#desires / the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.

[uns1ster]

td

answered / ic. starters. / ic. open. / ic. headcanons / ooc. meta / ooc. my edits / ooc.

musings / wise men have interpreted dreams and the gods have laughed. ch. study / i know always that i am an outsider. a stranger in this century and among those who are still men. visage / oh he did look like a deity – the perfect balance of danger and charm. he was at the same time fascinating and inaccessible. likes / he breathed in hard. the stench of blood filled his lungs. only now for the first time could he truly appreciate it. desires / the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. aesthetic / strength and victory… What he would never praise himself for but whose loss was his most obsessive fear. ship inspo / love will have its sacrifices. no sacrifice without blood. wardrobe / black and red. the only colors that exist.

[tokeposts]

𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜

pairing: geto suguru x fem!reader

warnings/genre: fluff, library/librarian au, collage au, meet cute, strangers to lovers, defacing public property (sorry book lovers sigh), spoilers for the picture of dorian gray (like barely)

notes: this one’s for anyone who’s ever read higher than a 4th grade level 🙌🏼

1.5k | you discover that someone keeps writing in the margins of the books. as one of the workers there, it is your duty to find out who it is and bring them to justice so you write back.

it starts with The Picture of Dorian Gray. you just shelved it back in the classic literature aisle, your favorite corner of the library, when a misstep makes the book fall from your grip. it lands on the floor with an echoed thud.

a few heads turn, but none of them say anything. when you finally catch your balance again, you bend to grab at the book only to be met with familiar scribbling on the pages.

a note, scrawled in your handwriting from years ago. back when you were a mere freshmen in collage and the public library was your escape.

you sat here often, for hours reading, writing, waiting, until eventually the library closed and you were kicked out. seeing the note you had left, made your heart shake in it’s cage, nostalgia hitting you in waves. the ink was faded, the lines uneven, but the words remained.

“the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it” but what if it never lets go?

there was something new though. in contrast to the black ink past you had used, blue ink stained the page circling your pervious annotation and leading somewhere else with a pristine arrow.

Then perhaps it was never temptation to begin with.

you freeze. a flicker of annoyance coils in your chest, but it doesn’t quite settle. this little act of rebellion or whatever it is this vandal would call it is technically defacing public property.

and yet, it’s not vandalism exactly. it’s precise. thoughtful. intentional. and oddly enough, it feels like a conversation. like someone reaching back through time, responding to a version of you that barely exists anymore.

not many people would notice your note, let alone care to answer it. the temptation to ignore it is there. but so is the ache to see what they’ll say next.

still though, rightesnous feels heavy in your chest. you hesitate only a moment before slipping a bright green sticky note between the pages.

a statement instead of a question. curious. p.s. you’re aware writing in library books is illegal, correct?

when you head to work the next day, a reply awaits you.

Temptation and desire go hand in hand. One is just often confused for the other. P.S Hello, sticky notes. What a charming way to preserve the pages. I assume you’re also horrified by the original vandal who wrote in this book though I doubt it, considering your handwriting looks awfully familiar…

and so it begins. you do not reply for a next week, but still your body gravitated toward Dorian Gray like the man himself put a spell on it. When you finally go on break, you find yourself back in the classic aisles. blue ink is stained on different pages. some with small quips about certain dialogue, others long tangents about certain characters. it makes you laugh as much as it fills you with irritation.

on page 234, you find yet another note. tucked away at the bottom of the page, pretending to be embarrassed.

The only sin committed was love. Poor poor Basil Hallward. P.S. Sticky notes, are you still there? It’s getting lonely in these pages again.

you reply, of course. how could you not? you rip off a bright green sticky note, setting it right under the blue ink.

if you’re modeling love after basil hallward, then i fear you have a very skewed perspective of it. p.s. is sticky notes going to be my name from now on? because i hope it does not stick (pun not intended)

you shelf the book back in its spot, leaving the aisle alone for the rest of your shift. the next time you come in, you allow yourself at least 2 hours of work before you come back to the book. your fingers linger on the spine, anticipation licking its way up your spine.

the mysterious person replied on page 237. it makes you laugh. either this person was distracted or they’re reading slowly on purpose.

Silly puns and Pictures of Dorian Gray, you truly know how to capture a man’s attention, sticky notes. P.S. It seems the library was quite loud today, I could only unfortunatley get through so many pages.

this is the first characteristic, your mystery person— man, tells you. you could have guessed that much from the messy handwriting and the fact that Pictures of Dorian Gray is a majority male rented book. it’s one to assume this though and it’s another to actually have that confirmed.

feeling left out you, chuckle, adding another bright green note

how surprising that a man would deface books like this (not). you’re reaching the end of this story so tell me, vandal, is there any other stories you’ve defaced with your oh so enlightening takes?

he does not respond in that book for seven more days. you know because you check Dorian Gray each time you come into work, sifting through the pages only to be disappointed by the emptiness and wistfully shelving the book back.

however, you find him in other places.

in the corners of poetry books, new and old. in dog-eared pages of frankenstein. in the highlighted words of the hunger games, marked in that same unmistakable blue ink.

sometimes he goes on long, winding tangents. deep dives into character arcs and themes and tragic metaphors. other times, it’s short quips that make you laugh out loud in the aisle before catching yourself and glancing around.

you never respond. not to those notes, at least. you only ever entertain his rambling in Dorian Gray, but with his sudden silence you start thinking maybe you should change that?

perhaps you scared him off.

maybe your vulnerability and quiet chuckling between the pages was too much. maybe opening up your heart, your thoughts, inside a book about madness and vanity and self-destruction was the wrong call. too intimate, you think.

or maybe he saw you. he saw you shelving Dorian Gray back with a silly grin, or saw you tucked away in a corner chuckling at his dry jokes while reading through his annotation of Leaves of Grass and… he didn’t like what he saw. the thought makes your stomach churn.

it’s silly, the way the pain creeps into your lungs and stabs into your heart. you don’t even know this man. don’t even know what he looks like. but the thought of him rejecting you makes you shudder. it’s absurd. completely ridiculous, really, falling for handwriting. for ink and timing and wit. but every time you open a book now, your heart stutters a little. in the hopes that just in case… you run your fingers over the blue ink, mindlessly tracing the words. before shelving Dorian Gray, once more.

you check again every time you clock in, day 13 is when you open the book and notice one of your sticky notes is missing.

the realization pulls at your heartstrings, a heavy feeling presses into you. so he is here, somewhere, reading over and over again just like you. bur he’s just not replying…

you sigh. a mix of dissatisfaction and frustration. staring at the blue ink like it’ll come to life. this is when you realize two things. the first: you actually like this man. you don’t know his name. you don’t know his face, but somehow, it already feels like he knows how your brain works.

and the second, there’s an easy fix to all this waiting around for a reply nonsense.

you have to catch him in the act.

you come in early the next day.

earlier than you need to, earlier than your shift starts. earlier than the sun fully filters through the high windows. the library is hushed, still stretching its arms and yawning into the morning.

you hover behind the front desk longer than necessary, pretending to adjust the donation bin, pretending not to check the clock every ninety seconds. you tell yourself you’re just going to shelve a few books. that you’re just doing your job.

but your shoes already know the way.

the aisle is empty when you arrive. of course it is. who in there right mind would be reading such heavy literature this early in the morning?

you stand at the end for a beat too long, clutching a few classics to your chest like armor. when you finally start walking, your steps are slow, deliberate. your breath catches somewhere around hemingway.

the Picture of Dorian Gray is still there. right where it always is. you carefully pull it from the shelf like the spine will crack if you’re too hasty.

you flip through quickly and… nothing. no blue ink. no clever postscript. no apology for the silence.

your chest hollows just a little.

you are so caught up in the emptiness you do not notice the footsteps approaching.

they’re soft, casual, like someone browsing. there’s a bit of hesitance like they don’t know weather to speak. it is when they are mere inches away from you that you finally acknowledge them. your gaze slides side ways and you’re met with dark thin eyes that are already watching you.

you freeze, fingers still resting on page 237 like you’ve been caught.

his eyes trail to the open pages. something flashes in his dark hues, they widen slightly, but still you don’t fully turn to him. not right away. you don’t want to. because there still that seedling of doubt posted in your gut, what if it’s not him?

you pretend to straighten the shelf, closing the novel in your hand, suddenly fascinated by shelley and austin.

