.

He smothers you in affection and often performs for you.

All of his performances include real people... all made into puppets for him to make stories about how much he cares for you!

He hasn't felt more passionate about anyone before.

It's... odd...

Yet who knows, maybe that's all a facade too?

He keeps spinning lies around you, hissing in your ear like a snake.

Why trust anyone other than him, hm?

How do you know anyone is genuine?

The world has never liked the truth, they always want it with a sweet sugar coating.

He's simply here to make it all more bearable.

He swaps his behavior so often, too.

There's times he's overly sweet, pampering you and everything... Essentially he's love bombing you

Then later he's destructive and jealous, yelling about the fact others get your attention yet you neglect him.

Even when he successfully isolates you, he gets paranoid of others taking you.

Especially Pure Vanilla.

Then there's other times he's cruel and teasing, tearing down your insecurities just ti build you up to need him.

All using lies, of course.

SM is the definition of a toxic relationship.

It's all built on lies, him wearing constant masks like a performer should.

You may even be yet another puppet on one of his many performances.

Except... He'd never crumble you.

You're too entertaining.

SM never plans to let you go.

The Ancients would have to pry you from his claws, even then, this wolf in sheep's clothing doesn't plan to let go.

SM would no doubt kidnap you.

He loves your fight and tries to keep it as long as he can because he knows it's pointless.

If he was really worried about you running... He would've corrupted you to be his favorite puppet long ago!

But... That would be no fun.

In terms of how he'd treat you in captivity, you'd definitely be used as a doll or puppet.

He keeps you tied to his side by his strings, often forcing you to dance and perform with him in private.

He wants you to understand your role.

Even if it means getting rid of your friends... and puppeteering you like the cute puppet you are.

You are a toy in his toy box... and he will keep you on a pedestal where no one else can touch you.

Only he can.

Now, if I were to give rivalry ideas that would work well with him...

I'd say I can see him being rivals with Pure Vanilla the most, of course. After that maybe Burning Spice? Yet that's a bit of a stretch.

Then there's Elder Faerie... Which could be fun with a Faerie obsession?

Overall, I see Shadow Milk as being one of the worst CRK yanderes due to the fact he'd fabricate your entire life once he has his claws in you.

By the time you feel you understand your situation... He messes up your perception again...

He'll cherish you in his world of lies... One he made for just the two of you....

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Do you have any superpower/theme ideas for villains?

Writing Ideas: Villain Superpowers & Themes

Complete Immortality - Control over one's own death, or major injury.

Energy Absorption - Considering how many heroes wield a great deal of strength and power, one of the best challenges to them is villains who can absorb their energy. The power to absorb energy has also featured in villains like the Lord Beyond the Void, Major Force, Absorbing Man, and hellish beings who can steal souls. Some villains have a dependency on the powers of other beings, which makes them effectively energy vampires — not to mention the likes of Galactus, who feed on entire worlds.

Intangibility - More commonly thought of as the ability to “walk through walls.” Intangible means “not capable of being touched.” (E.g., Loki from Marvel Comics)

Magic - Gives its users the power to do anything and the further one walks down the magical path, the more temptation they find. They say power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely, and magic can give its user that kind of strength. Most humans shouldn't be given the keys to the natural world, and even using their power in small ways to get their way can lead to becoming a monster. Magic users come in both moral alignments, but even the good ones know that the arcane is a possible road to darkness. Scarlet Witch is a perfect example; for many years, her connection to the elder god Chthon and the Darkhold drove her mad long before her reality-altering powers did. Then there's someone like Baron Mordo, who sees magic as a road to power.

Magnetism/Ferrokenesis - In everyday speech, magnetism often refers to “strong attractive power or charm.” But when it comes to superpowers, magnetism is the ability to use and manipulate magnetic phenomena. Complicated supervillain Magneto is the classic example of a mutant with this power. He is able to bend metal to his will.

Meta Power - Control over an opponent's abilities.

Mind Control - Control over an opponent's mind. It is a power that is basically impossible not to abuse. By its very nature, mind control violates consent. Even if a person started using it in seemingly benign ways - for example, making someone at a bank give them money - there are still consequences to it. Mind control makes people look like puppets to the person with the power, and that's an attitude that would lead anyone to villainy.

Omniscience - Allows someone to know everything. In the real world that would drive anyone crazy. Intelligent people often lose touch with the people around them and knowing everything, all the time, would be even worse. Eventually, that kind of knowledge would bring madness.

People Puppets - Control over an opponent's body.

Reality Warper - Control over reality itself.

Shape-Shifting - This has allowed villains to spy on their worst enemies, steal secrets, and divide relationships. Many villainous powers are a reflection of negative traits, so it makes complete sense that the highest form of deception would be a common power among bad guys. Shape-shifting can make for some brilliant detective stories, as well as a genuine way for villains to infiltrate superhero teams and divide from within.

Space Master - Control over space itself.

Superintelligence - Allows one to feel like a god, and for some people that feeling is addictive. Lex Luthor is a perfect example. Luthor could easily save the world, but he instead chooses to try to destroy Superman. The ability to create anything, to solve any problem can drive any normal person to evil. Suddenly, problems just become things to solve and the fastest way to solve them is often the best, no matter what it costs others.

Time Master - Control over time itself.

Touch of Death - Control over death itself.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

You can find more in the sources. Hope this helps with your writing!

[juricel]

OML I got this idea stuck in my damn brain like-

Reader aka us, being the ruler of the cookie kingdom (the kingdom we currently own as the player), and Shadow Milk Cookie begging to be let in the kingdom because he wanted to cause silly danger and more mischief (in his corruption), to only fall in love with us (could potentially become a yandere but up to you) after a few days/weeks of meeting.

Like - reader as very sweet, calm and cool that made SMC fall hard in love for them ? 💙🩵

a/n: don't know about everyone else, but me, personally, if I see shadow milk cookie begging to be let in my kingdom, I'd be more than willing to take him in... need to promote him to 2 stars...

— yandere! jester! shadow milk cookie x ruler! reader

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: yandere themes, psychological and emotional manipulation, gaslighting, coercion, toxic relationships, extreme possessiveness, obsession, mind-breaking, corruption, shadow milk cookie is a cunt, slow-burn destruction, degradation, despair, entrapment, dependency, unhealthy power dynamics, existential horror, and dark romanticization of suffering, its written in shadow milk perspective so it's romanticized, potential ooc.

𖦁 above the high tower—so pristine, so sickeningly pure—a utopia. a kingdom balanced on the trembling fulcrum of equality, on the polished illusion of prosperity, on that laughable dream of heaven. when first he heard of it, he scoffed, a knowing little chuckle curling at the edge of his lips. a kingdom so spotless was a kingdom awaiting its first stain. a place so righteous, so unbearably good, was nothing more than a stage trembling in anticipation of its first act of sin. and if corruption was its fate—oh, the sweet, inexorable pull of ruin—then why not be the hand that guides it? the first dark filament woven into its tapestry, the first exquisite crack in its porcelain? for after all, what greater pleasure was there than watching a kingdom of splendor crumble? to witness the slow unraveling, the first fractures lacing through their golden foundations, the hesitant, horrified realization dawning in their wide, unspoiled eyes? a bliss; the way grandeur rots from within, the way righteousness sours into desperation. It was always such fun, never failing to elicit a laughter from his lips—to watch their heaven buckle under the weight of its own impossible promises, to see their shining citadel collapse into the very ruin they swore could never touch them.

𖦁 at first, that was his sole plan—a swift, merciless tainting, a single decisive stroke to mar their pristine dream. but ah, immediate corruption lacked artistry, lacked finesse, and it was certainly not his modus operandi. no, no, he was not some blunt force of ruin, some crude agent of chaos. his was a subtler touch, a patient, insidious creeping of decay. surely, it wouldn’t hurt to let the rot seep in slowly, to let the kingdom sip its own poison drop by drop? after all, a thing does not truly break unless it first believes itself unbroken. and what was the first step to that, but to endear the ruler? to weave himself into their favor, to become the whispered counsel at their ear, the trusted shadow at their side? a kingdom so pure, so blissfully naïve, would never suspect the serpent if it spoke in honeyed tones, if it coiled itself in silken loyalty. let them trust him, let them open their gates, their hearts, their very souls. corruption was sweetest when it was invited in. and so he did; draped himself in the garb of mirth, painted his deception in bright, foolish colors. a performer, a jester—a harmless thing, a trinket for amusement, a creature of capers and laughter. how naturally it all fell into place, how perfectly the pieces clicked. he acted, he jested, he spun his illusions like golden thread, and just as he had anticipated—just as he had orchestrated—one day, you finally took notice. one day, you plucked him from the streets and placed him at your side: as your personal jester.

𖦁 Calm, composed, tender—a ruler carved from the finest marble, whose very breath seemed to hold the delicate rhythm of a perfect, untroubled reign. An embodiment of a perfect ruler, both to his twisted sense of definition and in the term followers coined; a sovereign that ruled with grace and collection, one who will choose peace of their own kingdom rather than theirs, and most importantly, a sovereign exquisite to break, a monarch to watch crumble apart at the seams. With an oh-so-frail hands, he slowly fed you poison, feeding you sweet lullabies lies with every single time he invited himself to your court, yet with such gentleness, such tender adoration, you hardly noticed the slow, treacherous drip of it into your veins. His touch was light, his voice a soothing lullaby, his eyes a mirror to your own desires, reflecting the very world he had already begun to fracture. You laughed in his presence, you adored him as a child adores the fool who dances for their amusement, never suspecting the subtle malice woven beneath the laughter. You were the imperator, crowned and naive, and he—oh, he was no more than a jester, a trickster, a soft-spoken destroyer. He seeped in, unnoticed, beneath the cloak of love, until the kingdom you ruled had turned to ash. Every moment he spent by your side, every gentle word he whispered, drew you closer to the inevitable end. He was not the harbinger of doom, merely its messenger, and you, sweet sovereign, had already embraced the fall—he wasn't cruel! no, far from it, he was simply speeding up the process of your fate.

𖦁 Piece by piece, the delicate order of your kingdom crumbled, the carefully woven threads of control slipping, unraveling into the quiet chaos that waited with open arms. It was such a quiet delight, watching your face—watching the once-imperious set of your features soften, grow fragile. His sweet darling, his imperator—did you enjoy his performance? His quiet theatrics? The way he danced so close to your frail soul, each movement a deliberate stroke in the masterpiece of your undoing? Your laughter—so exquisite, so heartbreakingly tender—spilled into the air like the final note of a dying melody, trembling before fading into something unrecognizable. No longer the regal, composed mirth of a ruler, but something frayed at the edges, something raw, something slipping through your fingers before you could grasp what had changed. And he watched, oh, how he watched, as each delicate layer of your serenity cracked, one by one. And just as he had foreseen, you sought refuge in him—clinging, desperate, drawn to the very hands that had undone you. You needed him, craved the sweet poisons he fed you, each drop a fleeting reprieve from the reality gnawing at the edges of your soul and who was he but a sweet jester, a silken-tongued fool draped in motley mirth? After all, you were his dearest majesty, sovereign of his affections, and if such a luminous crown sought more of his quaint little revels, if those imperial fingers curled, ever so faintly, in silent demand—ah, how could he deny you? You were his to break, and break you he did—so gently, so tenderly, so exquisitely.

𖦁 And ah, how utterly darling you were like that—weren’t you meant to be the perfect ruler, the unshaken sovereign, the very pillar upon which your kingdom stood? But worry not! For he, your ever-faithful jester, would always be there to lift your spirits, to coo and fawn and wrap you in the silken embrace of his honeyed falsehoods. Sweetly, tenderly, he guided your gaze away from the creeping decay, his fingers featherlight as they covered your eyes, his touch a gentle shroud over the truth he was so lovingly unraveling. He was your jester, your fool, a puppet crafted for your amusement, a plaything meant to make you laugh—yet, oh, how beautifully the strings had tangled. For here you were, trembling beneath him, his sweet little sovereign, his fragile darling, lost and despairing, just as you were always meant to be. He yearned to keep you just like this—to clutch the dying breath of your laughter, to sink his fingers into it and squeeze until nothing remained but the broken echoes of something once bright. But joy was meaningless, a trinket easily shattered; no, the true rapture, the thing that set his soul alight, was your despair, your ruin, the exquisite tremor in your breath as realization crawled through your mind like a slow, cold hand. Oh, how he adored the way your smile faltered, how he savored the flicker of fear in those celestial eyes, the way your very soul seemed to wither beneath his touch. You were his masterpiece, your suffering a symphony, each fragile crack in your spirit a note in the melody he had composed with such tender cruelty. Your radiant smile, your trembling gaze—how divine they were, poised at the very edge of oblivion. And oh, how perfect you would be, entombed in eternity, frozen forever in that exquisite moment of collapse. Never whole again, never beyond his reach, never anything but his—his to twist, his to shatter, his to own. No one else could have you. No one else would understand. No one else deserved to witness the fragile, broken thing he had so carefully sculpted. You were his—his ruin, his darling, his little sovereign—forever and only his.

