#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.

[hughdancybabyface]

Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham

"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』

[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 || J.D.

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

AN: I can’t believe I've spent a whole afternoon on this. anyway, this is a gift for myself as I’ve spent my first day at my dream college, and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. And yes, I love very long gifs.

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.

[wasjustred]

See Me After Class - NSFW Larissa Weems x f!Reader

Summary: Your new boss pays you a visit.

Pairing(s): Larissa Weems x femprof!Reader

Warnings: Smut, under-negotiated dynamic, Mommy kink at the very end if you squint, cunnilingus (reader giving), fingering, orgasm denial, dom!Larissa and sub!Reader

Word Count: ~3.4k

Author’s Note: My first reader insert as well as my first attempt at smut! I hope y’all enjoy - feedback is always welcome (and greatly appreciated, especially as this is an un-beta-ed work)! ♡ ╱ AO3

“You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”

You allow the air to settle before prodding your students, perched comfortably against the front edge of your desk. “Someone explain for us what Lord Henry meant by this.” The usual array of hands shoot up, eager and willing as they are, swaying discreetly in anticipation of being called upon. It’s everything you had hoped for before starting this job; you spent weeks prepping lesson plans and brushing up on Outcast literature before your official interview had even been scheduled, losing sleep and your appetite equally over the thought that you might not secure the position, and almost more so that if you did, the students wouldn’t take to you. But this sight… it is as reaffirming as any. With a modest hope of hearing from someone new, your eyes roam the rows and columns of seated students. But it’s an unexpected figure who draws your attention to the far back: 

“Principal Weems.. Please, indulge us.” You gesture widely with an open palm. Your nonchalance frankly betrays the anxiety her presence brings. Another observation so soon after the first? And so early in the term? You have to wonder if one of your students has complained, or perhaps another professor. Were you doing a bad job? Were your lessons subpar? 

It’s clear, though, that despite her authority Weems is embarrassed to have been caught, even more so to have been called out on it so unceremoniously. Perhaps you’re not as powerless here as you thought.

“Well,” The blonde pulls back her shoulders and levels her gaze on you. “It has been a minute, but if I’m not mistaken, I do believe Lord Henry was referring to Dorian’s seemingly virtuous nature in comparison to his own glaring hedonism. By all accounts, we desire and are captivated by the things we refuse ourselves.” She continues, arching a brow, “I believe Lord Henry also said that ‘the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself’. It is both a warning and a call to pleasure.”

Any surprise you might have felt at Larissa’s adeptness, any residual apprehension at her presence, is easily overpowered by the sudden and shameless wave of heat that comes to rest between your thighs. She must notice as she grins wickedly at your attempt to play it off, crossing one ankle over the other and lowering the open book in front of your lap.

“Very good. I’m glad to see your Nevermore education paid off.” Sparse chuckles crop up from your students as the final bell announces the official end of the school day. They waste no time in rushing past each other towards the door, and you’re glumly aware that your calls to read the next two chapters for class tomorrow fall on deaf ears.

“I didn’t realize Mr. Wilde was still part of the curriculum.” Larissa follows the steps down past your students’ desks and comes to rest in front of you, hands clasped behind her.

“And yet you’ve proven yourself to be a remarkably apt student. Impressive.” Your eyes twinkle. The degree at which you have to tilt your head back is not an unpleasant one, stretching muscles that had already been whining after the hour-long class session. You break eye contact briefly to reach behind you and toss the worn copy of today’s topic on your desk, and in that short timespan Larissa evidently decides to test your professional resolve. 

“Remarkable students are rewarded for their diligence, are they not?” You swivel back to her, brows raised. … intriguing. Hot, even, you have to admit. 

“Was it diligence, or pure luck?” Larissa scrunches her nose at this response, clearly - amusingly - displeased.

“I’ll have you know I’ve been reading at the pace of your lesson plans.”

“So you did know Mr. Wilde was ‘still part of the curriculum’?”