“you’re not usually here until the afternoon,” he says. his voice is deep, smooth. like if sweet talking was personified. his tone is warm. honey-sweet, laced with something familiar. like maybe you’ve heard it before in passing like when he comes in and you greet him without thinking.

or maybe… between pages.

you turn slowly.

he’s holding The Secret Garden in one hand, a sticky note pressed against the cover with your handwriting still visible.

looking him up and down, you realize he is tall. his hair is long, pulled into a bun with pieces of his bangs falling delicately in his face. practiced enough to look on purpose but completely random too. his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose. he looks like he hasn’t slept much, and maybe he hasn’t. you wonder if he’s been writing replies in his head all week, the same way you have.

“you,” is all you can muster, trying to sound casual, but it comes out softer than intended.

he smiles, and it hits you— he’s nervous too.

“suguru,” he says. “geto suguru.”

his name settles between you like a bookmark. you nod slowly, committing it to memory as though it matters. as though it hasn’t already changed something.

“i wasn’t sure you’d actually show,” you admit.

“i wasn’t sure you’d actually catch me,” he counters, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “though i did try to make it difficult. left a trail of poetry and half-baked thoughts like breadcrumbs.”

“so you admit to defacing library books.”

“only a few,” he says, holding up The Secret Garden. “this one’s untouched.”

your gaze flicks to the sticky note on the cover— your handwriting still curling across it like a secret. something you hadn’t expected him to hold on to.

“you didn’t answer my last note,” you say, gently.

he shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. the corner of his mouth tugging up. “i… wanted to do it in person.”

you feel your breath catch. it’s ridiculous how one sentence can wrap itself around your ribs like that.

“and what’s the answer?”

“coffee,” he says. “with you. if you’ll let me.”

you tilt your head, folding your arms. “on what condition?”

he holds up a single finger. “i buy a replacement copy for Dorian Gray. blue-ink free.”

you blink a smile already forming as you laugh. “you’re really offering to pay penance?”

“poetic, is it not?” he says. his smile grows wider mirroring yours. “and besides it seemed like a fair trade. one book… for maybe a few conversations more.”

geto’s fingers drift to the hem of his oversized shirt, tugging at a loose thread, subtle, almost imperceptible. the only sign of nerves because even then he’s still looking you in the eyes.

his smile doesn’t falter. in fact, it widens. a quiet kind of bold. and his dark bright eyes feel like they see right through you.

the flutter in your chest grows, blooming up your throat, “deal.”

“deal?” he asks.

you tilt your head, already walking past him toward the front. he watches your figure.

“someone has to pay for the replacement book, right? so yes, deal.”

he follows, sticky note still clutched to the cover like a promise.

when you and suguru part ways— numbers exchanged and a promise to call between shy smiles and second glaces— you finally open the returned copy of the secret garden, he passed to you.

tucked just inside the cover is a note written in that familiar blue ink, this time on a green sticky note.

“And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles.” See you soon, sticky notes. —S

you tuck the note into your pocket and don’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

[lanafofana]

Temptation

Pairing: Raphael x Tav(f)

Word count: 3.6k

Summary: She won't sign another contract but she’s not opposed to a different kind of deal

Rating: Explicit [🔞MINORS DNI]

Warning: Porn! Filthy depraved devil porn! A little bit of hate sex (PnV with a little PVP), ( she throws hands twice)(but he's into it). Cunnilingus, because it wouldn't be a Lana fic if a tongue wasn't getting shoved in someone's [redacted]. A little bit of toxic relationship dynamics at play (devil gonna devil). SMUT SMUT SMUT

No beta, we die like pumpkin pie (listen, it's been a long night)

💖✨Kudos to @dr-demi-bee for the prompt✨💖

AO3 Link here for all who celebrate the time honored tradition of validating authors via kudos etc etc etc

“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Raphael doesn't look surprised to see her anymore. Merely gives her a look when she finds him on the balcony of his Archive and snaps his fingers to conjure her a drink that appears in her hand before returning his attention back to the fiend giving him some kind of report in the guttural language of the infernal.

She slips away, perusing his collection of tomes from some kingdom long dead and sipping at her wine. It's too sweet, cherry rich and decadent but the alcohol burns pleasantly warm in her belly. Later, sprawled across a lavish settee, an open book in her lap, Tav is trying to untangle a web of mental snares that have put her in a melancholy mood of late when Raphael finds her.

He doesn't say anything for a long time but she can feel his gaze taking her in with more precision now that he can afford his full attention to the task. The predator, sizing up the prey. Her skin prickles.

She's returned to his house with more frequency of late and though he’s never brought it up she’s struck with the sudden anxiety that she is overstaying her welcome. Draining her glass of wine she swishes the liquid around her mouth while watching the crystal goblet refill in a blink. He's never asked why she’s decided to help herself to his company or tries to dissuade her attention when she comes calling. There's a mystery there she’s too afraid to pursue. She sighs and takes another drink.

Footsteps, steady and deliberately slow, approach. The predator, stalking their prey. Turning a page in the book she isn't reading Tav pretends his proximity doesn't send a bolt of heat and fear fizzling along her spine. In her peripheral he stops, a looming metaphor for the direction her choices are driving her to. A finger, warm and familiar, presses against the soft vulnerable space just past the jut of her chin and tilts her face to meet his.

“Have you come to bargain?” His dark eyes drink in her face, giving nothing away.

He already knows the answer to that question but she answers it anyway, deriving a weird sort of comfort from the repetitive nature of this exchange they've replayed so many times they might as well have memorized a script.

“No.”

His eyes narrow and she doesn't hear the snap but her wine glass and book both vanish. Standing involves significantly more motor skills than she presently possesses so, with a smirk, the devil offers her a courteous hand and hauls her up. Her breasts graze against the broad expanse of his chest before she gains her bearings and straightens. He doesn't let go of her hand.

“What then do you seek from the House of Hope?” His voice is mocking but his eyes are hungry. Tav knows the steps to this dance by heart but she’s hungry too. Famished.

Grasping the collar of his opulent coat she tugs him into her orbit, sliding a hand into his hair and pressing her lips to his. He tastes like hellfire and forbidden fruit.

The edges of her vision white out for a moment when he displaces them to his quarters, his infernal magic buzzes against her tongue pleasantly. Pressing close with nothing but fabric between them she shifts, a calculated movement to stoke the fire of his desire.

“Crawling and secret she constructs her own web, a trap for her prey, fallen into instead.” Raphael wedges his knees between her legs and, hands tight on her hips, bows her back to wrest control from her. Dizzy with drink and anxiety and lust Tav grinds against his thigh, seeking the friction that will at last unwind her mind.

“Needs work,” she critiques unnecessarily, breathless and smirking. He nips her bottom lip, pulling the plump flesh taunt in chastisement but it makes her lashes flutter, her clit throbbing against his thigh.

Huffing a laugh at his petulance she pulls away. Pulling her clothes loose and discarding them under his dark gaze while backing towards the bed. The backs of her knees hitting the edge of the mattress, she beckons and –after a moment– he follows, unbuttoning his doublet slowly.

“Go on then,” she teases, heedless of the black warning in his face, “Seduce me with your limerick.”

“A mouthwatering fruit, this human heart.” He sheds his jacket, the shirt too, preening under her appreciative stare. “Devastating, damned, and doomed from the start.”

She swallows, mouth dry as he approaches and comes to a stop close enough to feel the heat off his skin.