𖦁 Oh, but do not misunderstand him! He loved you, loved you wholly, the way a flame loves the fragile moth that it lures, the way a poet loves the ink that stains his trembling hands. Your gentleness, your calm, your measured poise—these he cherished, yes, these he cradled in the hollow of his palms like something sacred. But oh, his love, what he adored—no, what he worshipped—was that part of you which most repulsed yourself. The cracks, the stains, the lovely little rot that clung to your soul like mold upon marble. Your cruddy, your ruin, the decay that softened your edges into something closer—ah, so much closer—to his own. It was in that wretchedness that he found divinity; it was in your unbecoming that he saw you, at last, becoming his, a reflection of himself. He wanted you broken, petrified, stripped of all that made you whole. But don’t be so upset, won’t you? This was your fate, after all—etched into the marrow of your bones long before you could protest. You were blinded, drunk on the illusions of heaven and prosperity, stumbling through the gilded halls of your own self-deceit. And being the good little jester that he was, ever so devoted to his craft, he helped you out—by corrupting you, warping you, twisting your kingdom into a grotesque parody of its former glory. A kindness, really. A mercy.

a/n: one thing that you can always trust me to do is that if it is possible to include yandere! shadow milk cookie, i WILL include him but i do feel like its starting to get repetitive. also, just woke up after finishing writing this in the middle of the night and i just realized how far this was from the requester's request but... the damage is already done, somebody kill me NOW.

[thepinkprincesss]

requested by anon :3 this ask!!! 𐙚

a/n ፧  hahha first req . i think i went off the plot... i got lazy towards the end but here it is! :p

pairings ፧ boyfriend!jj ✗ innocentpuppy!reader

warnings ፧ unprotected sex , p in v , smut , language , i think that's all ...

jj— your best friend knew how innocent you were. he'd been the one by your side all throughout middle school to highschool and seemed to always keep you barricaded from any type of people or things that might corrupt you. which is what led to your ultimate innocence you still clutched within you, the blonde knew how weary and cautious you were when it came to showing to much skin or revealing clothing, being the odd one out in conversations that revolved around regular teenage stuff— drinking, partying, hooking up, the only one who furrowed brows whenever something inappropriate came up while everyone else brushed it off like it was ordinary.

jj always made it a mission to keep your pretty little head out of those types of conversations, growing creative with the excuses he made just for you to departure from whatever girl friend had her whole business out on display. he decided— as your best friend that he'd protect you from anything, and that meant everything.

he was your pillar. protecting you from the horrors of the world with a strong arm that was ready and raring to go — if any of his friends tried anything stupid around you. he was quite possessive over you, not really liking it when you got too close around any guy he didn’t know, or even the ones he did. but he couldn’t help it, you were so oblivious to most things, like a baby chick ready to follow whoever was willing to show you an ounce of affection. he was trying to keep you under his wing.

which is after highschool it isn't a surprise when you end up with him. he watched you grow into a beautiful woman in-front of his eyes, and you grew into the perfect partner. you knew him better than anyone, knew what he liked, what he didn’t and knew how to read the room when he was feeling off. it’s a natural progression, your sweet and innocent personality has made everyone around you feel incredibly protective of you, jj included. you’ve been around each other so much that it would be bizarre to all of your friends if you hadn’t begun dating each other, even after finally finishing school.

he’d always been the one to guide you, to look out for you. and you made him feel warm and fuzzy, like he was taking care of a puppy, except you just so happened to be a little vixen who’d grown into a gorgeous woman. so when it came to sexual things— it's not a surprise your inexperienced and lost on what to do, which is why jj is here, he does all the work anyway.. if you do end up complying with what he asks.

your looped back into reality by the sloppy kiss from your man landing on your cheek. he takes his time to trail his kisses down from your cheek to your jaw to your neck, a small moan leaving you when he sucks on a spot of your soft flesh — his hand sliding down the curve of your body to give your thigh a harsh squeeze. your on your back— the most intimate positions of all, face to face with unbreakable eye contact, skin-to-skin, your convinced that if you haven't made a soul tie with the blonde yet, you definitely have now.

he keeps his head buried in your neck, the rest of his body pressing against you in a way that makes you feel like you’re being completely consumed by his body, by his touch, by his smell. his large, hot hand on your thigh gives a little possessive squeeze, his thick fingers sinking into your flesh hard enough that you begin to whine. he grins into your neck, his teeth nipping the soft skin as he pulls away from where he’s making a mark. “you’re so beautiful, you know that?”

it's then before you can manage a sentence— a gut feeling of built of pressure began to form just below your waist, you tense your shoulders and body as your abdomen starts to feel like you need to pee, your sure if you press firm enough something is bound to come out. it's muscle memory as you look up to jj for guidance, your thighs were squeezing around his hips which should've been a dead give away you were close to your finish line, yet he still continued his steady pace of pounding you.

he lifts his face out of the burrow he built in your neck once he feels your thighs trapping around his hips, once he catches sight of your face, he knows exactly what’s happening. the way you tried to press your thighs together and how your eyebrows knotted gave him the reassurance he needed to confirm what he knew was happening. during sex you’re sweet and pliant, always willing to go along with whatever he says without question. just like a puppy, always going to listen to its owner. but he knows you get scared, get confused — and when that happens you’re all but a trembling, whimpering mess under him.

“i— i think i’m gonna-“ you whimper quietly, biting down on your soft bottom lip, your face all scrunched up. you look up at him, eyes all glassy and desperate. he sees the worry take over, the way you begin to look worried and concerned, scared even — but he won’t have this ending before it’s even started. he hushes you gently, “your alright mama, don't fight it, your alright..” he coos, his hand leaving your thigh to push your hair back before resting on the back of your neck, holding you steady.

your breathing picks up as you realize that jj hasn't stopped yet— he's still going. your arms wrap around his back, desperate for the comfort of his weight on top of you, your nails digging into his back as you try to pull him closer to you. you were whining, unable to form any proper words due to the intensity you were already feeling without any proper stimulation. he looks down at you, eyes soft as he whispers “shh baby, just- just hold on okay? lemme cum with you.” his free hand finding yours, gently taking it away from his back and bringing it up to where his mouth was. he left a light kiss on your hand.

you can feel yourself trembling and shaking violently as he holds your hand, bringing it to his mouth and letting his lips press down to give you a little kiss before he’s intertwining your fingers in his. the action is so affectionate — so out of place and so unexpected you can’t help but melt into it. it doesn’t last long though, the sweetness soon replaced by the sharp, intense pleasure and jj's sloppy final thrusts. you came undone around his cock, your hands quickly retreating back to his bare back as you dig your nails into his skin, you can't hold it back anymore— your eyes are squinted shut as you finally let the pressure out from your hole, meanwhile jj is finishing as well. inside you.

the blonde finally lets his body collapse onto you, his head resting in the crook of your neck as his heavy, warm presence blankets you. he’s panting as he comes down from his high, the sweat on his skin sticking to yours. you both take a minute to collect yourself, trying to even out your breathing. jj places a couple kisses onto your collarbone before he’s murmuring something against your skin.

once it’s all over, you’re left feeling both floaty and tired, your body feeling like jelly. it’s always so intense with him that you need a moment to catch your breath and collect your thoughts before things can go back to normal. your body feels sticky, but it’s something you’re used to by this point.

after moments like these, you always retreat into a place of dissociation, as if there’s a thick barrier surrounding you. it’s not that you’re ashamed or even regretful, but you just get embarrassed. you get a lingering, deep set feeling of feeling “dirty” afterwards and it sticks with you for a while afterwards, the heavy shroud of shame clinging to your shoulders.

you’d become more prone to dissociating after intimate moments, the shame and embarrassment weighing you down like a ton of bricks in your stomach. you knew you’d enjoyed it in the moment but afterwards you’d just end up feeling dirty. the blonde always took notice, knowing what was happening to you even though you’d never say it openly. jj would try and calm you by being extra affectionate with you, holding you against him and whispering sweet things into your hair.

jj’s noticed the way you withdraw, the subtle change in your behaviour, he doesn’t miss anything when it comes to you. the way you shy away from his touch, the way you try to shrink into yourself. he’s noticed, and he’s come to know that this just your way of coping in the aftermath. it makes him feel guilty, the fact that you never look him in the eye until the embarrassment of it all fades.

he hated seeing you suffer in silence, knowing the thoughts that were probably going through your head as you began to spiral again. he knew it didn’t matter how many times he told you to talk to him when this happened — you’d never listen so he just accepted it at this point. instead he focused on your body, on the way you felt against him, vulnerable and soft and sweet. he just hoped one day you’d learn to trust him properly. he whispers softly as he pulls you tight to his chest, his large body curled around you. “i got ya babe, i got ya.”

you cling to him, like a little koala as he wraps you up in his arms, your face buried in his bare chest. he continues to hold you close for as long as you need — his chin resting on top of your head. he’s trying to show you through his touch that there’s no need to feel shame, no need to be afraid — you’re safe with him. safe and sound in his arms, just where he wants you to be.

he never forced you to speak when you fell into one of your silent bouts. he’d learnt by now it would only make you worse. so, he didn’t give up. he continued to hold you, to gently caress you and pull you into him, until you were completely tucked away in his embrace, your face buried into his chest, listening to the steady thumping of his heart. it always ended like this, you’d cling onto him whilst he softly soothed your broken frame. it was a routine you’d both adapted to.

it'd been a couple minutes that you both began to doze off.

he felt the way your breathing had began to even out, a sign you’d finally managed to drift off to sleep. a small smile spread across his features, his face buried amongst the top of your head — inhaling the slight scent of your shampoo. he tightened his grip on you, pulling you even tighter against him as he closed his eyes and finally drifted off to sleep himself.. it didn’t matter that the sheets were still a mess from what had just happened, nor that the sun was still shining obnoxiously through the threadbare curtains. all he needed was to hold your body close to his to fall fast asleep.

[gumiluver]

21&29 with nanami; like 21 for the beginning and reader is still shy especially when 29 comes into play :) fem reader pls 🥺

you don’t know just how heavy I fuck w this idea I’m so here for it!! hope you enjoy luv!! <3

prompt 21: "If you wanted me to fuck you then you should've just said so, love. No need to be shy with me—you're my everything."

prompt 29: "Ohhh fuck—baby...did you know you could squirt?”

lover <3: nanami kento x afab!reader

byr/byi: the content in this fic is not suitable for individuals under the age of 18--minors will be blocked (DNI), wc: 1.7k

cw: smut, nsfw, pwp, afab!reader, praise kink, manhandling, dom/sub dynamics, teasing, squirting, pet names (love, baby)

an: requests still open! check out the guidelines here for more info :)

border credit: @/cafekitsune, pic credit: oh5629289 on pinterest

“How long have we been together now love—two years and you’re still so shy f’ me?” Kento questions you, peppering soft kisses along the nape of your neck. His burly hands move along the sides of your hips, one slowly trailing upwards to cup and caress your left breast while the other molds around your hip, pulling a whine out of you in the process.

“C-can’t help it Ken’…you make me so flustered,” you whimper, pulling from his grasp to shy away from his intense gaze. He’s quick to grab your chin tho, forcing your eyes back to him to meet his sly gaze. Your shy nature easily amuses his, loving how quick you are to break your composure and fall for his ploy.

“Is that so, love? What makes you so flustered, hm?” he teases, an uncommon occurrence that makes your empty pussy clench helplessly. You whine and shift around in his hold, wanting to break away from your lover's grasp to hide under the covers and save yourself from his teasing. Your thighs squeeze together, aimlessly hoping to satisfy the deep ache that’s settling in your cunt and, of course, he takes note of that.

Nanami has always been so observant over you.

Like how he knows when you’re holding in your pleasure filled moans—the little scrunch of your nose and furrow of your brow gives you away.

Or when you try and sneak a quick orgasm in after he’s warned you to hold it—the way your pussy clenches his tip for dear life even after he’s stilled your hips makes your plans damn well known to him.

And even when you’re trying to hide how horny you are—like how you are now—he can tell; from the way you shy away from his touch and overt your gaze as if he were the apple of sin you couldn’t help but sink your teeth in.

And he fucking loves it. He loves getting to see your agitated and flustered state—it inflates his ego like no other. To see you, the most beautiful being he’s ever laid his eyes on, become so enamored and needy for him has him feeling like a fucking god.

“What is it, baby? You can tell me. What is it that you need me to do—say it,” he demands, pressing you deeper into the wall, grinding his hard cock into your clothed pussy. The moan that spills from you fuels Nanami’s head with even more sinful deeds he’d love to corrupt you with.

“I-I need…” you trail off, panting like a bitch in heat over how flustered he’s got you. You let out a small whine, feeling his left knee shift between your legs to press against your slick mound, rubbing his strong thigh against you to provide you with the pleasure your body oh so craves.

“Yes? What do you need love,” he whispers, moving the hand on your hip to place a light grasp around your neck, holding you steady and meeting your gaze.

“Ahh!! K-Kento please!!” you beg, unsure of what exactly it was you were even begging for—but nonetheless, you plead. The pleasure pulsating through your sweet cunt sends shockwaves, hitting deep within your soul and making you preen.

“Say it. Be good and tell me what you need,” he groans out, patience wearing thin at the feel of your heat leaking through your panties and onto his slacks. His tan pants presenting a wet spot on the thigh that’s pushed up to your cunt—how lewd.

“N-need you…in me…” you whimper out, shamefully closing your eyes to save yourself from the embarrassment that is begging for dick.

But fuck did it make his cock throb hearing it.

The second he hears your pretty plea, Kento makes haste in stripping you of your clothes and sprinting to the nearest surface he can find.