“... I don’t appreciate your tone, Ms. L/N.” Larissa looms over you, forcing  you back against the edge of your desk. Your hands instinctively shoot out behind you, white-knuckling the oak in an attempt to keep yourself steady (both mentally and physically). Your brain rapidly ricochets between processing how little space remains between the two of you and the fact that the school’s headmistress, your boss, Larissa, has taken to following your lessons plans of her own volition.

“All due respect, you do pay me to read between the lines, Principal Weems,” you respond. She seems delighted with this, a puff of warm air landing against your lips as she chuckles. Your fingers twitch against your desk. If you stretched them out, there’s a chance you’d reach her, brushing against the clothed expanse of her thigh.

“You have a very interesting understanding of what you’ve been hired to do here.”

“Oh?”

“Mhmm.” Larissa closes the leftover distance, reaching long fingers up to grasp the tip of your chin. It feels like whatever air you can get here, eye-level with her chest, is trapped in your lungs. “.. look at me, darling.”

It takes everything within you not to moan once you meet her gaze and realize she looks absolutely ravenous: pupils blown, tongue running slowly along the length of her bottom lip as she watches you. Chest rising and falling in time with her rapid heartbeat.

“Oh.”

Your lips meet in a hot, desperate clash of tongue and teeth, no indication as to who’s moved first. You grasp wildly at her forearms, shoulders, neck - any stretch of skin you can dig your fingertips into, pushing yourself up as tall as you can to reach further into her. A phone rings somewhere off to your left and you grunt, shoving the contents of your desk off to the side in a clatter. Larissa laughs.

“Eager, are we?” Before you can form a coherent response she’s making a grab for your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the top of the desk and parting your legs as she comes to stand between them. A shiver rolls through you toe-to-spine as her fingernails drag tantalizingly - painstakingly - up your sides, rounding out at the tops of your shoulders and coming down so harsh along your back you’re positive she’s marked you through your blouse. You whimper despite a valiant effort not to, eliciting a devilish smirk from the blonde.

“Larissa, th-the door. Please.” She’s nothing if not sensible, immediately abandoning the space between your legs to switch the lock with a satisfying ‘thunk’. The less pronounced sound of a shade being drawn reaches you, as well, before the steady refrain of her high heels against linoleum. You keep your eyes trained on the climbing rows of seats before you, the anticipation of her sudden touch, unforeseen, curling deep within your stomach.

Her footfalls grow slower as she comes to stand behind you. Just over the sound of your own heavily beating heart can you hear her breathing, pitchy and shallow, in the expanse above your head. Neither of you budge. A tingle on your right tells you she’s on the move, hovering at your shoulder. The suspense tightens in your core as you imagine her phantom touch in the very places you ache for her–––and you tighten your grip on the desk’s edge in order to suppress the urge to spin around and jump her.

A passing group of muffled voices - students - evidently inspires Larissa to act first, however, as she clamps a hand over your mouth and pulls you flush against her, back-to-front. Her breath is hot on your neck. 

“Shh, sh… Not .. a .. peep, Ms. L/N…” You nod against the force of her grip on your face, biting back the impulsive desire to take her fingers into your mouth. It’s only when her other hand sneaks around the softness of your waist, sinks down, down, and under the hem of your skirt that you realize exactly what she has planned for you. It’s bold, especially for someone like Larissa, whose dedication to this school and its students comes before all else–––which prompts you to wonder what kind of day she’s had and if she’ll be taking it out on you, one frustration at a time.

The thought makes you squirm. A pool of wet heat’s collecting between your legs at her touch and she finds it with a swiftness, applying a searching pressure along the entire length of your sex, humming against the shell of your ear when her fingertips meet the strip of dampness there.