“Dazzling, delicious but,” he looks at her critically for a moment, “Not very rare, this cracking soul is fetid with,” Raphael leans in, to take in her scent deeply. Closing his eyes he murmurs lasciviously, breath hot against her ear, “Despair.”

She throbs with need.

Wrapping a hand around her throat he pauses only long enough to take her pulse, sneering at the staccato beat, before sliding his hand down her chest, to her breast. With both hands he gropes her roughly, squeezing and tugging at her nipples till they pucker, rosy and stiff. The expression on his face hasn't changed much, cold and disdainful but his eyes. She shivers under the blistering heat of them.

“Take what you came here for, creature.”

The words are hardly out of his mouth before her hands are on him pulling him close with a rough hand in his hair, yanking his head to the side, putting her teeth to his throat.

She bites him savagely, electric at the needy whine he tries to stifle unsuccessfully. She laves her tongue against the red teeth marks soothingly, hands on his shoulders. His hands have migrated too, palming the swell of her ass. When she runs the edge of her teeth down the column of his throat and licks the dip of his collar bone he smacks an asscheek, the crack sharp and loud in the otherwise quiet room.

In retaliation she sinks her teeth into his shoulder so hard he repeats the action on her other asscheek. She cries out, her inner walls slamming down on nothing.

“Tell me, my dear,” his voice, rough and deep, is commanding. Tav clenches her thighs together in response.

Nothing and no one comes for free in the House of Hope. Each visit to his bed, a transaction between her hunger for his body and his hunger for her pain. Their unspoken devil’s pact. She knows exactly what he wants and her stomach flips in trepidation.

Hands full of her ass he is not gentle when he pulls her against him, grinding her against the hard length of him through his trousers. She whimpers, drawing her nails across his shoulders and scoring livid marks into his skin. “Tell me,” he repeats, a furious snarl, as he shoves her to the bed.

“Then ask, you fucking monster,” she hisses, hitting the mattress with a soft ‘oof’ as the wind is briefly knocked from her lungs.

He follows her descent, aiming to cage her body with his but a spike of adrenaline has her scrambling out from under him. Awkwardly she heaves her way to the head of the bed but he’s faster – stronger– and he snatches her ankle in a fierce grip, dragging her back within range.

Wrapping himself around her, thick cock against her ass, bruising fingers holding her captive against his chest he chuckles. The sound chills her in the same way it sends another trickle of wet desire between her legs.

Close to her ear he breathes his full query at last. “What is the root of your despair?” Her stomach sinks down to her toes, the red flush of her desire doused cold.

What was your last wickedly depraved thought, he's asked her before. When did the thrill of bloodlust last blind you completely to sense; do you hate anyone more than you've hated yourself? She may have never signed another contract with him but somehow he’s found a way to drain her soul, piecemeal, all the same.

“Tell me,” he murmurs against her skin, parting her thighs to drag a finger along her slick wet slit.

The reason for the wine becomes clear to her in that moment. She’s never had inhibitions where sex is concerned. Has never considered it a trial to use her body and let it be used for its skill with a blade, on either side of the sheets.

But put enough wine down her throat and inevitably the secret hurts that haunt her begin to spill out from between her lips.

The devil growls at her hesitation, flipping her over and pinching a nipple between his teeth slightly too hard. Demanding her attention and supplication in all things.

“I–,” she gasps and leaves half moon indentations on his skin when he sticks his tongue in her belly button, swirling his tongue there lazily. “I’m sad, all the time,” she confesses in a rush like it will hurt less to say it fast. Her heart pounds. “I hide from my friends, from everyone, and suffer alone. I’ve always been alone, I’m pretty sure I'll always be alone because it’s–” her breath hitches on a strangled sob when he just barely presses his thumb to her clit and leaves it there, teasing. Torturing. She doesn't want him to ever stop. “I’m too much to be around. Too much unhappiness in one person to inflict on anyone else.”

“Self pity,” Raphael groans with relish and she bristles because of course he's right. “Never looked so lovely than on the utterly pathetic,” the words burn, as they're intended to. “Look at you, mourning yourself to the point of self destruction.”

Blood rushes to the surface of her skin, blooming red and hot across her throat and cheeks. Within her bosom she aches. Raphael hums with pleasure, as drunk on her internal agony as he is on her body.

Feeling flayed open she wails, hands scrabbling for purchase on his skin and in the rumpled bedding, when he sinks a finger fast –and hard–and deep in her dripping, aching cunt. She bites her lip and breathes through the discomfort of letting him see her. The despair and self pity on full display for his perusal. He feasts on her pain like a man deprived of fresh air, reveling in the cocktail of humiliation, fear, and miserably pathetic sorrow.

“Entrust me with your soul and you'll never be alone again, for as long as your pitiful soul flickers,” he vows, working a second digit in with the first. She’s so wet her lips squelch lewdly around his scissoring fingers to punctuate his words.

He means it too. It's far from the first –or the last– time he has promised an eternity to her. Her soul nestled within his grasp forever, damnation tempered with endless companionship. A demon’s version of love. Eternal ownership. The ache in her chest sharpens to a knife’s edge. Thrusting her hips against his hand, her breathing changes, getting deeper and faster as her orgasm inches tantalizingly closer.

Her legs are open but her heart's been closed so long the hinges squeak and grind in complaint at being disturbed. Maybe that's why his canny words rend instead of pierce, like they're claws mauling instead of hands gently stroking. Devils don't know kindness but there's a world of gentleness in the way he peels open her ribcage to curl up in her chest cavity with his insidious intent.

“Kiss me,” she begs. Begs, hoping it will be enough to stem the tide of his incendiary words. Words spoken with the intent to hurt, to disturb, to split the cobbled pieces of her being back into shattered fragments he can hold in his hands. To mold her, shaping her to his will. Without ceremony he crushes her with his mouth, his body, and his desire.

Raphael moves against her, heavy and too big, a threat and a promise that tastes like cherry wine and feels like coming home. The kiss, a miscalculation on her part, steals his voice but replaces wounding words with bruising force. Shoving his tongue into her mouth he seeks only to consume and she moans around the wet intrusion, curling a hand tightly into the hair at the nape of his neck until he hisses against her teeth.

She lets him continue only for so long before the hand she has locked in his hair tugs viscously and she gets a glimpse of his pupils blown wide before his eyes flutter closed. The Archduke Supreme would never admit to his proclivities in bed but he’s not the only one studying his prey during their encounters.

She maneuvers until he's beneath her, breath stuttering in his chest as his ardor intensifies with her forceful take over. The meticulous Archduke Supreme, Lord of the Nine Entire, Devil of False Hope, Cania’s Conquerer might have eaten her whole for the audacity of asking for control in the bedroom but when she takes it…

He groans, squirming and wanton, when she peels herself away from his lips to sink the fingers of one hand around his throat while the fingers of her other hand tug on the laces of his breeches.

“Tav,” he growls, the reverberation of his vocal chords against her hand shooting directly to the heat that burns in her core.

She pulls her hand from around his throat to pull back and strike him across the face. His hips surge up against her desperately. “Silence,” she warns, nimble fingers slipping his throbbing cock from its confines.

The fat head is wet, a glistening mess of his own precum. The smell makes her mouth water. Wrapping her hand around the shaft she pulls at him experimentally, running the calloused pad of her thumb across the leaking slit on top and along the thick vein beneath his glans until he whimpers. The sound makes her smile, the power of her unique position sending a rush of wet slick through the lips of her vulva, dripping down the inside of her thighs.

Moving the hand she just had wrapped around his erection to her own throbbing need she drinks in his expression while he watches her fuck herself on two fingers. She leans back to give him a better view while she circles her own clit, biting her lip and shifting her hips in time with the movements until she’s close, almost too close.

The devil never looks more beautiful than when he’s languishing untouched, desperate and needy and simmering with helpless fury.

“Open that pretty maw, creature,” she sneers, an echo of his earlier epithet.