“If you wanted me to fuck you then you should’ve just said so, love. No need to be shy with me—you’re my everything,” he coos, hovering his hulking body over your smaller one. Sheepishly, you glance away from him to gawk at his toned body. Ripples of muscle decorate his form as his tanned skin glows a pretty shade of pink, no doubt from the sheer excitement coursing through his veins.

He brings a hand upwards to cup your chin again, wanting to make sure that your wandering eyes don’t miss all the fun that’s about to start, “keep your eyes on me love—don’t look away.”

His demanding tone a clear contradiction to his usually gentle demeanor, making your mouth fall dry and your pussy run wet. You nod quickly, making direct eye contact with your lover's hazel eyes, and the hum of approval he lets out makes you clench your thighs that are hung around his waist.

Slowly, he rubs the tip of his cock against your folds, carefully collecting the slick that escapes from your pussy to thoroughly coat his cock—all while gazing intensely at you. After all, he didn’t want to miss seeing your face morphed into that pleasure-filled look he positively yearns to see.

A whiny cry of his name pulls him back to reality, ripping his gaze away from yours to stare down at your entrance and fuck—what a fucking mess.

“Ohhh baby, look at you,” he groans loudly, smacking the tip of his cock against your soaked cunny. Lewd ‘plap’ ‘plap’ ‘plaps’ radiate against the room with the way his heavy cockhead smacks against your clit. You’re quivering now, moving your hips to avoid the torturous teasing that your sorcerer subjects you to.

And just as you were about to whine for him to just put it in, you felt his heavy tip catch against your little hole. Gasping, you frantically reach for his biceps, nails digging into the skin as he slowly feeds you his monstrous cock.

“Ha’aaahh—kentooo!” you cry out, unable to comprehend the sheer stretch that is his girth. Regardless of how many times you’ve taken Kento, or how long he spends between your thighs prepping you, nothing could ever mentally prepare you for the actual feeling of his cock splitting you open.

“I know baby I know—just a c-couple more inches, fuckk,” he groans, glancing up at you every so often to make sure you’re still being his good girl and watching everything he does, “being so good for me.”

It felt like eons have passed before Kento finally sheathes himself fully into you. But, as soon as he’s inside you, he’s quick to unsheathe and start up a brutal pace.

“I-I can’t!! Oh f-fuck—slow do-own Ken’!!” you whimper out, his sharp thrusts breaking up your sentence. He fucks you with a passion that rivals that of a warrior, composed and dead set on his goal of fucking you to completion. He wants to ingrain himself into your womb, wants your pussy to react to his touch, his voice—and his alone.

“Fuuuuck this pussy’s perfect for me love, keep your legs spread—yeaaa just like that,” he grunts, absolutely lost in a haze of lust and pleasure. He’s so pussy drunk on you that he doesn’t even realize just how far gone you are. His usually observant nature completely bypassed the way he could only see the whites of your eyes, how your body is shaking—convulsing even, and just how sensitive your body is slowly starting to feel. Your pussy’s fluttering ridiculously, spasming around his thick shaft so much so that it felt like his cock was getting massaged by your womb. The wetness of your cunt made the nastiest sounds, filling the air with a lewd atmosphere that screamed sex.

But something felt…different.

It felt…off.

You jolt upwards—or at least tried to, considering how quick Nanami was to push you back down, not wanting to let up on his precious girl.

“K-Kento it feels weird!!” you cry, pushing at his arms to try and escape his ruthless pounding, but it’s pointless—he’s got you caged in his arms, right where he wants you.

“s’okay love, let me make it feel good—can feel you squeezing my cock so nicely, fuuckk” he lets out an animalistic grunt, pressing more of his body weight into you to immobilize you. You let out a long, languid moan, the feeling of his tip proding in places you didn’t even realize he could reach was making you see galaxies rather than stars. But yet again, that same foreign pressure began to burn deep within your womb, almost as if you were going to explode.

“N-nooo, p-please!! It feels like I—ahhh—…feels like m’gonna…” you trail off, unable to formulate your words. You’re panting so much that all you could do was move your hands to his chest in a measly attempt to push him away.

“Gonna what, love? Gonna cum? Come on baby, give it to me—cum for me,” he grunts out, his voice going octaves lower—so much so that you could feel the reverb of his voice hit your clit. His thrusts move quicker and with much more vigor, aiming to push you over the edge. Sneaking a rough hand down to your mound, he maneuvers his thumb to find your pink pearl and circles it in that specific way that makes you go fucking crazy.

And that final motion was what came of your undoing.

A bright flash of white obscures your vision, and the sheer ecstasy that courses through your veins sends you into an early release that spills all over your lover's pelvis. Nanami’s eyes widen in shock, seeing the guttural force of your orgasm shake the literal wind out of you makes his pride swell like none other. He couldn’t believe it; who could’ve known that his perfect little angel could do something so…lascivious—so sinful.

“Ohhh fuck—baby…did you know you could squirt?”

an: the way this man makes me go absolutely feral…anyways, I hope you all enjoyed & requests are still open!! Please be sure to check the guidelines before you submit a request!! <3

As always, likes, comments, follows, reblogs, and any other form of interaction is greatly appreciated <3 #supportcreators

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #29

The Heir

Imagine dis…

You know what, it’s been a while since I added the infamous Al Ghuls to my stories.

…

The Lazarus Pit, a sacred lake in the League of Assassins' fortress, was said to provide immortality and bring back life. However, its underlying nature was considerably more sinister than its therapeutic properties indicated. Ra's al Ghul, the centuries-old leader, stood before the pit, his ancient and knowledgeable gaze fixed on the pool's depths. He sought the ideal successor to take his mantle and lead the League into a new age of domination. 

Ra's al Ghul had governed the League for generations, utilizing its vicious assassins to further his goals. As his death approached, he realized he needed to safeguard the League's future for it to survive. As the Lazarus Pit continued to bubble and churn, Ra's al Ghul considered the gravity of his decision. The selected heir would need strength, talent, wit, and ruthlessness to traverse the League's treacherous internal politics.

Ra's al Ghul's ravenous thirst for power ruined his yearning for the ideal heir, Talia's son Damian. Despite knowing Damian had the detective’s DNA, Ra was concerned that his influence would corrupt his heart and undermine his ruthlessness as leader of the League of Assassins, just as Damian's compassion and sense of justice would jeopardize his legacy.

Ra's al Ghul stood in front of the Lazarus Pit, its menacing glow casting eerie shadows throughout the enormous chamber. Though he was not religious, he couldn't help but feel fascinated by the magical power hidden within. He had achieved immortality here, at the very founding of the League of Assassins, and he was now looking for something even more valuable: a worthy heir to carry on his legacy.

Ra's offered a secret prayer to the Lazarus Pit, pleading for an heir who would transcend all others. And, as if in answer to his intense desire, the pit erupted in a dazzling burst of light, temporarily stunning Ra's and his collected assassins.

When the light faded, they saw a sight that struck them with awe and wonder: a newborn floating serenely amid the Lazarus Pit's shimmering waters, its eyes gleaming with an otherworldly green light. Ra's felt a rush of elation and insane glee pouring through his veins. He saw in this infant the embodiment of his deepest desires, the ideal vessel to carry on his legacy of conquest and immortality.

Ra's al Ghul approached the newborn with almost fanatical reverence, reaching out to hold it in his arms. He felt a force emanating from the child, a potential so huge and untapped that it sent chills down his spine. Here was his heir, the one who would take the League of Assassins to even higher levels of power and dominion.

As his supporters watched in wonder, Ra's al Ghul pronounced the newborn to be his chosen heir, the League's future leader. And in that moment, basking in the light of the Lazarus Pit, he realized that his legacy would last for centuries.

…

Talia stood in the shadows of the League's fortress, her heart full of mixed emotions. She had previously thought her son, Damian, would inherit her father's legacy, but the appearance of Daniel Daan Al Ghul dashed those expectations. The resentment of being passed over for a new male heir wounded her, reflecting the patriarchal norms that had formed her existence.

Nonetheless, as she watched Daniel develop under her care, she couldn't deny the wisdom and power emanating from him. His eerie green eyes appeared to look right through her, penetrating her soul with their ferocity. Despite her initial disdain, she found herself captivated by the youngster, seeing in his brilliance that much above her desires.

When Daniel was just five years old, he shocked her by entrusting her and Slade Wilson with separate sections of the League to lead. It was a gesture of trust and empowerment that left her dumbfounded, as she realized Daniel saw potential in her beyond her role as caretaker or assassin and guardian.

In epochs gone by, when the female hand grasped the scepter of might, she ascended to the echelons of immortality. Why am I precluded from such transcendence with you? I perceive the dormant titan within you, hence I proffer my dominion, both to you and to its awakening, for in you resides the essence of dominion.

He told her when she asked why. At that moment, she realized the extent of Daniel's strength and compassion, and she promised to serve him faithfully.

Talia's allegiance switched dramatically when Daniel personally intervened to save Jason Todd, her beloved’s son, from the lunacy of the Lazarus Pit.

Intervening just as her father, Ra Al Ghul, was about to order Jason Todd's execution because he was no use to him or the league, Daniel silently appeared beside her father and slowly walked down from the throne to the floor where Jason Todd was kneeling, still brain dead, as it was still a mystery to all how he was revived as he dug himself out of his grave.

Guard the tender soul, mend his wounds, for he is but a fledgling, entrusted to my care for solace and salvation.

He proclaimed to her father, who stared at Daniel, perplexed as to why Daniel wanted to keep this teenager, but agreed to utilize the pits for his purposes. When Jaosn emerged, he was already deep in the pit madness; when he raced towards Daniel, all assassins had created a wall around the heir, but Daniel told them to step aside; with a single touch, the madness left Todd and he went out.

Talia took on her job as Daniel's right hand from that day forward, leading him with her knowledge and cunning. Though her heart grieved for Damian, she knew Daniel was the rightful heir, destined to lead the League to greatness. And when she stared into his hypnotic green eyes, she saw not just a leader, but a judge and a god on the rise.

…

Slade Wilson, often known as Deathstroke, had always been a formidable force in the League of Assassins. His skills were unparalleled, and his reputation was legendary. However, as the years went by, a seed of ambition germinated within him, fuelled by a desire to seize League leadership for himself.

The discovery of Daniel Daan Al Ghul's emergence as a new heir fueled Slade's internal strife. On the one hand, he wished to stage a coup, seize authority, and establish himself as the legitimate leader. On the other side, he was captivated to the mysterious power emanating from Daniel, the heir born of the Lazarus Pits.

As Slade trained Daniel and Damian, he couldn't help but be amazed by Daniel's extraordinary abilities. The youngster was a genius in every way, with an intellect and prowess unparalleled by anybody else. And when Daniel, with his penetrating green eyes that appeared to capture the essence of the Lazarus Pits, recognized Slade's worth and appointed him to a position of responsibility within the League, Slade felt a weird mix of awe and reverence.

Untouched by the forge of opportunity, you, a blade honed in both physique and intellect, lay dormant amidst neglect, gathering the patina of obscurity. Yet, now, I bestow upon you the helm of leadership, for only you possess the whetstone to sharpen others to their zenith

Daniel informed him after he sought for an audience.

In that instant, Slade realized his fate was connected with Daniel's. He pledged his unwavering service, promising to serve his new lord until his soul was shattered. Slade saw Daniel as more than just a leader but as a being with incredible power and potential. And as he peered into Daniel's fascinating green eyes, he knew he'd follow him into the depths of hell, for even death couldn't break the link between master and servant.

…

Damian Wayne, raised under the League of Assassins, had always felt he was meant to carry on his grandfather's heritage. But when Daniel emerged from the Lazarus Pits, enveloped in their miraculous waters, Damian's fate changed.

As they grew, Damian was awarded the duty of Daniel's guardian, a position of great distinction in the League. He fully committed to this role, practicing tirelessly to prove himself worthy of defending the League's successor.

Damian was upset when Daniel unexpectedly dismissed him from the League at the age of 10. He couldn't understand why his lord would dismiss him so abruptly. Damian confronted Daniel, desperate for answers about his dismissal.

Youthful spirit, the horizon stretches before you, beckoning freedom's call. Yet, wanderer, when the winds of destiny bring you home, return to me. I relinquish the chains of selfish desire, for I discern your potential for greatness. Embrace the world, then return to my side, where together, we shall forge greatness anew.

Daniel then disclosed his genuine goals, which were to drive Damian to greatness and help him reach his full potential outside of the League. Though initially astonished and offended, Damian realized the underlying message in Daniel's actions and decided to earn his master's trust.

Going to his father's side, Damian sought out Robin's mantle, battling Tim Drake for the title. In doing so, he aimed not only to recover his place by Daniel's side but also to establish himself as a suitable successor to his grandfather's legacy, ready to embark on the path of greatness that Daniel had envisioned for him.

…

Daniel, a young heir to Ra's al Ghul, led the League of Assassins with unrivaled potential and strength. His wisdom and charisma won the respect and allegiance of powerful individuals such as Lady Shiva, Cheshire, and David Cain. Ra's al Ghul trusted Daniel to protect his legacy, knowing that the League would continue to develop and prosper under his leadership, assuring its domination for future generations.

…

Daniel meanwhile at the back of his mind kept screaming as he never thought that it would get him far. 