“Such a slut,” she rumbles. Your teeth come down hard onto the inside of your cheek, eyelids fluttering on their own accord the moment Larissa nips at your earlobe. Christ, she’s already ruined you. She sweeps the satin of your panties aside and immediately presses a finger against your core without warning, and your entire body jerks at the feeling, hopelessly attempting to choose between pressing itself further back into her warmth or to thrust itself in the chase of her fingers. You’re left somewhere in the middle, head braced against her shoulder while your hips slide against the top of the desk towards her touch.

A flash of blonde and bright red swoops into your peripheral at the same time that her hand shifts to cup you: “I’m going to remove this hand now,” her nails dig sharp into your cheek, “but if you make so much as a whimper…” The threat tapers off but her meaning is clear: there’s a punishment lurking there that you won’t enjoy. You nod again, shakily this time as your chest heaves.

“That’s my darling girl.” At your assent her hand migrates from your mouth to the swell of a breast, kneading harshly in tandem with the rolling movements of her other hand, the heel of her palm pressed against your clit, fingertips resting just at your entrance. Any dignity you may have had is quickly fleeting; Larissa’s intoxicating, overwhelming, robbing you of all sense with just her fingers. You reach a hand behind you to grip the back of her neck, urgent as you search for some semblance of relief. The word ‘please’ balances precariously along your tongue.

It almost slips out when she sinks her teeth into your shoulder, hard, and simultaneously buries two fingers into your cunt. Every ounce of breath left in your lungs rushes from you at once as she sets a punishing pace. The distant thought that you’re both somehow still fully clothed echoes against the back of your skull, but it’s overrun by the sensation of her fingers tightly curled inside you, nearly rocking you with their force. Simultaneously, she presses absent, open-mouthed kisses to the skin almost broken by her teeth, drifting to the space where shoulder meets neck, below your ear, the edge of your jaw.

“You’re mine.” Larissa’s voice is coarse with desire. It’s a new declaration, tongue flicking out with her words as the taller woman twists a nipple between her fingers. She’s claiming you for herself, hardly a month into the term, and you’d be entirely out of your mind to complain. Suddenly the number of times your eyes have met during staff meetings, the lingering touches when she passed by or handed a paper off to you, her willingness to compliment your work at every turn has taken on new meaning.

Her thumb seeks out that little bundle of nerves, hitting each new wave of pleasure that the pumping of her fingers brings with excruciating accuracy. You’re so close, throbbing, and when her hips buck and collide with your back your breath hitches, indistinguishable from a squeak, … and it’s then that you realize you’ve ruined it.

Her fingers stall inside of you abruptly, the others that are clamped around your nipple finding a sudden homeostasis of pressure.

Shit, shit, shit.

“I’m s-sorry, I––” You’re on your back, no longer supported by her weight, her fingers roughly pulled from you.

“I gave you very clear instructions,” she all but growls, staring down at you now.

You swallow. Loudly. Your legs are shaking at the loss of her touch, teetering still on the edge of an explosive climax.

“If you’re not going to listen,” Larissa grits out, hiking her dress up over her thighs, “then you’re not going to cum. Now earn it.” Without another word she yanks you back by the shoulders and moves to straddle your face, hands planted at either side of your waist. It takes only a second to right yourself–––and then you’re wrapping your arms firm around her thighs, flattening your tongue along the slickness of her cunt.

No underwear.

She had every intention of being serviced when she came to your classroom unannounced, greeted your students, faked literary smalltalk. You’re a toy to her, a pet she knows with absolute certainty will kneel when called. Fuck. You could bring yourself over that edge with her taste alone. A natural tradeoff.

Larissa jolts above you and you lap at her with a renewed fervency, sliding the tip of your tongue between her folds, plunging into her as deep as you can from this position. The heat of her soaks your face: she’s sharp and metallic, a lingering note of something deliciously tangy. You’re going to taste her in your dreams for weeks after this. You’re vaguely aware of her hand on your chest as you alternate swirling your tongue along her, rolling in waves, and sucking her swollen clit into your mouth hungrily.