Obediently his lips part and she leans forward, shoving her fingers into his mouth, pressing against the molten heat of his tongue.

“Suck.”

Tav's eyes flutter, nearly rolling to the back of her skull as the Duke follows her instruction, locking his lips around her slick coated fingers and sucking hard enough to tear her soul through her fingertips. She moans, positioning herself above his pelvis and undulating her hips to rub his delicious head through her slippery folds.

Inside his mouth his tongue swirls across the pads of her fingers and he echoed her moans; pleasing, pretty, broken little sounds that have her sinking onto his cock halfway in her excitement. He bucks, too sharp teeth grazing erotically against her fingers and she withdraws them to backhand him; whip fast and snapping his lust drunk face to the side. He gasps and she revels in the feeling of him jumping against the walls of her sex.

Pulling herself upright she arches her back, giving him a pretty view as she plays with her own breasts, running the tips of her fingers along the goose pimpled flesh of her abdomen.

“Like what you see, devil?” She taunts, sinking a little more around his girth. “Tell me, Archduke,” she smiles cruelly. “Tell me how much you want to fuck this sweet mortal cunt.” She twists her nipples and sinks a little lower on his cock, watching the expressions flit across his face faster than he probably even registers them. She smiles, all teeth. “Beg.”

“Please!” He doesn't even hesitate, voice gone tight. “Please, let me feel you sink that perfect tight cunt onto my cock.” He releases the most delicious open mouthed whine when she does, enveloping him completely. “Please!” He blurts, hands fisting in the bedding, muscles quivering with the restraint to keep from fucking into her.

The stretch is nothing short of divine. Her hips yearn to move, to rock against him, grinding his hips into the bed but she pauses, balancing on the precipice.

“Please, what?” She demands, relishing in the widening of his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open.

“Please,” his eyes close briefly and he swallows thickly, “Archduchess Supreme, My Lady Eternal.”

“Good boy,” she murmurs, warmth suffusing her entirely when he keens at the praise.

Planting her hands on his chest she wastes no more time, fucking herself on his thick cock; fast and hard and rough. Between her fingers she pinches his nipples, leaning forward to swallow his cries as she rides him to the brink. Between her thighs he cants his hips, mindlessly matching her thrust for thrust as his orgasm barrels within reach.

She slips a hand between their bodies, pinching her swollen clit and cries out his name and a litany of swearing as she crests her final peak. Her mind whites out, the walls of her cunt bearing down on his cock so tightly he spills into her with an inarticulate groan.

Their bliss reached, their movements stutter clumsily to a stop, chests heaving and breathless pants peppering the air with the soft sounds of post coital exhaustion.

Tav disengages from Raphael's body slowly, flushing at the rush of slippery fluid that leaks out of her. The devil looks at the mess between her legs, unabashed, a pleased smirk hovering in the corners of his mouth.

Running a finger through their combined spend, shivering on the cusp of overstimulation, she holds his gaze as she reaches up to paint his lips with it.

He doesn't even blink, licking the shine of his own seed from his lips and making a pleased noise, deep in his chest, that echoes in the throb of her empty cunt. Leaning into him, chest to chest, Tav chases the taste of them on his tongue with a redolent kiss, slow and tender. His hands drift along her sweat slick skin, raising goose bumps with each delicate graze of his nails.

Wrapping his arms around her Raphael flips them, startling a sound from her that he chases with teeth and an amused chuckle. Before she registers what he's doing the devil is wedged between her legs, pushing one of her legs wide, fingers sunk tightly into the plush thickness of her thigh while the fingers of his other hand part the puffy lips of her sex.

He stares, transfixed, for only a moment before he bends his head, slotting his lips against her wet, sticky heat. The predator devours the prey. The gluttonous wet sounds of him licking and suckling at her sex sends her brain rocketing away on a tidal wave of sensation. She grasps the back of his head in shock and a haze of overwhelming arousal.

“Raphael!” She cries out when he locks his lips around her clit and sucks. “Nnnggg– ahhh!!”

“Say my name again,” he growls, immediately spearing her with his tongue and twisting to lap at every drop of her slick heat. “Say it!”

“Ra– Raphael! Oh– nnngggahhh!!” If she is his Archduchess then he is her god and she cries out to him, exultantly. “Raphael! Yes! Yes! RAPH–”

He hums his pleasure and the vibration has her sinking both hands into his hair, pressing him closer– harder–

She flexes her hips, rocking against the sensation of his mouth taking her apart, heart slamming against her ribs as her mind spirals faster and faster and–

“RAPHAEL!” Tav’s mind flies apart as she screams her release, back bowed, thighs clenched tight around the Archduke’s ears.

She comes back into her body to the feeling of her fingers being disentangled from their iron grip on his hair. She releases him immediately, flexing her digits and collapsing against the bed as a wave of exhaustion slides over her.

“You,” she pants breathlessly, boneless and still buzzing for the high of her orgasm. “That was–

“Delicious,” he finishes for her with a sinful smile that does nothing to soothe the thunderous beating of her heart.

This time it is the devil who stretches himself over her body, skin against sweaty skin, and presses the taste of her arousal and his spend between their lips in a filthy kiss. When he pulls away Tav’s dazed expression pulls another smile to his face, this one different from the one he usually shows her. Her stomach clenches but in the next moment her face is split in a jaw cracking yawn and when she looks again he looks the same as he always does.

“Sleep, my dear,” he says in a tone that conveys he neither cares if she does or does not. With a snap of his finger he is dressed and polished once more. He drags his eyes down the length of her naked body with an appreciative leer. Another snap and he's gone in a flash of hellfire.

Tav forces her body to move though her limbs feel made of jelly. She crawls between the sheets, the luxurious material cold against her heated skin. Sweat on her scalp and elsewhere on her body sends a shiver down her spine. Cocooned, safe, and spent, she sleeps.

That's All Folks!

[tickettride]

I’ve just seen a face | 1

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

pairing is johnny davis x f!reader

in which the man you've been staring at all night long at a party meets you in the kitchen, and suggests to walk you out where it's safer. the only danger is not being able to stop kissing him.

word count: 2k

warnings: 18+ (mdni), alcohol, mention of weed, men being creeps, smoking, sexual tension, kissing and a touch of fluff?, "girls are prettier without glasses" speech (ugh), maybe a few mistakes and nonsense

• read the second part here

The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. — The Picture of Dorian Gray

 

Johnny’s lips hovered over yours, mixing his warm breath with your shaky exhales. You had never felt so connected to another human being before. Never felt your soul leaving your body that way. And here you were now, nose-to-nose with a man you didn't even know.

A deep, unwavering sexual tension had tethered you to Johnny for hours. Even since you had stepped into the house, actually. It had been hard to see right through the smoke, even more since you had decided to ditch your glasses for the night, just for the experience. Well, it had been a fucking mistake. All the faces were blurry, and you swore you introduced yourself twice to the same people, all of them hoisting their beer and exchanging looks you didn't quite understand.

It doesn’t matter, your friends told you. They won’t remember anything the next morning. You supposed it was a relief, to think people would forget about you in just a few hours. At least until you saw that guy who had been standing in a corner the whole time. 

No, not a guy. A real man, with broad shoulders and a certain way of carrying himself. Even from across the room, you knew he was respected.

It had taken you longer than necessary to reach the kitchen behind a group of wobbly men, bumping into shoulders and apologizing inaudibly. Someone talked to you but you barely paid any attention, giving a small "okay" instead as you focused on getting to the kitchen in one piece.

Rubbing your eyelid tiredly, you nearly scratched your eye out when a hand closed around your wrist, though it felt warm and gentle.

“Hey.”

The man from the corner was looking down at you, worry flickering in his eyes. So close to you, he was even more handsome. Full lips, a face that carried memories. Clearly, he had seen a lot.

“Ya need help?”