He was just walking around Amity when his ghost senses pinged something he could not see, one moment he was in his teen self and then he was a baby surrounded by ectoplasm and being carried by someone with major fruitloop vibes. He tried he tried, he tried to become a cryptid like Clockwork since it always makes him grit his teeth at the vague sentences that came out of him, heck even Pandora and Frostbite look at Clockwork and thought of strangling the ghost for his cryptic answers, he is pretty sure he does that for shit and giggles, but it made him look like mature and wise, someone who has infinite wisdom.

Danny thought of laying down low when it came to training but with the combined efforts in training with his mom and the various ghost mentors and fighters in the Infinite realms, he became a formidable fighter before he even reached his double digits. As years passed by each time he tried to deflect or even pass on his so-called political power to others was returned with undying loyalty that he didn't need. 

He just hopes that the Bat Furry brigade can help him out.

…

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: As you can see, I posted a bit early, I am busy during May so this is another early post. bye-bye!

[mysteria157]

Pairing: Demon! Nanami Kento x Angel Black!Fem Reader

Rating/CW: grey morality, religious undertones, corruption kink, worship, power dynamics (subtle fem submission), monsterfucking, smut, tongue fingering, pronged tongue, vaginal sex, oral (f! receiving), mild blood/biting. MDNI!

Summary: The thick muscle of your wings press against cold ancient stone as he circles you with wicked, stone-faced intent. Glimmering obsidian fingers trace along your feathers until they quiver--fluttering with touch-starved bliss no angel should ever feel. It's forbidden--this sensation in your belly, this humiliating slick between your legs that be can smell, this overwhelming desire that you've spent eons trying to quell.

But now, trapped before a demon so captivating that you can't help but feel equally terrified and dreadfully aroused, reality burns your skin like the holy water that bubbles whenever it's within your reach.

You're not here to serve a divine purpose--you're an offering. And only Heaven knows if you'll fall to your knees before him, begging for corruption.

Author Notes: Here it is! My submission for @tsukimefuku 's Spookinky event! I had so much fun writing this. Thank you, Fuku, for hosting such an awesome event, and I truly apologize for the filth (I do not apologize). Thank you all for your support, and thank you, @aliasnnmknt, for letting me use your art for my banner and helping me create it. Your art really inspired most of this fic!

Header: art by @aliasnnmknt | Divider: @arcielee @enchanthings | network tag: @pixelcafe-network

JJK Masterlist | Twitter | Ao3

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

You’ve never set foot in a demon’s realm.

You’ve heard the stories—flames that burn flesh from bone, screams that echo for eternity, demons that feast on corrupted souls. For the many eons that you have been in existence, the pristine light you thrive in tells enough horrid stories to keep you away.

You do what you can to show you are pure in your thoughts and heart and that you will walk the line given to make the one above you proud in His selection of you. You’ve done well. It’s why you’ve been given this task—a pilgrimage to a sacred altar within this dark realm, to find the relic it holds and be promised enlightenment and a deeper connection to your spiritual life. For once, you feel special. You are special.

The relic you search for holds ancient divine text that the Heavens would like to make sure does not fall into the wrong hands. Your ability to decipher that text and other old tongues made you the perfect choice—though you try not to question why that ability exists at all. This mission feels important and they insisted you were the perfect choice. Your gifts would serve the greater good. Serve Him.

Maybe that’s why they sent you alone. A single angel, moving quietly through dark territory, would draw less attention than an entire group.

Finally, after so many years of wary glances and hushed concerns. Your many ‘gifts’ that have set you apart—the way ancient texts rearrange themselves under your touch, how you see patterns in chaos that other angels cringe from, your thirst for knowledge that shouldn’t be explored. Finally, it’s all paid off.

Or…at least that’s what they told you. Even as something in your grace whispers warnings you choose to ignore.

Angels bask in absolutes, in the pure warmth of divine light and the straightforward clarity of purpose. There is certainty in right and wrong, never a grey in between. Your wings should bask in holy breeze, not in this thick air that tastes of dreadful sin.

You expected the realm to smell of death and destruction, to look as if every natural disaster had run through the land so the shadows could roam freely to commit sin. It’s what you’ve been taught at least. This Realm specifically is forbidden and faith has been used as a boundary to keep other angels in line.

The outskirts of this realm is covered in a haze, a thick russet fog that smells of ozone and decaying flowers. It settles on your skin like an uncomfortable garment, scratching the surface and burning your dermis. Your wings curdle in pain, burning to ash and regrowing through your bleeding muscles. Gnarled, skeletal trees reach up like claws, the birds that sit on their branches malnourished and dying. Distantly, you hear the constant drip of water from a faucet, yet there is no water in sight. Whispers of sin and moans of agony carry on the wind.

Your white dress flows like liquid moonlight, now stained with ash and ember burns. The neckline dips lower than most angels would prefer.

“To be comfortable in the vessel He gave you is to honor His creation.”

Is what they had said, their justification now seems like a cruel irony as the fog caresses your exposed cleavage with burning fingers. The bottom of your dress trails on the ground as you walk, the dirt burning with red soil that seeps through the toes of your bare feet. It feels as if you’re walking on hot coals, the heat burning the fabric of your hem in tendrils of smoke.

You knew to expect this pain, but it’s different. There is a calculated precision to it, intentional in how it burns you as if testing if your form is solid, if your soul is worthy of corruption. The bell sleeves of your gown flutter in a nonexistent wind, ash and soot collecting in the folds of fabric that they once praised as divine elegance.

Your eyes burn, tears streaking melanin-soaked skin that cannot absorb the shrouded sun up above. As you navigate blindly through the oppressive haze, the shadows around you morph with the darkness and skitter past you on multiple hands and contorted feet.

An infinitesimal part of your grace shivers in fear. It’s small yes, pushed away and ignored like you have been taught, but it’s there in the quickening of your pulse and the break of sweat on your neck, it’s there as you walk further through the vicious landscape of horror and pain, as you try to ignore the gurgling of what you do not know from all around you.

Your wings curl around your body, a small gesture of protection that you fall into when the fog gets thicker. It slides languidly up your nostrils and down your throat, catching along the corners. You cough, sputtering wildly through ash and decay, your eyes bubbling with more burning tears. That fear flickers again in your chest and wiggles like a worm in search of moist dirt in your rib cage.

You can do this. You have been chosen. Your lips curl and part as you recite your prayer in silence, asking for strength even as your fear climbs higher to the surface of divine worship.

Then—through burning tears, you see it. A path of pure obsidian that cuts through the horror, its surface covered in a thin layer of water that reflects starlight not in the skies above. Your feet pick up in pace, moving before conscious thought, drawn to its dark beauty and vast difference of the world around. The moment your toes dip into the water-slicked stone, the moisture sliding off your skin without wetting it, everything changes.

The burning on your skin and feathers stops. The pungent fog parts like a curtain and dissipates into the air. You pull in a deep breath, savoring the thickness that is no longer there, your throat coated in clean oxygen. Your dress, moments ago stained with ash and fiery burns, returns to its pristine white. Once the tears in your eyes clear, you take in the changed landscape.

Perhaps the realm only transforms if one gets this far, because now there is no destruction but a defiance of what you see. The sky is tinged a permanent grey, overcast even though there’s a warmth to the low hang of the clouds. There are no lakes of fire, and the ground beneath your feet is no longer hot with clay-colored dirt that seeps between your toes. The obsidian path winds before you through tall garden walls of pearly white flowers, the leaves pitch black instead of earthly green.

Above the dark canopy of the garden walls, a monolith looms tall, piercing the grey sky as if demanding to be let into the heavens. It’s built to resemble a vast tree, its surface rippling with starlight, the bright core pulsing like a heartbeat, beckoning you deeper into this realm of misconstrued beauty. The garden path must lead to it. Even the pearly white flowers weaved into the walls all point forward, ushering you on.

Your wings furl closer to your spine as you shuffle to one of the garden walls, hesitantly reaching for the flowers twined in the vines and leaves. It’s a beautiful white, with small petals that curl toward a sage core. They’re littered along the walls, a beautiful landscape against darkness but the closer you get, the more you realize—

Hemlock

A poisonous flower, the symbol of death, betrayal, and sacrifice. It sits in it’s refined beauty, enhancing the black leaves around you, but they are just as dangerous.

You snatch your hands away as if stung, clutching the fabric of your dress like a lifeline. You try not to think about how the hemlock watches you with pale eyes. You try not to think about what they represent. You try not to question why these flowers would point and line a path to the divine relic you seek.

With every step you take, the pulsing from the monolith in the distance vibrates through the ground, the water rippling currents with each beat. The obsidian path narrows, forcing your wings closer to your body, your arms so close to the deadly blooms. The garden walls rise higher, leaves trembling in that same empty breeze.

While the air no longer feels thick, it is heavy with a taste both nonexistent and flavorful. Flavored with the knowledge you seek when others do not look and secrets that make your eyes linger even as your grace warns you against it. The questioning urges of your nature that Heaven always tries to quell stir awake like a beast being poked after centuries of rest.

You should ignore it. You should ask for forgiveness and count the blessings you have been given in this long existence. But your heart leaps at the chance you have also been given, right now.

The monolith’s base reveals itself slowly, the garden walls parting gradually with dark promise. Your breath catches at the sight—this is no crude demon architecture. The structure rises before you like an otherworldly giant, jet black vines weaving within its bright innards.

You’re struck by the beauty of it all, a resplendent sight that you never imagined would bless your eyes. And as you draw closer, the glass obsidian floors open up before you. From the open floor, a column of marble rises, its surface bleached bone and covered in aging vines and greenery.

On that altar, rests the relic you seek. It is no crystal that contains energy to create vasts universes. It is no seed that once planted will wreak destruction with its pollination. It is no amulet capable of manipulating time.

It is a book.

A single book that is thick with words of forbidden knowledge, its cover worn and weathered from eons of hiding in the shadows, its pages yellowing along the edges.

Such a simple relic, but you feel it’s dark power from your spot at the altar.

You’ve been tasked to tuck it away and sneak back to Heaven, to deliver it to your superiors and be given your eternal reward. While simple in theory, your hands hover over it, hesitating with shaky fingers.

Do not open it.

Do not look at it for longer than necessary.

Do not look inside.

These are your rules—your absolutes. And yet…

Your fingers twitch, reaching and pulling back at the elusive call of the tome, your feathers trembling with a desire you shouldn’t feel. Your eyes burn with tears of veneration as the symbols on the worn leather illuminate and rearrange before your eyes like dancing embers, the translated text reading in your mind like an endless scroll.

Do not look at it for longer than necessary.

You snatch it up, pressing it to your chest as a means to stop your racing heart. Your soul palpitates with want, a baseless need to curl your fingers under the lips of the book and tilt it open.

It’s temptation, that festering desire that always seems to coil in your belly when the explanations you are given never feel right, when the world around you seems too pristine and you want to know more, when you linger in the mortal realm, watching the humans with a curious eye that is more than what is required of you.

It’s quick and on a whim, you pulling the book from your chest to look down at it, as if by looking it will answer the questions you seek. You trail your fingers along it’s ancient skin, soft and unmarred fingertips feeling along ridges and scars along the cover. It looks as if the relic has gone through it’s own personal Hell, no doubt jerked around from realm to realm over the centuries, pried open and its secrets stolen. There’s a faint beat of sadness that you feel in your chest at the thought of what it must have gone through.

But your fingers still finger beneath the lid, the worn pages jagged on your tips as you worry it up with a slow movement.

Do not open it.

You squeeze the tome, pressing the pages inside more into each other in a silent attempt to seal it and your temptation away forever. Your toes curl into the water beneath you, cold on your skin but still passing over you dry and without moisture.

But once again you catch yourself loosening your grip, your fingers adventurous, your mind begging for more and it’s right here.

In times like these, you find yourself turning to the one manifestation that has never answered you, but exists in your very being.

“Father,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Give me the strength against temptation.” Your wings draw tight, your spine aching from the sudden action, before they expand in a glorious span, feathers opening like extended fingers before they curl around you to shield you from your own curiosity. “Guide me from this darkness, keep my thoughts pure…”

But even as you pray, your body rebels—your fingers part a page and slide along the rough texture of papyrus. There’s a power to the book now, a deep pulse that seems to be in rhythm with the monolith, beckoning you further. The ancient text burns brighter, the translated words whispering in your ears to give in just this once—look inside, soak in your knowledge, seek what others deny.

Your lips quiver, eyes burning with unshed tears at the way your body betrays you. You’re no better than a fallen angel, than a demon or a human who walks the path of darkness—easily tempted and consumed.

You’re not damned, you’re not, you’re not—

“What do we have here?”

The voice slides through your tumultuous thoughts like silk, rich with bored amusement and something darker. Your prayers die in your throat, catching along the edges of your esophagus, your body icing over with a chill of what you try to rebuke as fear.

You’re not alone and you knew the dangers of wandering this realm so freely. You call upon your grace, manifesting a celestial dagger of light and purity, before you whirl around to face the demon who pursues you.

But you’re met with nothing—just the empty garden path you came from.

When you turn back to the altar, your scream catches in your throat.

He stands with casual power and predatory grace. His skin is a pitch lighter than the obsidian paths, but still scattered with constellations. His hair falls in golden-blonde waves, the ends touched with flame that frames sharp features and elegant black horns that curl from the top of his head. His eyes are a burning yellow, studying you with a calculating hunger that makes you shiver.

He stands tall, an inhuman height that makes you feel incredibly small, his wings the color of dark flames spread lazily behind him, their edges flickering with crimson light.

The armor that adorns his upper body is otherworldly and crafted not by divine or mortal hands—navy as dark as night, trimmed with gold that wraps around his shoulders and sides, his chest bare. His hip rests against the altar as if he owns it, expectant like he’s been waiting for you.

He’s beautiful, a manifestation of dark and light, a being that walks his own line not predetermined. As you study him, something tugs at your memory—flashes of encounters that have grown fuzzy over time. In the mortal realm, when you linger in the shadows to observe the humans, a tall figure in navy and tan, warm eyes hidden behind glasses with no arms, hair not tipped with flame but parted clean and tucked behind his ears.

He lingers in the darkness, in damp alleys and abandoned buildings where misery and pain give birth to grotesque figures that terrorize the mortals. You’ve seen him—or you think you have—convinced it was a coincidence and ignored the way your wings would shiver at his distant presence, tilting toward him as if searching for someone lost.

And in your dreams too—dreams of large hands filled with experiences of the world, of whispers in your ear of eternal knowledge. You’d wake with your grace trembling, convinced it was just your mind playing tricks even as the apex of your thighs trembled with the sheen of your sweat and forbidden essence.

Perhaps that’s why your superiors ask for you after these dreams. Perhaps that’s why they press their fingers to your temples and bury the memories deep. So you do not have to worry. So that you can resist temptation. Right?

Yes. All of it is a temptation to test your faith.

But now he stands before you, solid and real, and those ‘coincidences’ suddenly feel intentional. Had he been watching? Waiting for this very moment?

You adjust your grip on your dagger, forcing away those thoughts that never seem to go away. You stagger backwards, your celestial dagger shaking in your hands, your prayer wielded before you like a shield.

“Our Father who art in Heaven,” you whisper, desperate words that feel as if they fall on closed ears, your fear radiating from your bare toes, through the strong muscles of your white wings, and up to the top of your skull. “Hallowed be thy—”

The demon moves towards you now, each step gobbling the distance between your retreating form until your back hits the garden wall, a gasp dying in your throat.

“That name,” he murmurs, sultry low as he cages you with muscular arms, “holds no power here.” His eyes drag down your form, cataloging you bit by bit, lingering on the sight of a shaking chest that is pressed to the tome you clutch.

He leans in close, too close, until you feel the burning heat from his skin. You press your back harder against the garden wall, dark leaves and hemlock brushing along your cheeks and neck as he inhales deeply along the column of your throat.

He smells like the archives you lose yourself in, like the green tea you love to drink in the mortal realm, like a dark concoction of burning honey that would make the noses of other angels crinkle but your nostrils open to inhale more. Your divine senses blur.

This is temptation, you tell yourself as your wings putter against the wall behind you. You’ve practiced for this, you know what you should do. But your body betrays you, your head tilting slightly before you can think about it, offering more of your neck for his inspection.

Horror at your sin, ice cold as it washes over you, makes you act. You press your celestial dagger upward, against his bare chest where one particular constellation burns brighter than the rest.

But the blade dissolves like sugar in the rain the moment it touches him, holy light scattering for a home as it shimmers across his skin to form new constellations.

“How interesting…” The deep voice inquires, hot as it puffs on your neck. “An angel, stealing what does not belong to them. Surely there’s a rule about that, is there not?”

You clutch the tome tighter to your chest, your mouth opening to snap that this is your mission, your divine purpose. But the book vanishes from your grip in black tendrils of smoke, your hand smacking into your breasts from the gap created.

“Give it back!” Panic rises in your throat as you try to meld with the leaves behind you, your fingers wrapping around vines and leaves like a vice.

A sigh, long and drawn out as if mentally exhausted, as if this isn’t the first this has happened, leaves his giant form and travels over your body.

“No, I don’t think I will,” he drawls, pushing off the wall and walking away as if your presence means nothing. He turns to face you at the altar, eyes half-lidded as he rests his forearms on the marble surface and opens the tome that is now manifested in his hands. He’s giving off every impression that the relic you seek will not be going home with you, and he is more than prepared to read it all until you go away.

“W-well, you…” you trail off, your eyes flickering to the open book in his hands. You can’t see the words inside, but you can practically smell the papyrus, a smell that warms you when you trail your fingers along the archives in Heaven. You tighten your grip on the leaves, flexing your wings to extend in a display of dominance, even though it feels as if this demon has read you the moment you stepped into this realm.

The tome sits like an infant in his hands, small and precious as he turns a page, long galaxy shimmered fingers gliding along the text as he reads. That curiosity beckons, a familiar pulse of sin that fires along the nerves in your legs to take a step toward him, to peak over the edge of the book and look inside.

“Demon,” you press, swallowing a lump of your frayed nerves.

His eyes flicker up at you, burning gold irises mildly offended.

“That is not my name.” He turns another page, pulling his gaze away from you, dismissive. “Though, I suspect you already know what it is.”

Why would you know his name? While the sight of him invokes some distant memories, you both have never spoken. The confusion mixes with your flood of panic, your eyes locked on the ancient text in his hands.

“I don’t—I’m here on divine purpose. The Heavens sent me to deliver this relic.”

“They sent you to steal this relic,” he corrects. He slams the tome closed, the sound making you flinch before he walks back to you in casual strides, his form almost gliding on the obsidian floors.

“I would not steal.”

“Coming to a place without invitation and taking the items inside is, indeed, stealing.”

You sink back into the flowers as he draws closer, your heart pumping erratically in your chest, your limbs filling with shame at the logic he draws. But still, you resist.

“I was invited.”

You’ve always been around to see the return of angels from long missions where they are surrounded by darkness and pain. They seem so strong, their chests puffed in pride, their wings shining brighter as a badge of honor. There’s a bravery that you wish you could have right now. But you’re afraid—whether that fear is pure or mixed with something sensual and dangerous—you still don’t know.

“I-I was chosen,” you insist, despite what you feel.

“Oh, I’m sure you were.” His head tilts as he regards you.

The book disappears from his hands before materializing in your own, warm smoke wrapping around your wrists before dissipating. “Take it. Return to your divine purpose.”

You clutch the tome, hoping for relief to fill your wings, but you can only feel disappointment instead. You hesitate, flickering your gaze up to the demon who stands expectantly with arms crossed, like he knows what the outcome will be. Like he knows you will be back.

You turn around and flea down the obsidian path. The garden walls adorned with pearl flowers blur past you until—

The walls part again, the altar and demon coming into view.

“That’s not—” you spin, turning back toward the path and running faster this time, your relic pressed to your body, your lungs burning with the truth that you’re trying to deny.

The hemlock flowers seem to laugh as you pass, their white petals pointing the way with mocking fingers until—

The altar. The demon, an eyebrow raised. Again.

“Stop this!” Your voice breaks as you turn around to try again, sprinting so hard that your wings flap against the wind, your toes touching the top of the thin layer of water below you. You come to the altar a third time, then a fourth, each leading back to his knowing and patient form.

“I’m not doing anything.” His voice holds a gentle pity that pricks at your skin. “But why? Why would they send their most curious angel into a demon’s realm? Why alone? Why you?”

Something in his tone, in the endearment wrapped around seduction makes your grace shiver. You long to have an answer ready on your tongue, and you do, but it’s more practiced, copied, and spit out and resonates in your bones incorrectly.

“The relic requires eyes that can transcribe so I select the right one. My abilities—”

“Your abilities,” he interrupts softly, materializing behind you, “the ones that they’ve tried to suppress. The ones that they’ve feared. Yet suddenly, all of it is for naught, and you’ve been given this divine purpose?”

The towering demon circles you slowly, analyzing you like a predator waiting for his wounded prey to finally submit. You swallow hard, fingers digging into the leather of the book, eyes downcast.

“They finally saw my worth,” you insist, but the words sound hollow even to your ears. “I am pure. Free of sin. I do not stray.”

Warmth by the shell of your ear, the rich smell of him forbidden, an erotic melody that makes your blood long to sing.

“Lies.”

Your wings slash through the air in deep powerful strokes, twitching in their plumage. “I would not lie!”

“Neither would I, little angel. But it seems you have been led here under false pretenses.”

“No.”

“There is no relic.” The tome in your hands disappears, it’s solid form no longer tethered to existence.

“Give it—”

“There is no mission,” he presses on. “There is no divine purpose. There is only you. Cast down here and given to me.”

“To you…”

“An offering, little angel.”

The word makes you chill over in disgust, the very thought of being a sacrificial lamb enough to make you sick to your stomach. You shake your head vehemently, insistently denying as best as you can even though your grace radiates with the truth.

“No. They would never sacrifice someone. They—they wouldn’t—they wouldn’t do that to me.”

The demon clicks his tongue, pity filling his otherworldly features with a slight pout of his lips as he studies you. Before you can take another breath, the realm shifts, reality bending in a plume of smoke. The monolith and altar disappear, the darkness of the garden walls fading to give way to the eternal light you recognize as your home.

The tall pearly gates that surround your kingdom smile down at you, pearlescent clouds that seeps beneath the doors kissing your bare toes. Your wings waft in the air with ease, pumping euphoria through your veins as you smile up at your home. The tome is back now, cradled safely in your arms, reminding you of your mission. With a hope bright in your chest, you rapt your fingers on the doors.

“Father! I’ve retrieved the relic! I’m home!”

But the doors do not open. There is no sound of movement on the other side, no shift in the white clouds around you. It doesn’t even feel as if someone is not home. You can feel your siblings, you’ve always been able to sense them in your grace, but this sensation is reluctant. As if they peak through closed curtains on the other side, watching through a window with their hand on the door to prevent you from coming in.

“H-hello?” you try again, voice shaking as you knock with more fervor, denial warring with growing dread. “I-I said I’ve brought the relic.” Silence. “Hello?!” You smack on the doors now, the holy wood splitting at your skin and healing over again. Surely someone must be home. Maybe they are away? Maybe they are busy and do not hear?

You press your forehead against the door, wings drooping. Through your grace, you feel them there, still watching. Waiting for you to leave. But not to welcome you home.

“Please,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “Will someone—”

“They will not open the doors, little angel,” the demon speaks from behind you.

You jump from his sudden appearance, your body drained of all blood at the sordid thought of what is happening right now. Reality shifts again, the divine light of your home sucking back into darkness, the monolith and marble altar and obsidian floors coming back into view.

Your legs threaten to give as realization washes over you. You shake your head, lip quivering as tears blur the edges of your vision, your fingers curling on the altar. How could they do this to you? You have always struggled in this life, always been so ashamed that you do not think like the others. But to cast you out? To give you these wings and then make you feel as if you are beyond saving?

“Perhaps it is a mistake,” you whisper, your hope crumbling with every word. You feel his large form next to you before you hear any steps. “Why would they do this to me?”

You have no choice but to look up at him, to seek some form of answer in his burning yellow eyes. There’s a flicker of something that crosses his face—amusement? Maybe pity?

“They have offered you to me. A sacrifice to take the darkness from their pristine walls and feed it to the realm it belongs to.”

The words hang in the air, the horrifying truth once again presented to you. Your heart lurches in your chest. You recoil, your wings drooping to brush along the water covered floor.

“They fear you, little angel,” he continues, voice softening. “Your potential, your curiosity, your unwillingness to follow their absolutes.”

You slap your hands on the altar, the sound reverberating through the emptiness around you. “I will not.”

The demon chuckles, a low, sardonic noise that crawls up your dress and wraps around your throat. “Such defiance,” he purrs. “It’s quite…alluring.”

You can’t help the noise of shock and anger that crawls up your throat, shooting him a dark look. “I will not be corrupted by the likes of a demon like you.”

“Like me? So you imply that another demon may have a chance?” His jests fall on rageful ears, your wings flapping in defiance as you gape at him. He leans in close, his breath warm against your lips as he whispers. “You deny it all little angel. But you already are corrupt.”

You try to pull away from him, but a large hand falls to the small of your back, his fingers weaving through your wings in a caress that makes you choke on a whine.

“Come now, my dear.” The tip of his nose trails along your cheek, the touch sending flames of desire down your neck. You curl your fingers into a fist on the altar, your body ramrod straight.

“I can smell it on you,” he continues, his voice a silken caress. “The insatiable curiosity, the yearning for more, the essence that pools between your thighs every night before you sleep.”

The fingers in your plumage massage your skin, your shoulders relaxing into a traitorous sigh before with a swift motion, he plucks a feather from its root. You wince, your hand flying back to bat him away before he holds the feather in front of you, its tip stained a deep, inky black.

“Do you not try to hide it? You sneak to the archives. You let them smother your dreams. You do not tell them that you sneak away to the mortal realm to watch them eat, and bathe, and sin.”

He turns your wing to expose the underside where the feather was plucked, your eyes widening as if you’ve been caught. The skin is marred with a dark scar, the muscle underneath dried with blood and presenting as damning evidence of you plucking those feathers over and over, your cheeks covered in tears as you did your best to hide them away.

“You pluck your true self,” he whispers, voice laced with dry amusement. “But they only grow back stronger, don’t they?”

A breath catches in your throat, his words piercing through your defenses that you have built with weak mortar and brick for eons. Your eyes catch his, your desire reflected in burning gold.