“No?” You dragged the syllable, confused as you shot a look at your friends. The three of them had crashed on a couch, their loud laughter drawing attention. You might have looked drunk though, you gave him that. “I’m just headin’ for the kitchen. Gotta drink some water before I start feelin’ all…”

Your vague hand motion made his lips twitch in amusement, which pulled a smile to your lips too. It slightly faded when he removed his hand from you, and you turned back around.

So he had noticed you.

A strong scent of alcohol and weed burned your nostrils when you walked over to the sink, your eyes sweeping over the room to find where the glasses were stocked. Littered cups filled with some sort of alcohol mix had your nose wrinkled up at the smell, wondering what was wrong with those people. Did they really enjoy drinking this? Finally, stacked glasses that seemed clean enough caught your eyes.

And now that same man was standing at the threshold.

“I’m old enough to be left on my own, y'know," you said sarcastically, almost nervous to be left alone with him. Was he one of the creeps? Or just a man bored to death?

In response, he nodded like you had made a great point. “Just don’t want ya to feel unsafe, is all.”

You shrugged, retrieving a glass, checking it was somewhat clean, and filling it with water. “I know how to throw a punch. I've been taught the basics.”

“Show me, then.”

The three words made your heartbeat faster. With your free hand, you closed your fist, barely thinking. 

“Nah. Ya’d break your thumb like that.”

Your gaze flitted to your hand for a second. “Yeah. Probably.”

Another nod was addressed to you, and a moment of silence wrapped you both in a comfortable bubble. You drank the water silently while he kept his eyes on you, which would have looked truly odd did he not seem safe. He looked exhausted, though. Maybe a bit entertained. Maybe like he’d been waiting for someone like you to light up his evening.

“I’m Johnny.”

You gave your name back, watching his smile that definitely shouldn’t have caused a hot nudge in your lower body, considering he would surely move on from you the next day.

Still, the tension choked you as he stepped further into the room, picking up a bottle of beer in a bucket. Your hand tightened against the glass when you opened your mouth to ask where he was from–the usual small talk you used when silence made you uneasy–and instantly closed it as two bearded men barged in, ruining the moment.

“I say, "You ain’t goin’ nowhere, motherfucker",” the first one spat, waving a gun in the air. “I captured you.”

Swallowing thickly at the sight of the small handgun, you set the glass back down into the sink and glanced over at Johnny. Your senses returned to you enough to do some calculations. From what you could see, you could slip beside him and make your way back to your friends swiftly. But those two creeps had spotted you, standing there like an outsider or just a woman, and nerves started filling your body as you hyped yourself up to take the few steps toward freedom. There was no way you were staying there to risk being shot accidentally. What a stupid end that would make.

Johnny’s brow furrowed at those guys and back at you, sensing your discomfort. He tipped the drink to his mouth, taking a long sip as you took a deep breath. 

“I think I’ll head out,” you announced quietly, ignoring the men’s hot gazes on your back.

It was a shame to leave so fast, but maybe you just weren’t meant to be talking to Johnny. You believed in all that stuff fiercely.

Johnny’s head turned around, watching behind him before meeting your eyes again. “I can’t see your friends.”

“Oh, they must be smokin’ somewhere out there.”

Giving a small nod, he stepped closer to you and left his beer near the sink. “I’ll walk ya out.”

You cleared your throat, trying to alleviate the lump forming from the thoughts racing through your brain. His hand settled on your lower back as he guided you to the back door, and you didn’t think once. Perhaps you'd finally have that time alone with him, after all. He didn’t look like he wanted to leave either.

The cold breeze hit you in the face as you squinted through the darkness, praying hard not to fall or trip or do anything embarrassing in front of him. And that was exactly what you did. The couple of stairs were poorly lighted, and there was only one idiot to miss that one step. You.

“Shit,” you stumbled, chuckling awkwardly when you felt Johnny’s hand on your waist, making sure you were not collapsing.

“Alright?”

“Yeah,” you replied quickly, unable to stop yourself from smiling. 

Maybe it was his big hands on you, or maybe it was just the one beer you had drunk, but the wind seemed less cold, less aggressive on your skin. God, he looked so... attractive.

A small smile graced his lips as he gazed down at you, almost checking you out. “Should’ve slowed down on the beers.”

Another giggle escaped your lips, trying not to shrink under his gaze. “It’s not about the beers, promise. I just can’t see nothin’ without my glasses.”

“You lost ‘em?” Johnny asked, a wrinkle appearing between his brows. 

“No. Um… I’ve been told girls are prettier without glasses.”

He made a sound. Kept frowning. That was your cue to blabber on. 

“Not that I found myself… unattractive. I just thought I could try one night without wearin' them. Which was really stupid, considerin’ I’ve almost died at least twice.”

You pursued your lips as you caught a whiff of his scent on his leather jacket, willing yourself to shut up and flee. As you were supposed to. And yet, as dumb as you sounded, Johnny’s eyes were fixed on yours and did not leave for a moment. He was listening carefully, blocking out the world to hear your silly explanation. 

“You’re not unattractive,” he said in a low voice. "I bet they make ya look even prettier."

“How would you know?” your tone matched his, your blood heating another degree. 

Johnny came closer, raising his hands to run his thumbs above your cheeks, where your glasses usually fell. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, but they were beautiful. Dark. Full of fantasies. 

“Just imaginin’,” his raspy voice sent a hot shiver down your spine. "I've been lookin' at ya since you walked in, but I hadn’t noticed those freckles right there."

Your heart hammered in your chest. It was all going so fast, but the mere thought of slowing things down was absurd. You couldn’t think of anything but feeling his lips on yours. Moving your body with his. Feeling so wanted he might die, and you as well. You usually were careful and rather shy when it came to flirting, but why would you resist the temptation now?

The party didn’t matter. The people out there didn’t matter. Hell, even your friends didn’t matter. It was only you and the man you had checked out (ogled) all night, the man who had made sure you were feeling safe, the man who had caught you in his arms like they did in the movies. 

It did feel like a movie anyway. None of this felt real. 

“I can’t see much, but you look pretty attractive too,” you dared to say, though you wished you had sounded bolder. 

His lips nearly touched yours. The top of your noses did, causing you to chuckle. What was even happening?

“See me better now?” Johnny muttered, angling his face.

"Much better."

"Good."

You had known a few men, kissed a few of them, but nothing had ever come close to this particular moment. Nothing had ever felt so exciting, so hot and passionate. You didn’t want him to forget you. Fuck, you were sure you would think of these minutes until your last breath. You needed to have him, even for a short moment.

Nose-to-nose with a man you didn't even know.

“Johnny?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m gonna kiss you now.”

Emboldened by his widening smile, you closed what little distance was left between your mouths and pressed a soft kiss against his lips, just testing the waters. You hadn’t expected it to feel that good. Like a taste of heaven. Gripping his shoulders, you drew yourself high against his chest and slipped your tongue into his mouth, a tiny sound mixing with a groan of his. His hands pressed against your back, holding your waist like a fragile doll as yours slid to the back of his head. Fuelled by the need to make him moan again, you wrapped both arms up around his neck until you were shamelessly making out on the grass, wishing he could do something to alleviate the burning in your body. It was bewitching.

You were out of breath when you landed on your feet again, as though you had just taken a trip to the stars for a minute. Clearly, Johnny was as dazed as you were. 

Looking over his shoulder, you found no less than ten faces peering out the window, and a couple more watching from the front porch. Smoking. You bet your friends had seen it all. 

“Shit,” you whispered, at a loss for words. 

Johnny ran his thumb over your lip, his eyes tracing his own movements as he did. ‘Tell me where ya live.”

Forgetting everything about the safety rules you had always followed when it came to men, you whispered, “Next to the shoe store. I work there on weekends.”

The detail had slipped out, but you just wished he would suggest picking you up someday. Don’t let him forget you, your brain kept saying. You couldn’t be anticipating the saddest goodbye of your life yet.

“You’re workin’ tomorrow?”