“Even so…I cannot leave?”

He hums in reverence, a pointy finger trailing along your collarbone to brush a lock of hair from your shoulders, exposing more of your scent for him to breathe in.

“You have tried to leave already and you cannot. There is nowhere for you to go. I can let you roam to any realm you choose, but the doors of Heaven will be locked for you forever.”

Your eyes bubble with tears. It’s an unfortunate hand that you have been dealt. A hand always opened to you in promise even as the other held a dagger behind the back of divinity. There’s a deep part of you that would try to find some sort of silver lining in moments of darkness, a silver lining that only benefits you.

“If I stay…what will you give me?” you ask, your voice small and defeated.

The demon sinks to one knee in front of you, his eye level now only a little taller than you, but still more humane than his hovering from before. He offers a slow, predatory smile, his lips parting to reveal sharp pearly white fangs.

“You already think in ways that will benefit yourself, don’t you? Whatever you desire, little angel, I will give it.” The sharp point of his nail trails down your cheek, casting a wave of arousal down your body, your stomach tightening. “Anything at all.”

You cannot deny the promise of whatever you want does not make you perk mildly with curiosity, the same curiosity that was always quelled.

You lick your lips in thought, a nervous habit that your siblings have always discouraged. It’s unbecoming of an angel, they’d say, a physical manifestation of want. But you’ve always like the way your tongue feels against the plump flesh of your lips.

“Anything?”

He inclines his head to you, eyes answering without having to say. You hesitate, your mind racing with possibilities, unleashed with nothing to hold them back.

“I want…” you begin, stopping short at the coil of desire that burns in your body. You’ve never given it a true voice, and now that you’ve been presented with the opportunity, you are unsure of how to proceed.

The demon’s eyes roam over your form before they brighten with understanding. “You wish to read the tome.”

You nod, unable to speak past the dry lump in your throat. He summons it quickly, the worn leather materializing in his enormous hands as he hands it to you like an offering of forbidden fruit.

“Take it,” he urges in a seductive whisper. “It is yours.”

You reach out with trembling fingers, your grace pulsing with desire, it’s feel growing bolder as you snatch it up into your hands and let it flow through you. The leather is cool beneath your fingertips, worn with the promise of centuries of words you’ve always wanted.

When you open the book and let your eyes fall on the faded script, they rearrange themselves like before, translating to you in a seductive dance that makes your toes curl. The knowledge overwhelms you, flooding your senses in a wave of information about this realm—its history and inhabitants and magic. You feel a thrill of excitement, a suppressed sense of liberation as you turn page after page.

From your peripheral, you see the demon offer that same predatory smile. With a snap of his fingers, the world shifts around you again. You are further from the monolith but instead of the altar, you are surrounded by looming bookshelves, all filled to the brim. Ancient tomes and scrolls, dusty relics that have been neglected over the years but kept in condition by this demon who rules this realm.

“This is a taste of what I can offer you. All of it is yours.” He steps closer, the energy that he radiates filling your space with darkness and seduction that terrifies and excites you. “There is so much more I can show you,” he whispers in your ear again. “Would you like that?”

Even though your body and soul buzz with satisfaction from the books around you, the shame is still there, still bubbling beneath the surface next to your dejection.

Sensing your unease, he places tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, a gesture that you long to fall into before the world morphs again.

He takes you back to where you began, the realm’s outskirts. However there is no russet fog that is thick and smells of decay and misery, this time your vision is clear. The shadows that once hovered around you in your quest to the monolith now reveal themselves as souls—humans that you recognize from your years of observation.

“Do you remember her?” the demon asks, pointing to a small woman tending to a bush of flowers. “The woman from years ago who stole medicine for her dying child because she had no money.”

You do remember watching with tear filled eyes. It was an ancient time where death was a sentence given freely, and this mother had been called to the land of the dead for stealing bread.

“You watched her pray for forgiveness even as she did what was necessary.” His hand rests on your lower back, reassuring in its pressure. “Heaven would have condemned her. I gave her purpose.”

“How do you give purpose if you are a demon?”

The demon huffs, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “It is true that I gain my strength through corruption. But it is corruption through intellectual rebellion and questioning minds. I am strong because no matter how many years may pass, there will always be a soul that questions.”

Each soul that you pass triggers a memory—struggles you watched but could never reach out and help. And in each memory, you gain more clarity—he was always there in the mortal realm, appearing in navy and tan just like you thought.

“You’ve been watching me then,” you inquire, tucking your tome closer to your chest as you cast a sidelong glance to him.

“It is my nature,” he rumbles from next to you. “You understand the beauty in grey areas. The necessity of balance.” His fingers glide along the empty space where you plucked your blackened wings. “Here, you could judge with mercy and justice. Rule in the knowledge they feared.”

Power.

A destructive thing that has elevated so many and torn them down. But the call of it has always been sweet, and now you are the subject of it. The very thought of it makes your knees weaken, your grace fluttering like a leave in the wind. This could be something more honest, not Heaven’s sterile authority.

The soil that is no longer red vibrates beneath you, pulsing up your ankles and calves, around your waist and torso in thick vines that pull you to the monolith miles away.

“Easy, my dear,” he murmurs, a muscular arm sliding around your waist to prevent you from swaying further. “The first taste of true power always overwhelms.” Your grace flickers between divine light and seductive shadow, somehow grounded by his hold.

Every soul’s story calls to you now, complex choices and grey morality making your divine nature pulse with stomped out recognition. You lean into him, falling more into his scent, your wings brushing his back to seek balance.

“I…” you trail off, clutching the relic in your arms, using it to ground you through your thoughts that fight between light and dark.

“What else would you like?” he purrs in your ear, his hand reaching out to the realm beyond that begins to shift again. A vast kitchen filled with warmth and enticing scents. “Earthly pleasures are denied amongst angels.” The pristine counter tops are soon overflown with rich goods and goblets of wine. “Even something as simple as this.”

You’ve never had wine—it’s forbidden—at least for you. But the way it catches the warm fireplace behind it, deep and rich…your mouth waters.

“Freedom to roam where you wish.”

Glimpses of different realms flash by—clouds of different shapes and sizes, landscapes of mountains and water as clear as crystal, beings that take on their own forms as they wander the lands—places you’ve only dreamt of exploring, of asking to see and always been denied.

His voice drops lower, more intimate and hot on your cheek. “Or perhaps…” Another shift. A dark room you remember faintly—through gauzy curtains, you see two figures entwined in candlelight. The brown skin of limbs and curves wrapped around tan that shimmers faintly. You recognize the hips of the woman, the collarbone and hair, and you realize it’s you. You wrapped around this very demon next to you who appears in the mortal realm as a human with carefully parted locks and a height fit for yourself.

Your blood boils beneath your skin as you try to look away. But like every forbidden thing that’s ever called to you, your eyes are drawn back to the scene—to the way your dream-self arches into his touch, the way your neck cranes, the sight of his tongue sliding along the sweat of your brown breast.

He hums from behind you, his demonic form pressing closer as you watch his human glamour worship your other self. That familiar wave of shame wars with the desire in your body, trying its best to smother the arousal that tightens your nipples beneath your white dress. All of it you suffer night after night—your grace singing, skin hot and sweaty—essence coating your thighs.

“I—” you stutter for words, eyes locked on the human form that rolls his hips and swallows a moan that shakes from your other-self. “This is wrong…”

His starlight fingers trace your collarbone, mimicking the tongue of his human form. “Your body remembers what they tried to smother away. How many nights did you wake burning for this? For me?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

The realm shifts one final time, the familiar garden walls and monolith appearing before you, the altar pressing into your back. The demon circles you, giving you no time to recover as his prying eyes pick you apart feather by feather.

“Even your grace recognizes where you truly belong.” He reaches out, trailing pointy nails down your spine, your body arching of its own volition. “Here. With me.”

His hands engulf your entire waist, his touch making you gasp as he lifts you up to sit on the altar before him.

“Every dream they tried to bury,” his hands trail up your thighs, “every desire they made you forget…” he steps closer, taking the oxygen from your lungs that you expel, his naked chest a hairsbreadth from your searching fingers. “All of it has lead to this moment. To me.”

“I—” you try to protest, but it dies in your throat as he tilts your chin to face him.

“You were meant for this realm,” he leans in, trailing his nose along your shaking lips. “I will make you mine. As my queen, my consort, my equal.” You press the tome further into your chest like a lifeline as his hand rests on the side of your neck, his nails grazing the lobe of your ear. “You’ve always known it. Even in those dreams where you surrendered to me so sweetly.”

His lips are close enough to kiss you, but they brush your jaw instead, trailing electricity down your throat. “Anything you want,” he breathes against your pulse, smiling at the sight of it’s rapid flutter, “you will have, little angel.” His mouth moves to that sensitive spot behind your ear that you discovered one night centuries ago. “But you must surrender to me. You have been offered and now you must be consumed.”

You clutch the tome tighter, using it as a tether even as your head tilts to give him better access. “I should not…”

“Surrender,” he whispers, lips ghosting your shoulder now, each kiss punctuated with promises that you should deny. “Let me worship you.” A kiss to your collarbone. “You will never be denied again.” His mouth traces back to hover over your lips. “Submit to what you have always wanted.”

The burn in your body makes your skin tingle, your core pulse with forbidden need, your nipples tighten in pleasure. Everything you’ve always wanted, could be given to you right now.

All of your dedication to faith has only led to tears and shame and disappointment. But here, you could be rewarded for your curiosity, exalted for your power to see what others do not, consumed in pleasure without the eyes of disdain looking down on you.

Here, with this beautiful demon, you can have it all.

For as powerful and as dark as he is, despite the patient hunger in his golden eyes, you realize he’s waiting. You must give the final say. A final say to do away with eons of denying, of plucking dark feathers, of letting them bury your dreams…

“Please,” the words shake from your lips before you can stop it, the tome slipping from your defeated grasp.

His eyes flash with satisfaction, mouth twitching with the urge to smile, but he relents. “Say it properly, little angel.” His mouth brushes the corner of your lips in not quite a kiss. “Tell me.”

Your wings spread wider of their own accord, trembling and stretching past invisible threads that have always held them down. “I want…I will to surrender.”

You hardly finish your words before you feel the press of his lips against yours, gentle and almost reverent. It’s the first time you’ve ever kissed, and it’s as euphoric as you’ve always thought. Your toes curl in satisfaction, your body hums with arousal, low and beneath the surface but quickly growing.

The hand on your neck tilts you up so he can feast further, a wet tongue sliding along the seam of your lips in a quiet ask for permission. You let your body guide you, opening your mouth to welcome him with a groan.

He tastes like he smells—green tea and honey, a hint of rich bread that you occasionally try in the mortal realm. It’s intoxicating, dark mingled with your fading sweetness. One that speaks of corruption and surrender.

What started as gentle quickly turns hungry and consuming. Your grace shivers as you catalogue every shift in your body, learning from the lessons of his tongue. Each stroke of him feels like corruption, like freedom, like finally coming home and you arch into him for more.

Your white dress slowly disappears before you, your body revealing to him naked and shivering. You try to cover yourself, an urge ingrained in you since your coming of existence, but the demon’s large hand stops you, gathering both hands in his strong grip and placing them at your sides.

He does not wait a second longer, his mouth trailing in worship down your neck and across your collarbone to pepper the swell of your breasts, your core pounding incessantly as he gets closer to one nipple before he wraps it in his hot mouth.

A moan shakes from your mouth, unexpected and loud into the quiet air of this monolith room. Your hands reach up to card in his golden locks, they’re warm and impossibly silky, the flame colored ends burning more than the rest. You let the pain of it singe your fingertips, basking in the euphoric pleasure pain of your skin growing back and burning all over again.

His hand envelops your other breasts, his sharp nails teasing your nipple before he drags it slowly across your areola. Your fingers tighten in his hair from the pain, your core dripping on the marble altar you sit on.

“You taste wonderful, little angel,” he purrs into the wet skin of your breast, pulling away before he gently nudges you onto your back. Your wings stretch languidly to make you more comfortable against the flat surface. The urge to cover yourself is not as insistent as before, the desire eating you up without reservation. “But I must taste more.”

He leans over the altar you lay on, kissing your lips gently before his tongue slides along the skin of your neck and down your body. It’s longer than a mortal tongue, and when they circle your nipples again, you shake at the pronged tip that flicks your bud.

He worships down your torso to dip in your navel, over the dip in your hips before his hands push your legs up onto his shoulders and he licks your sopping core from bottom to top.

You arch sharply, teeth digging into your bottom lip in a futile attempt to stop the moan from shooting from your throat.

You’ve watched the humans many times in the shadows, transfixed when their mouths worship these parts of their partner, but to experience it yourself? To feel the demons tongue part your folds and circle the bud at the top that makes you cry into your pillows at night. Heaven has hidden away beautiful pleasure.

“Look at how much you give me,” he whispers, kissing the inside of your thigh before you feel his tongue on you again, prodding your entrance that you’ve sunken your fingers into at night.

You bite down on your lip, shivering in pleasure as he prods further and further, your legs widening with each current of pleasure until he sinks his wide tongue inside of you. You taste copper from your bleeding lip that heals over quickly, your bare feet digging into the demon’s broad shoulders as he feasts on your essence.