A bit of hope flickered in your chest. Men usually fucked off after getting what they wanted, but he seemed really into you. That was unreal.

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” you grinned playfully, chuckling as he nodded. 

"Tomorrow’s Friday," Johnny repeated, realizing his mistake. "Guess I don’t wanna spend one day waitin’ to see ya again."

“Me either,” you admitted lowly, removing a strand of hair sticking to your lips. “You can—you can still come on Saturday, if you want to.”

“You’ve been on a motorcycle before?” 

You shook your head, wondering why you felt so bashful all of a sudden. Johnny’s lips curved at your hesitancy, holding your gaze for a moment. His eyes full of promises again.

“Hmm. Ya should leave before I keep ya out here with me,” he declared, snapping you out of your thoughts as he squeezed your hip gently and stepped backward. 

And with that, the moment was gone.

“Saturday, then?” you asked, just to make sure. 

You sounded almost desperate, but you couldn’t care. There was something scary about being so attracted to someone so fast. What if a simple change of heart left you heartbroken?

“Saturday,” Johnny confirmed, making it sound like it was years away. 

You dropped your gaze for a second and raised it again to look at him one last time, the steadying sounds of your breathings filling the cold air. Johnny broke the eye-contact to check that your friends were still standing in the distance.

“Ya need help walkin’ over there?”

The question made you smile. “I’ll be alright. I’ll try to walk in a straight line and avoid people."

Johnny’s stare could have been a good reason to stay with him and let him keep you, but after a second of hesitancy, you willed yourself to utter a small ‘Well, see you, then’. You made a beeline to your friends, blinking a couple of times as though your vision would become clear again. 

You shot one look behind. Johnny was waiting for you to reach the others, not moving.

They all shouted in your ear when you stepped on the tiled floor, but you weren’t listening. Just thinking of how fast it all could change when you least expected it. You weren't fully sure he'd really show up in two days, so you crossed your fingers during the whole ride back home and hoped he wouldn't forget. You were already longing for this man’s touch.

[virgoantendencies7]

“The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it—and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.”

—Oscar Wilde, The Uncensored* Picture of Dorian Gray (Belknap Press, 2012)

*This passage from Wilde’s original typescript of the novel is virtually identical in the 1891 text, except the em dash after “Resist it” has been replaced with a comma.

[elronds-library]

Yield

by ohboromir (@maironsbigboobs)

“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.” —Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890) Andróg tries to deny his desire for the elf, but he cannot resist forever.

Explicit, No Archive Warnings

Words: 6,382

[speculumwept]

Spent an evening with Harry today. Now I know why people crave the forbidden fruit. People are self-destructive in nature. Whatever seems to destroy us, ruin us to the bones, and we crave it more. Maybe that's how temptation works, or at least Harry thinks so. Giving into the temptation is yielding yourself to the will of a greater power. It's putting the other entity on a shrine and worshipping them like a dog till it consumes one's entire identity and existence. Like a moth drawn to a flame. Maybe that's the curse of humanity. Maybe there's no easier way out of one's desire except letting them consume you, devour you whole until there's nothing left.

@faustianbargainss was right,

"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful."

-dorian ♡

[becoming-less-than]

I’ve often thought about what it would be like. To not be burdened with the ability to take in information at a rate most find astounding; process it, synthesize it into useable and actionable intelligence, and all in a timeframe most can’t hope to match. To not have to actively moderate how much news and media I consume every few days for the sake of not leaving myself an anxious mess over trends I observe, logical inferences I can’t help but draw, and the state of the world itself; so that I may protect my mental health and general peace. To not be able to see and read every lie, evasion, hidden feeling, and concealed intention in every person I ever meet. To be able to go out in public and not be hyper aware of everyone and every thing at all times. Unable to not follow and absorb all of the stimuli around me. Or even what it’s like to be free from the expectations of exceptionalism pushed upon me by those around me.

Being burdened with intelligence and ability hasn’t made me rich, or brought me safety, given me peace, or even afforded me happiness. And while I am not overly concerned with the first one, outside of the way by which it enables most to pursue the other three, I do so desperately yearn for safety, peace, and happiness. Wilde once said that “a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

In my experience intelligence is much the same: a burden of foresight, deeper understanding, of vision even in the uncertainty of darkness and the unknown, perhaps especially then. But these prognostic gifts position their unfortunate bearers in the unenviable circumstance of seeing the harsh dawn of reality before those lost in the figments of their own ignorance, and so of being ignored or shunned, or worst of all ostracized. While the world is content with the shadows on the wall and their lives so woefully, yet blissfully, unexamined; those cursed with intelligence above the norm and minds that can’t help but examine struggle and suffer under the ponderous weight of their own so-called “gifts.”

If one has the ability, does it not come with responsibility? I’m inclined to believe so, which is why I make decisions, I shape conversations, lead by by word and deed, exert influence and so power over others because that’s the expectation. Yet those expectations are killing me, slowly, but surely. My own capacities have become burdensome and are crushing me beneath their considerable weight. I am anxious, unhappy, afraid and so very tired. Where once I looked at the masses who stared so intently at the shadows on the wall with pity, now I feel only the deepest envy. And so there in lies the seed of temptation.

I ache, I burn, I pine, and I would so very gladly perish; if only so that I might succumb to temptations call. I have resisted this urge for years now fought with all that I am. I’ve tried to start down this path on my own on more than one occasion. Yet each time my own natural capacities, inclinations, and aptitudes have interfered and led me astray. But the temptation was always there. So this time, I think I will take a different approach. I seek the eyes opinions and guidance of others to help me stay the course. To quote Wilde once more:

“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.”

So help me dear chorus of the digital void, help me to yield to this temptation and cure the sickness of my soul. Help me yield to this temptation though I know not the way; for I aspire to be less.

[edgar-allan-homo]

The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.

-Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[dexeaton]

“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.” — Oscar Wilde

basics:

full name:  dexter annaliese vivienne eaton.

nicknames:  dex but only if you're hot.

gender:  cis man

label: the mannequin.

pronouns:  he/him

sexuality:  homotron 3000

age:  33

date of birth:  january 1st, 1992.

zodiac sign:  capricorn sun, scorpio moon, sagittarius rising.

occupation:  mathematics professor @ NYADA.

relationships:

mother(s): annaliese and vivienne eaton.

father: not around these parts.

sibling(s): daphne eaton.

best friend(s): being friends with this man should automatically put you on a watch list

other notable friendships: see above.

enemies: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

notable past romances: tbd.

traits & tendencies [source]:

extroverted / introverted / in between.

disorganized / organized / in between.

close minded / open-minded / in between.

calm / anxious / in between. (note: he would describe himself as the most calm person this side of the mississippi. do not trust him. he is a fugly slut).

disagreeable / agreeable / in between.

cautious / reckless / in between.

patient / impatient / in between.

outspoken / reserved / in between.

leader / follower / in between.

empathetic / unemphatic / in between.

optimistic / pessimistic / in between.

traditional / modern / in between.

hard-working / lazy / in between.

cultured / un-cultured / in between / unknown.

strenghts & weaknesses [source unknown]:

strengths:

caring | merciful | brave | determined | forward | flexible | cheerful | wise | clever | humorous | spirited | lighthearted | strong | generous | loving | calm | calculative | rational | unselfish | controlled | tactful | nurturing | protective | independent

weaknesses:

panicky | cowardly | rash | stubborn | intransigent | naive | negative | temperamental | scatterbrained | grim | dull | unwise | unstable | weak | irrational | awkward | greedy | over-protective | over-sensitive | rude | selfish | explosive | tactless | clingy | impulsive

misc. notes:

most of dex can be summed up by the fact that he was adopted at a young age by eccentric rich lesbians from the upper eat side.

definitely has an undiagnosed anxiety disorder that he will 10000% make everybody else's problem. also some cluster b personality dynamics rattling around up there.

think of him like a ukulele that's strings have been tightened right before the point where they'd start to snap. the only difference is that in the right hands, a ukulele can be a very pleasant instrument while dex is a little gremlin of a man who should probably be banned in all 50 states.

does he have literal skeletons in his closet or does he just have a vivid imagination? who knows. why are you asking, what're you a cop or something? fuck off.

math geek. he has an advanced degree in statistics and all he got out of it was a teaching gig at a fine arts college.

in a perfect world, dex would be the most pretentious 33 year old theatre kid you've ever met. tongue twisters would've been built into his morning routine. he would've fit in perfectly with the students from if we were villains. but unfortunately we don't live in a perfect world. we live in glee rp world. and instead of admitting that he's jealous that the people around him get to pursue their artsy dreams, he instead chooses to be a nuisance. sorry.