With every gasp, your wings quiver in anticipation, curling into your body to protect yourself from a euphoria that is growing so quickly in your stomach.

“Please,” you whisper in disbelief, hands twisting his hair with your divine strength. He hums in satisfaction, satisfied with what you give and digging for more.

His tongue strokes inside of you with purpose, caressing something along the roof of your hot walls, his nose brushing your bundle of nerves once, twice, the pleasure enough to make your jaw drop, to make you pant feverishly into the air, to make your back arch until the base of your spine hurts as you come apart by the seams.

Your release makes you cry out into the air, the sound brushing along the monolith, the constant pulsing stopping to take in your pleasure before it resumes its steady pulse.

He rises slowly as you struggle to catch your breath, his golden eyes tracing over your shivering form from head to toe. His grey obsidian hands slide up your trembling thighs as he leans over you.

“Beautiful,” he purrs before he kisses your lips. You swallow your taste—tangy and rich like the divinity that courses through your veins. “But I must have all of you to make this complete.”

All of you?

You look down to find that his pants are gone, starlight shining bright on his hips that seem to point down to the member that hangs between his thighs. Your eyes widen—he’s definitely bigger than mortals, purplish veins that trail along the sides, a tip that is darker than his grey, the skin flickering with those shimmering stars you are growing to love.

He’s beautiful, and without thinking you reach out to touch. He’s impossibly hard but also incredibly soft, and you watch in fascination as his dark flame-colored wings expand and shake in supplication.

He leans his head back to the grey skies, swallowing deeply at your touch and there’s a sense of power you feel. To know that with a single touch you can make this powerful demon fracture just a little.

He wraps his hand around yours to stop you, pulling you up so that he can sit on the altar instead. Even though he’s tall, you’re able to reach up and wrap your arms around his neck.

Your wings stretch and flap behind you, sparse feathers wafting in their air to fall around you both in white, grey, and black. Even though you feel loose from your first release, there is a subtle power that thrums with every flap of your wings.

You look at the monolith again. The pulse has picked up steadily, seeming to match your own heartbeat. Maybe there is a connection to the power inside of it and what might be coursing through you now.

As you tail up the length of it until it disappears into the grey clouds, you think faintly of those who cast you out. The pleasure fractures a little with pain, your eyebrows furrowing in disappointment.

“My angel,” he calls to you, softly, turning your gaze back to him. His golden and flame locks are messy, his horns pulsing with shimmering light, the navy and gold armor gone so that he is as naked as you are. “That pain that you feel will go away with time. I will make sure you will never know it again.”

The promise fills you with hope, and the press of his lips to yours makes the sordid thoughts fall to the wayside, your pleasure humming to life at the base of your spine.

The touch of his fingers to your core makes you whine into his mouth, pulling away with only a gossamer of saliva connecting you both. He strokes your bud, drinking your sighs and moans as your thighs and stomach tighten, your fingers digging into his soft shoulders.

He pulls you up onto your knees, your wet entrance brushing the thick tip of him before he guides you onto him slowly. It’s a stretch, far thicker than your fingers and foreign inside of you.

The initial pain makes you gasp, tears pricking your eyes. It feels as if you’re being split in two from your hips, torn apart with a strength that only makes you shiver and moan.

One hand slides along one wing to soothe you, his lips pressing to your neck. Eventually, the pain gradually melts into pleasure, his hands possessive on your hips as he guides you with careful restraint. You quake at the feel of him inside of you, stretching and molding your muscles in each euphoric stroke.

“Perfect,” he breathes against your shoulder. “Look how well you take me.” His voice resonates deep in your core, a sound that both terrifies and entices you, a forbidden melody that you are slowly learning the notes to.

You whimper in response, relishing in his praise as you begin to move faster on top of him, bouncing with a newfound sense of purpose. Your wings flap with more insistence, stretching and bending with the power that begins to seep out of your skin, white feathers less in abundance with each flap.

The demon’s nails dig into your waist and you sigh into the pain, picking up the pace until you’re not sure where he stops and you begin.

The power takes you higher and higher, your skin breaking into a sheen of sweat, your gasps dying in the air as you pant and moan above him. The pleasure at the base of your spine heats quickly, bubbling with sticky satisfaction as it slides down your vertebrae and into your core.

“That’s it,” he growls, nails digging into the flesh of your cheeks, canting your hips toward him so the tip of his member brushes that spot on your upper walls once again.

You choke on a moan, head thrown back in bliss, nails dragging down the solid muscle of his chest. Your wings curl around you, dark feathers replacing white with each thrust.

“Transform for me completely. Embrace what you truly are.”

“Yes,” you hiss, your mouth falling open as you struggle for breath. Your core tightens around him, the bundle of nerves shaking even untouched, and you’re falling, you’re falling, you’re—

The demon shifts again, his member leaving your hot core and denying you of release, your hands now pressed to the altar as you’re bent over. You whine in annoyance, looking over your darkening wings at his large form as he heaves with breath.

He regards you with a dark look, one that shows just how capable he is of picking you apart, and your mouth fills with saliva at the thought.

He draws one leg up onto the altar before sliding into you once more without pretense. You groan around the stretch of him, marveling at the pinch of pain that bleeds into overwhelming pleasure as he picks up his pace inside of you.

What starts out as reverent and gentle soon turns feverish. His strokes are deeper, his hips snapping against your open legs, a haze of pleasure clouding every crevice of your mind as he kisses spots inside of you that makes you groan, hiss, and whine.

The monolith picks up in speed, pulse matching your heartbeat as you climb higher and higher up a ladder of darkness that has always been denied.

You don’t know why, you don’t know where it comes from, but the last slivers of your salvation slide to the surface, tickling your throat one last time before they leave your soul forever.

“Please, please, Father,” you moan, eyes filling with tears of satisfaction as your body jerks with every harsh thrust of the demon behind you. One of his hands weaves into your locks, curling tight before yanking you back to him, arching until our stomach presses into the altar. “Forgive me.”

“We will have none of that,” he warns, out of breath. “You seek forgiveness to someone who is not listening. You pray to someone who has cast you out. And here you are. Under me. Calling for him as you weep on my cock in pleasure.”

His sharp fingers slide down your hip to circle over your bud of nerves and you cry out, tears streaming down your face, power radiating up your limbs. “Keep moaning, little angel. Keep begging.” He leans over you, pressing his hot chest into your wings, his breath hot on your ear as the tips of his pronged tongue slide along your lobe. “In your eyes you are soiled. Filthy. And my sweet goddess loves it, doesn’t she?”

You shake your head to deny, deny, deny. But a hard thrust, a stroke of his thick cock that kisses your cervix, and you sob in the pain that molds into pleasure. Your nipples brush against the cold marble, each icy touch shockwaves down your spine.

“I’ve watched you, my dove. When you study the humans in their pleasure. I’ve seen the way your pupils dilate. I’ve smelt the essence between your thighs. You dream of this don’t you?”

You try to whisper your Father’s name one last time, to show with your last breath of divinity that you were an angel who worked hard.

“You won’t say his name here anymore. Not in my realm—in our realm. Not in my arms while you cum on my cock. The only name you will moan and beg and plead is mine.”

Your wings flap in reverence, responding to his demands as they stretch around you. No longer are your feathers white, now they are inky black, as dark as midnight, as mysterious as the darkness you peer into.

The monolith quickens, a hummingbird’s wings, the bright core sliding up and down the tree-like structure and bleeding with vibration through the ground and up the altar.

Even as your mind tries to deny what you are becoming, your soul speaks otherwise, your core clenches around him unwilling to let go. The demon behind you grunts with each thrust, low and seductive on the back of your neck, his nose smelling the skin.

“I can’t—” you choke, fingers sliding on the altar from your sweat. “Please.”

“Please what?” he groans.

“More, please more, more, more,” you beg, words and resolve splintering in your throat as he rewards you with deeper thrusts, each one making you see the stars that shimmer along his skin.

“Say my name,” he demands, one hand sliding up your throat. You gasp at the subtle pressure on each side, not enough to do anything, but enough to make a dark current of pleasure pulse inside of you. “Let the skies above hear who you belong to now.”

You don’t know where the name comes from. He’s never given it to you. You’ve never asked. But somewhere, deep down in some ancient place in your soul, you’ve always known all along. Known him.

“Nanami,” it falls from your lips like a broken prayer. “Nanami, please—”

His teeth graze your pulse, sharp fangs dragging along your skin as pleasure builds in your body beyond reason. Your wings spread impossibly wide, your skin hums in arousal, hot and stinging.

The monolith’s pulse quickens with you, its light growing brighter as the power in your body travels through your veins to complete a transformation you can feel in your fallen grace. Even with every harsh pump of his hips, you feel worshiped. Worshipped by his hands. Worshipped on this altar in front of a monolith that watches over you both.

“You were an offering—a gift to me. Molded by the heavens. And now you’re mine. And your Father sent you to me,” he growls against your throat. “My dark goddess.”

His thrusts grow harder, more desperate, each one a brand searing its mark into your very soul. A mix of your essence and his precum pools on the altar where you are joined. The last embers of your angelic resistance crumble completely, replaced by an insatiable hunger that mirrors his own.

“Let go. Surrender to me completely.”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

That hot lava at the base of your spine explodes like a volcano of unholy fire as his teeth sink into your neck, marking you as his. Your release bursts from you, your core squeezing his thick member, your muscles seizing as your mouth falls open and your cries echo through the realm as divine light fractures into starry darkness.

All of your abilities that have been repressed swirl within the darkness and mix with the forbidden powers awakening within you. It feels like the very essence of your being is changing, transforming into something wild, a reflection of the demon who guided you with a sultry voice down this path.

You feel a rivulet of your blood trail down the side of your neck from his puncture, blazing with the essence of darkness that now pumps through your veins. He releases his teeth from your neck and turns your head to him with more force than necessary, sliding his tongue into your mouth as he kisses you senseless.

You can’t breathe, your body is loose, your grip on the edge of the altar slipping with each relentless thrust but you love it. Every smack of heavy balls against your clit, every slide of sweaty muscles of his chest against your wings and back, every pulse of your cunt around his cock.

Nanami pulls away breathless, the hand around your throat tightening imperceptibly, the sharp tips of his fingernails breaking skin. His pronged tongue slides along your cheeks to collect your fallen tears.

Every noise that leaves your mouth is against everything you hold dear, a sound of sin, debauchery and lust.

“I’m yours,” you whisper against his lips, your breath punching out of you with each desperate thrust. Nanami’s eyebrows furrow and his nose crinkles with a snarl, his wings pulsing with flame as his release climbs up his body as well. “I’m yours, Nanami.”

“Take my essence, little angel,” he demands, biting your lip until you draw blood. You lick up the coppery tang, falling into the prickly grip on your neck as he takes what he needs from you. “One day, when you have ruled with me for centuries to come, when you are one in your skin, perhaps my essence will take root.”

Your eyes widen at the implication, your soul no longer quivering in blasphemy but in satisfaction. How you would love that. One day. With him.

“Yes, Nanami,” you whisper into him, accepting one more kiss as he strokes once, twice, and a final time before he shivers from head to toe and groans with deep pleasure into your mouth.

His darkness seeps into the remnants of your light, a forbidden dance of shadow and flame now made true. He pumps hot semen into you, far too much for comfort and your essence combines with his demonic energy, feeding the power that still ebbs in your veins.

He falls into you, his hold on your throat vanishing to slide down to your naked stomach, pressing to the spot where he is still lodged inside. You reach back, carding your hands through his burning hair, reveling in the shiver he gives you.

He pulls out of you slowly and your cunt clenches around nothing, legs shaking at the feel of his semen dripping from you. He does not entertain the mess but gathers you in his arms, carrying you past the defiled altar and monolith that has fallen into a gentle ebb once more. The obsidian floors open up again, the thin layer of water rising within a large tub of water that steams with inviting heat.

He sinks you both into the steaming water, your new darkened wings flapping at the moisture that touches your plumage. When he dips your head beneath the surface, it feels like baptism in reverse—washing away heaven’s hold rather than blessing you with it. When you emerge, you feel reborn, your shame and disappointment for your former family now washed away.

You sigh at the effect hot water on your muscles, melting into the large expanse of his chest. He does not speak and you do not ask questions, content to watch him manifest a tray of oils and soaps that smell of green tea and burning honey.

He plucks a marble comb from the tray and drags it gently through your curls, each stroke bending with the texture of your hair to guide without tangle, each pass worship and calming.

Once your hair is untangled and silky, he washes your skin with the soap and oils that smell of him. You study him openly now—the way constellations shift across his skin, how his golden eyes hold both demonic power and intelligent precision, the careful way he maintains order even in darkness.

He dresses you in black fabric that flows like liquid shadow, clinging to your curves like his possessive touch. Instead of the starry sky, the black material is adorned by golden accents that match his eyes and armor.

The altar recedes into the floor and in its place, two large thrones emerge. Carved from pure white marble shot through with veins of gold, they’re identical in height and grandeur—a statement of what he promised you—equal rule.

Dark vines curl around their bases, blooming with black roses, while plush velvet cushions in deep navy make them as comfortable as they are magnificent.

He throws you an inquisitive rise of his brow, what was once used to pick you apart upon first meeting him, now make your lips curl in a smile. You pretend to ponder which you will choose, humming noncommittally before you sink into one chair, sighing into the softness around your body and wings.

Nanami bends down, taking a hand in both of his before he kisses your palm. “You look magnificent,” he purrs, your hand still in his while he sits on his throne.

With a snap of his fingers, the garden walls disappear, revealing the vast landscape that was once shrouded in horror and fear when you first arrived.

Now it appears without malice, without misery or shame, but of exotic greenery and souls who have been neglected for only choosing a path that feels wrong even though it is right.

The heavens is but a distant memory now, infinitesimal in the many years you will continue to exist. Now, you bask in the new power in your bones, in the brush of Nanami’s lips to your palm once more.

As the stars on his skin ebb and fade with light, you take in the muscles of his torso, the strength in his movements as he worships you without speaking.

It has taken eons to get to this moment, but some part of you preens with the satisfaction that Nanami has always been watching, waiting for you to come to him.

Thanks for reading and Happy Halloween!

[moonlitbeth]

according to the old Chinese saying, "a single flower does not make spring, but one hundred flowers in full bloom bring spring to the garden."

there's smth quietly bittersweet abt how the theme of flowers, of blooming, withering, and life taking root in new soil, runs through Sylus' character and his dynamic with MC. it's a central and consistent motif that follows them both no matter the timeline, the world around them, or their relationship status. only the form changes.

we've gotten our fair share of angst with the recent update, but it's the ongoing event that really twists the knife with graceful precision. every piece and clue was already in front of us, we just didn't see the whole picture until now.

Sylus is someone we know everything and nothing abt. but one thing is constant – he's a soul born pure and untained. he's a being of consent by nature, dragons can't devour a soul given unwillingly. born into apocalyptic terror, he faces rejection from all sides. he fits in nowhere – too human for dragons, too dragon for humans. society sees him for what he appears to be, never for who he truly is. the soul that was once untouched by malice becomes a mirror for destruction, violence, and chaos – exactly what humans chose to see in him.

the floral symbolism in his dragon myth centers around datura, or devil's trumpet. in their shared dream, Sylus shows MC a valley full of blooming datura, a place where he also dies in reality. this flower, initially tied to death, hallucinations, dreams, and danger, blooms only at night (quite fitting for a nocturnal creature). in some Chinese interpretations, datura is also seen as a dream flower that symbolizes the boundary between life, death, and the spiritual unknown (see what i'm getting at? Abyssal Blossom and the myth's ending are deeply entwined here, too).

and yet, despite this flower's dark, ominous connotation, Sylus still places MC at the center of it all. her mere presence is the reason the flowers bloom. even in a place where life shouldn’t exist, somehow, with her, it does. and it does beautifully.

you know, Tarus City can have flowers bloom everywhere, as far as the eye can see. but only for one person.

his birthday is April 18. we don't know if it's truly when he was born, another significant date, or when he died. tho as for the latter, it doesn't match datura's bloom season (June-September), but who knows. still, spring fits him perfectly. the connection to flowers, blooming, and new life is obvious here. but spring also speaks of hope, change, emotional/spiritual/physical awakening, growth, and rebirth. every part of that is written into who Sylus is.

*a small fun fact: in Chinese culture, April 18 often falls within a solar term Guyu (谷雨), meaning "grain rain." Guyu is the last solar term of spring, associated with rain that nourishes the seeds, transition from planting to flourishing, and rituals of harvest and reverence for ancestors.

Sylus often mentions flowers in everyday life, it's a recurring theme. unfortunately, i can't gather every line, call, or text message, but there are a few that definitely deserve to be highlighted.

i thought we were like flowers. we were meant to grow together in the same soil. yet you were quietly moved to another garden in a foreign land… still, you managed to bloom beautifully.

man, if this isn't the most devastating one after the latest update. it hits different now. Sylus saw them, himself and MC, as two beings planted in the same soil, growing side by side. same roots, same future. their destiny was meant to be shared, but fate had other plans. MC was taken away, moved to a "foreign land" – likely Earth. and even though that place was harsh and cruel in his eyes, it didn't ruin or corrupt her. it made her stronger, it let her bloom.

because he also says this:

no matter how bad the soil is, we can always grow something beautiful.

as long as he has the will to grow and nurture, all she has to do is stay and be a part of his life. willingly. because to him, across nebulae and lifetimes, millennia of searching and longing, she is the life itself. she is the garden in his wasteland, bringing warmth to frozen ground, light into shadows, and hope into devastation.

and now, one of the latest chapters of the event.

he tried to grow flowers himself. with his bare hands that knew only destruction and death – before MC entered his life. he tried to create smth fragile, untouched, alive. step by step.

we know Sylus' Evol allows him to accelerate natural processes, including plant blooming. but i think back then, before MC's return, he either couldn't do it or wouldn't let himself. maybe the act of forcing life into existence felt like a betrayal of smth sacred. it demands more than power, it demands consent and trust. it's a choice freely made.

just like with MC. a flower that chooses to bloom. a soul that chooses to remember and return.

i smell a floral fragrance. is this the scent of his soul that carries a faint, scorching bitterness?

[zu-is-here]

Hey!! I love your dark cream comics so much (I’m insane for cream and your story) Sorry if this is a bit long and confusing and random, but this has been in my brain for a while.

So what was Cross’s reasoning for wanting Dream to be the one to have their child, knowing Dream is still physically weak and not ready for this? Was Cross aware that Dream was still weakened, and wanted Dream to be the carrier anyway? Or did Dream convince Cross that he was ok, making Cross unaware of his condition? I also saw that Nightmare was quite concerned that Dream was planning to have a child, knowing his brother is still damaged from the curse. Did Cross and Dream ever have a conversation laying out the risks of Dream carrying a child? I don’t think Cross would knowingly put Dream in danger. I wonder what made Cross want to take that risk with Dream (or not knowingly?)/what conversations they might have had about this topic.

ahh sorry for the wall of text, hehe

I hope you have a great day :3

Hii!╰(*´︶`*)╯I'm really flattered to hear it, thank you so much for your interest and questions! <3 Gonna explain in order and detail to make it all clear, but the short answers to your ask will be purple (•̀ᴗ•́)و☆

CREAM COMIC

Cross originally desired to have a family again after losing his home and everyone from XTale, and he was determined to make it happen with Dream.

We can see him acting as the leader in their couple, who takes first steps — and takes responsibility for both (which is healthy but contradicts Dream's views of being equal partners). Cross didn't see himself as a follower.

DARK CREAM

Dream's corruption dramatically changes their hierarchy within the pair, makes Dream the bad leader and shows Cross that his partner can be more than just a follower (albeit in a rather crude manner).

Sure, this was not the best scenario in Dream's condition, so Cross again takes the initiative and leads (even by risking) in order to save Dream.

POST DARK CREAM

Cross' success only strengthens his role, while Dream's weak condition makes him more vulnerable, so Cross leads as a caregiver by helping him heal and recover, teaching him new things, etc.

This doesn't openly contradict Dream's views: it is no longer in his principles to fight for power, so he does accept his weak position and Cross' care. That's why there was no talk or conflict at first.

Thought they don't come to the decision to have a child right away: first, they wander in search of a safe place to settle down, then there's a process of Dream's recovery, and only then, when both of them seem to be ready to go on, does Cross carefully talk about a baby. He didn't have a "reason" for Dream to carry his child, he just didn't see himself in this role.

Dream and Nightmare were the only ones to understand that pregnancy could worsen Dream's health due to a weakened soul.

Cross was unaware of the residual risks: Dream didn't tell him anything because he wanted to make Cross' dream come true and make him happy in gratitude for everything he had done for Dream.

If Dream were the one carrying a child, there would be risks if not more than just risks, but fortunately (and unfortunately for Cross), nature is smart and chose a more suitable soul.

[xoblondie]

The Forbidden Fruit

TW : 18+, stalkerish, dark!Mattheo, religious undertones, non-con content, prey/predator metaphors etc. Nothing is actually explicit but it’s all intended (HEAVY symbolism).

Temptation.

The cardinal sin that ravaged through his body, mimicking his blood flow. Taunting him with every movement you made. A war was ravaging inside Mattheo’s mind and body. A fight for control of his actions as he observed your every move.

A fight he was currently loosing, as he watched you amongst the crowd of your peers, moving seamlessly amongst them. Like you weren’t the only thing plaguing his mind no matter what he did. He couldn’t escape your fingers he found himself wrapped around. And you were completely oblivious to his unholy intentions and his lingering stares.

To him, you were as pure as powdered snow; you were soft, delicate and easy to fall into. Creating a mixture that made his mouth water with the thought of you. You were an elixir that he found himself hooked on, like an addict chasing a high.

To you, he was dark and corrupted. With bloodied knuckles and his teeth bared to the world, you knew he was bad news for you. His violence had no place amongst your peace, even if he had a peculiar place within your heart.

But what he wanted, he always got and he knew you were too innocent of heart to ever understand his underlying intentions. You were a lamb caught by a timber wolf. Purity that would be forcefully taken by a predator, no matter how much you fought back. A lamb would never grow up and grow the pointed canines it needed to protect its wool. And like a predator he would lure you away from the safety of your herd, into his sharp fangs.

In the later hours of the night, in a large leather chair perched by a fireplace, he watched your soft locks frame your face, accentuating the natural pout to your plump lips. You read your book as if it were an ancient text, showing you the answer to all your life’s questions. Your oversized sweater and tiny shorts struggling to cover the tops of your exposed thighs as you sat amongst the faded leather. Silky skin pooling against the existence of the fabric, accentuating your plump hips. The sight driving his primal urges to cave into his temptations.

His lamb was oblivious and vulnerable to the fate before them, as he closed in.

Stalking his lonesome prey, he would pin you down before biting your neck, leaving a reddened ring of his mouths artwork. Creating art out of you, all while you attempt to fight his lapse of control. He would eat your heart out. Ripping into it like a rich pomegranate, just trying to get to the fruitful seeds hidden beneath. And he would ignore as the juice stained his hands a bloody red, showcasing his corrupt actions. He would rip apart your ribs just to taste every part of your being. Drinking up your blood like cherry wine and kissing your lips as if they were the last thing he would ever taste in this life. The way he loved you was sacrilegious, an unholy tribute to the gods above.

He was godless in his actions, with roughened love and a darkness behind his fiery eyes. He burnt for you and only you. And you were a moth to his light, sacrificing yourself to his ritual as he tore away what was once pure.

Falling for his temptation was never your plan, but you became more and more addicted to his drug with every hit. No god could save you from the starving wolf as it striked down its prey.

You were his forbidden fruit, the lust he could never control. He would be bound to your soul forever, alike Persephone to the underworld. For your beauty was worth the mess he made of you. Destroying your light, to fulfill his dark sins and desires.

A/N: im afraid I ate with this one. LITERALLY. this is definitely a different writing style than what I normally do but I’m in LOVE with how this turned out <3

[gumywyrm]

WoF Rambles - Animus Magic

A while ago I made a post on another blog detailing my headcanons for animus magic, and this is pretty much just a rehash of that with some more details.

Overview

What is animus magic and where does it come from? To understand what animus magic is we must first define a soul. A soul is a dragon's source of magic, and all dragons are inherently magical. This is what allows some to breathe fire, gain powers from the moon, control plants, etc. (though not all abilities are magic related; some are because of physiology/adaptations). However, sometimes a dragon's soul is damaged. When this happens, they are able to harness the magic within them to cast spells, thus resulting in an animus dragon.

Though commonly believed to be genetic, this isn't exactly true. It's more so that the corruption of an animus soul is likely to spread to offspring, meaning that an animus dragon is more likely to have animus children but it is not guaranteed. The animus "gene" can completely disappear, even if both parents are animus. Likewise, it can appear at random, even if there are no animus dragons in one's lineage.

Limitations It is no doubt that animus are quite powerful, but they can't do everything.

An animus is, of course, limited by their creativity and wit. However, they are also physically limited by their own magical strength. If an animus attempts to cast a spell that exceeds their capabilities, they will either destroy or severely injure themselves in the process.

They also cannot tamper with the soul in any way. They can't fix, create, or even destroy one, at least not with their magic. This is why animus are incapable of bringing dragons back to life.

Power Some animus are more powerful than others, though this is mostly just their capacity to harness magic from their souls.

The more an animus uses their magic, the more their soul breaks, and the easier it is to use it for more powerful spells. It's sort of like a crack in a dam. The bigger it gets, the more water comes out.

This is, of course, not without consequence. Bigger spells require a bigger price.

Consequences Tampering with a dragon's soul can have many consequences. An animus could start seeing a deterioration or even a complete loss in their natural, magical abilities. They may also start becoming weaker, such as through more brittle bones and the loss of fat and muscle.

In addition to physical decline, an animus can also start experiencing mental decline. They may become angrier, more erratic, paranoid, or even experience a complete personality change. It should be noted that this is more so the result of physical brain damage.

Some Notes

A dragon being evil is not in any way related to their soul. The soul is just a manifestation of a dragon's magic, not their morality or characteristics. Only animus can damage their souls, and that doesn't necessarily make them bad.

Turtle did not turn Anemone into an animus, that isn't possible

Albatross mostly committed the massacre because of his mistreatment. The use of animus magic certainly contributed to this, but the constant abuse is what really pushed him to his breaking point.

^ It should be noted that animus can remain stable even if they use their magic. Most incidents are a result of the circumstances, it was just easier for dragons to blame and demonize animus magic.