[22-fe]

The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

[nyctinasti]

The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.

The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

[rosetintednightmares]

"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful."

[majazaperreads]

The Beauty of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde blog by Maja Zaper 🎨✨

Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray is one of those rare novels that blends art, philosophy, and tragedy into something both haunting and mesmerizing. At its core, it’s a story about vanity, morality, and the consequences of living a life devoid of conscience. But beyond its dark themes, there’s a unique beauty in the way Wilde crafts his narrative — and that’s what makes this novel so unforgettable. Here’s why The Picture of Dorian Gray is both disturbing and beautiful at the same time:

1. The Aesthetic Mastery 🎨🌟

Wilde was a master of the aesthetic movement, and The Picture of Dorian Gray reflects this perfectly. The novel is steeped in art, beauty, and the pursuit of perfection — but it’s also a dark commentary on what happens when those ideals are taken too far. Dorian Gray’s portrait, which ages and decays in his place, symbolizes the tension between external beauty and internal corruption. It’s a chilling metaphor that raises questions about what beauty truly means and whether it can be separated from the soul. 🌹🖼️

2. The Exploration of Vanity and Morality 🖤

At its heart, Wilde’s novel is about the consequences of vanity. Dorian Gray begins as a handsome, innocent young man, but through the influence of Lord Henry and his obsession with beauty and pleasure, he becomes a man consumed by selfish desires. Wilde’s writing forces us to ask: What happens when we prioritize our external appearances over our inner selves? The beauty of the novel lies in its moral lessons, told with grace and depth. It’s a perfect blend of decadence and cautionary tale. 🌙💭

3. The Wit and Elegance of Wilde’s Prose 🖋️💬

Wilde’s prose is elegant, sharp, and dripping with wit. He has the remarkable ability to balance dark themes with moments of humor, irony, and biting social commentary. Every line is a treasure, as Wilde expertly weaves complex ideas into phrases that are both beautifully crafted and painfully profound. The sharp dialogue and memorable quotes (like, “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it”) make the novel not only a gripping read but also a work of art in its own right. 💬✨

4. The Tragic Elegance of Dorian Gray 💔

Dorian Gray himself is a tragic figure. His descent into corruption and madness is painful to witness, but it is also a poignant reminder of the fleeting nature of beauty and youth. The way Wilde portrays his character, constantly torn between his outward appearance and the moral decay hidden behind it, is what makes Dorian such a tragic yet beautiful creation. There’s an elegance in his self-destruction — a bittersweet kind of beauty that speaks to the dangers of living a life disconnected from conscience and authenticity. 😞💔

5. The Themes of Art, Life, and Influence 🎭💫

Wilde’s novel explores the tension between life and art. The portrait is not just a physical representation of Dorian, but a symbol of how art can capture a person’s soul — and, in this case, trap it in a cycle of vanity and moral decline. Dorian’s relationship with the portrait is a reflection of the way society often elevates appearance over character. Through the novel, Wilde questions the role of the artist, the nature of beauty, and the impact of influence — all of which are incredibly relevant in today’s world. The beauty of The Picture of Dorian Gray lies in how timeless these themes are. 🖌️🎨

6. The Tragic Beauty of the Ending 🌑💔

Without giving too much away, the ending of The Picture of Dorian Gray is a haunting culmination of everything Wilde builds throughout the novel. The ultimate fate of Dorian and his portrait is both tragic and poetic, a final commentary on the dangers of a life lived in pursuit of pleasure and external beauty. It’s a moment that underscores the cost of living without moral restraint, and it’s a beautiful, bittersweet conclusion to a story filled with desire, regret, and reckoning. ⚰️💔

In Conclusion: The beauty of The Picture of Dorian Gray lies not just in its vivid descriptions or Wilde’s eloquent writing, but in the timeless questions it asks about the nature of beauty, art, and the human soul. It’s a novel that challenges our perceptions of morality and the consequences of unchecked vanity, all while keeping us captivated by its dark elegance. The novel’s ability to blend the aesthetic with the tragic is what makes it one of the most fascinating reads in English literature — beautiful in its complexity and haunting in its execution.

If you haven’t read The Picture of Dorian Gray yet, it’s time to step into the world of Oscar Wilde’s darkly beautiful masterpiece. ✨

[insolitus-academy]

♚ // Face Claim

Full name Face Claim: Hwang Hyunjin

Group/Band/Occupation: Stray Kids

Nationality: South Korean

Faceclaim age: 22

♚ // Character ; Basic information

Quote: “The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”

Full name character: Shiloh Yoram

Nickname: Mun refers to him as Shi

Realm of birth (if earth, nationality): Heaven

Age: Unknown (appears to be in his early twenties)

Date of Birth: Unknown (sometime around the 19th century A.D.)

Gender: Male

Preferred Pronouns: He/him/his

Race: Angel

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual

What is the level of Korean and how did they learn to speak it (For non-Korean characters from other realms & other earth-countries): Native like, due to his power.

♚ // Character ; Appearance

Skin Color: Pale

Eye color: Blue

Scars: None

Piercings: Multiple fake piercings that he changes all the time

Tattoos: None

Hair color: Blonde

Abnormalities: His fair complexion has a radiant touch to it, highly visible in sunlight. Its intensity tends to vary depending on the context, usually proximity to unholy places or engagement into sinful behaviours causing it to fade.

Horns/ wings/ etc.: Rich double wings and a luminous halo that can only be perceived by other supernatural beings and devout human believers.

Transformed form: None

♚ // Character ; Personality

Six personality traits: Vain, captivating, ambiguous, blasé, intelligent, zealous

Likes: Americano coffee, the scent of petrichor, silk textiles, snakes (especially albino), white lilies

Dislikes: Untidy spaces, the sound of trumpets, being interrupted, routine, being coerced in any sense

Manias: Shiloh cannot stand overly cluttered and untidy spaces, so he makes sure to take extra steps in keeping his home neat.

Phobias: None

Animal: Weasel

Religion: Questioning it.

Favorite song: Måneskin - I wanna be your slave

Vice: Pride

Virtue: Diligence

Personality description:

Shiloh has a certain indifference to him, that of someone who has seen more than enough, yet all this passivity towards the world was turned into a high subjectivity, one that certainly resided within him from the very beginning. Shiloh is concerned about himself, hardly ever sparing a moment for another creature’s sorrow, which could conflict with his nature. This angel is no good, and has long ceased claiming to be so. He’s quite individualistic, making himself a priority above all. Regardless, Shiloh is not difficult to be around, although at first he might come off as reserved, as he is still foolishly refusing himself many desires. He is the kind that takes one step ahead and two backwards while testing waters, until finally taking a leap into whatever it is that sparkles his interest.

With quite an opinion of himself, the angel might come off as standoffish or arrogant, and this part of him only worsened the longer he mingled amongst humans. Shiloh is rather zealous and passionate, so once he has dedicated himself to something or someone, the extents of his devotion can reach heights that might even threaten his well-being, or the well-being of the person in question. There is a whole blaze that burns inside of him, and only time would tell what can happen once unleashed. Otherwise, he leads a rather calm and very comfortable life for now, as he’s put his knowledge to use for a greater good – his own greater good. He remains quite unfazed by most issues, even those that concern him directly, not dwelling too much upon risks and consequences. All in all, he is avid for new experiences as he questions his origins and so-called true nature.

♚ // Character ; Powers

Magical Powers:

Destiny knowledge – in virtue of his role as a guardian, Shiloh has access to an individual’s life, past, present and future all being revealed to him. Although he could alter outcomes, he is bound not to interfere so that the Creator’s plan would be carried out. It is, however, limited to the soul he is assigned to assist, or if otherwise summoned by the most skilled to grant spiritual guidance and protection.

Cosmic awareness – to a certain extent, Shiloh knows of all creatures and realms. In some cases, he possesses more in-depth knowledge, especially if it’s about beings he’s had direct contact with (such as demons). In most other cases he only has the basics concerning powers, spells, symbolism, artifacts and such. However, this does not apply to individuals, but rather to the class itself. He cannot know, upon simply encountering another being, what powers and weaknesses they have.

Peaceful passing – as the name suggests, Shiloh has the ability to grant someone a more peaceful passing, if he so sees fit. He can alleviate the agony of souls tormented by sin. In virtue of this power, Shiloh can contact reapers and negotiate the passing of a soul with them, if he is called to do so through special prayers when someone has a difficult passing.

Flight – self-explanatory, Shiloh can travel by flying.

Non-magical Powers:

Playing the harp and the flute, quite skilled at sculpting (he loves to make all sorts of clay figures).

Weaknesses:

Dark spawn – Due to his ambiguity, Shiloh is quite weak to the cunning tongues of dark spawn when it concerns his being. He is not necessarily easy to manipulate, but rather quite repressed in his passions, thus making him more prone to betray his faith.

Hubris – Everything about Shiloh’s personality and interests recalls an awful lot of those of fallen angels. His vanity and pride put him constantly on a fine line, yet so far he’s never overtly challenged his Creator. Nevertheless, he yearns for knowledge and power.

Spells and enchanted objects – There are certain spells or objects that can prevent Shiloh from interacting with a human’s soul. If cast or placed upon the body of the deceased, Shiloh wouldn’t be able to assist them through the soul’s passing. In similar fashion, one individual could employ such magic to cast him off as their guardian.

♚ // Character ; The Villager

Job/Occupation: Psychic

Lives in: Vighulir

Lives in: Sunna Apartments 1d

♚ // Character ; The Past

Date of Birth: Unknown (sometime around the 19th century A.D.)

Date of Death: N/A

Crime Record: Pristine so far.

Has your character attended Insolitus Academy in the past?

Yes

Background:

Frightful and dubious even to his own kind, with traits and tendencies that reminisced of the one whose name shall not be spoken, Shiloh has found himself incessantly in the midst of schemes and conspiracies. Cherished by his Creator, for most of his existence Shiloh has been assigned the role of guiding the souls of humans through the twenty aerial toll-houses, alongside their guardian angel. These peregrinations between Earth and Heaven left a significant impression upon him, little by little the seeds of spite and envy finding way inside his being. Countless were the times when Shiloh had to bite his tongue while passing from toll house to toll house with a double heart, not deeming the soul in his companionship fit for ascension. But the clench of his teeth and the remarks he’d oftentimes make about those spirits didn’t go unnoticed, bringing about a change that greatly displeased the angel.

Shiloh was a bit too orthodox, no pun intended, and highly righteous, following the will of his Creator to the letter, always diligent and quick to fulfill any assigned task. With such exemplary behaviour, he soon earned Their favour. Whenever off duty, the angel would pass time by playing the harp or the flute, two instruments he mastered to such heights that it made brows furrow and whispers go over parts of the Heavenly Kingdom, carrying concern and outright fright amongst those who had witnessed the Fall. Graced with beauty that even his kind would praise, the angel became the object of many’s suspicion, not only his aura shining over him, but also a sort of premonition, as if he was the one that would repeat a dreadful incident. With time passing, signs became difficult to ignore, and as Shiloh gave voice to his thoughts regarding his Creator’s mercy, distress took over parts of the kingdom. As if at any moment he could rise and lay claim upon the Throne.

Such thought never crossed the angel’s conscious, however. His spite lain elsewhere. aware of the many sins of humans, Shiloh couldn’t fathom sharing the same plane of existence as souls tainted by evil. They were not worthy of being in his presence, first and foremost, nor in the presence of his Creator. Why the latter chose to grant them such privilege was beyond him – it was unfair, too. And once They got wind of Shiloh’s complaints, a council has been held, for the signs were only becoming harder and harder to ignore. As they debated Shiloh’s fate, an unexpected guest paid them visit, one that made of the angel the object of a twisted bet. The hall shivered in fear as many saw in that gamble a prophecy to be fulfilled. Shiloh received his new condition with great offense, lamenting his ill fate to his Creator and accusing Them as the sole and unique responsible for such misery – the first act of overt defiance. The first time Shiloh cursed Their name under his breath.

Repurposed as a guardian angel and thus compelled to be in close proximity with the earthly world, Shiloh was to prove the strength of his devotion and the power of his will. Whether or not he would keep by his Creator’s side or renegade Their name was the object of said bet, many being certain of the latter outcome. Disguised as a humbling experience, the angel took it as a great offense and a damnation to misery. Humans’ life, however, proved to be far more interesting to him from certain points of view, and it didn’t take long before Shiloh began experiencing some of the fleshly urges, yet his faith was strong, unshakable. No temptation was too great for him to resist. All was to change when assigned the last human he’s assisted before his arrival at Insolitus, an intelligent, ambitious and charismatic woman that captivated him with her endeavours. Through her, Shiloh has seen how an earthling can acquire and use the knowledge of stars and cards as to offer others spiritual guidance. All that he knew, she did too, and he could only witness in awe the accuracy of her readings. However, she was fated a tragic end, one that Shiloh couldn’t possibly lead her to. After countless hours of inner conflict, the angel took the decision to disobey his Creator and interfered with her destiny, an act of defiance that would certainly ensure him a grim punishment.

With her passing and the menace of penalty looming over his head, the angel chose not to ascend back to Heaven, instead immersing himself completely into the world of humans. In her memory, and taking advantage of his own knowledge, Shiloh followed the same path, offering reading sessions and spiritual guidance through other means than those his Creator favoured. It didn’t take long before he’s made a name for himself amongst enthusiasts, for reasons more than obvious, and once tainted by earthly affairs, the angel began charging quite hefty amounts for his services. Yet the Watchers were observing his every move, and soon it became clear he wouldn’t be able to freely roam across the human realm without repercussions. To avoid being under their gaze, Shiloh chose to refuge himself at Insolitus, where he set up the same business in the comfort of his apartment, now carefully choosing his clientele as not to encounter any inconveniences.

However, the kind of temptations awaiting behind the gates of the academy proved to be greater than Shiloh’s holiness, his weaknesses only becoming more powerful, up to the point where they consumed his spirit entirely. An easy prey, the angel succumbed to the very desires that hung over his head like a guillotine, at the hand of a creature he grew to adore more than his own Creator. Without realizing, and still oblivious to this day, Shiloh forged his own false idol in an ardent quest to reach the heights of the mightiest. Blinded by promises and luxuries many could only dream of, he followed the Archdemon into the depths of the academy. Those were the days of pure bliss and joy, as the archdemon lavished him with his heart’s utmost desires, seemingly encouraging his pursuits, praising his perseverance, keeping him company and offering him solace in his darkest moments of despair. But those times proved to be too good to last and, against his will, without understanding his fault, Shiloh was forced back among the other creatures inhabiting Insolitus, left to his own means at his most vulnerable for, in truth, the angel no longer knew what do to with himself without Minwoo’s guidance. 

♚ // Roleplayer

Time zone: gmt+2/+3

OOC! Triggers: VERY explicit depictions of vomit. 

Themes/genres you like writing the most?: Drama, angst, fluff. 

[versalpha]

The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.