“Tch, right there, darling,” she murmurs, pitching her hips as she rides you. “That’s it.” Her voice trembles at the pace of her increasingly frantic rocking, breaths coming in heavier than before. Your smugness at unraveling her so quickly, so efficiently, is surpassed by the raw desire that rushes to your core when she weaves a hand through your hair and uses it to balance herself against your face, to more thoroughly fuck herself into reckless abandon.

One of your hands adjusts to squeeze a handful of ass, the other still fastened tightly around her thigh. The supple skin there twitches and you know she’s close, doubling-down on your devotion to her clit. You have a feeling you know what it’ll take, and with a gentle scrape of your teeth you’re rewarded, savoring the juices that flow from her as she clamps down on your face, quaking. She sounds heavenly as she cums: Larissa whines into the collar of her dress, breathing in short, sharp bursts that come in a heady mix of gasps and whimpers. There’s no disguising what’s happening to anyone on the outside; you entertain the bemused thought that in punishing you, Principal Weems has violated her own rules at least once over.

It takes her a moment to dismount but you pass the time in contentment, nipping at her inner thigh, tonguing the arousal there, gathering the residual cum in your mouth. Just like ambrosia, fucking nectar. When she does finally lift herself away from your mouth, she has to grip the desk with both hands.

You take it as a sign of a job well done.

Your eyes follow her, upside down still from your position, as she pulls her skirt back down over her ass and shimmies into place, smoothing her blouse down with it. When she meets your gaze, there’s a deepening blush spread across her cheeks.

“Well. You’ve certainly proven yourself capable of following directions. There’s no excuse as to why you can’t continue to adhere to any rules I provide, hm?” If it were that easy you wouldn’t have found yourself on your back in the first place, but there’s no doubt she’s fully - perhaps gleefully - aware of the fact. In an effort to abide by those rules you only nod in response, wary of what a verbalization will bring you–––but this rule is evidently a time-sensitive one, indicated by her bemused smirk.

“You may use your words now, pet.”

“I’ll follow directions.”

“I’ll follow directions what?” Larissa approaches again, a softer air about her now despite the firmness in her voice, and eases you up with her hands beneath your shoulders. She turns you to face her, guiding your legs up and over the top of the desk. When she looks at you expectantly, you respond with an honest hesitation.

“I–– I’m not sure what you like to be called.” You’re not sure what you’re expecting her response to be either, but what you’re met with is a dazzlingly grand smile.

“You’re such a good girl, aren’t you?” You suck in a sharp breath; that went straight to your cunt. You can feel the warmth unfurl across your face at the praise and purse your lips in a rare lapse of shyness. “Mistress or Mommy – whichever your preference.”

The instinct to whimper is an ardent one. You’re exceedingly aware of the backwards order of things, only now discussing titles and retroactively negotiating, no prior agreement on limits or safewords, but it’s too little too late to pretend you’re bothered by it. No one’s ever accused you of listening to your brain over your libido, and Larissa’s looking far too smitten with you to start changing that now.

“I’ll follow directions, Mommy.” Her hands come up to cradle both of your cheeks, thumbs working gently over the blush that still remains. You’re promptly reminded of how she felt straddling those very same cheeks and feel all the blood rush to your face once more.

“Thank you, darling.” Your hips wriggle in anticipation when Larissa leans in to brush her lips against yours––but she’s instead reaching around you to grab a tissue from your desk. “Here,” she says, rubbing at your chin with a delicateness only she could muster. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You watch as she works in silence, tilting your head to and fro with her prodding hands, studying the faint wrinkles beneath her eyes and along her forehead. The right corner of her lips draws downward as she focuses, tongue peeking out in concentration. Her brows raise, just minutely. There’s something of a twinkle in her eye when she wipes away your ruined lipstick.

She’s beautiful.

“What?”

“–––Hm?” You freeze at the same time her hand does, though Larissa proceeds within the matter of a second like she never stopped, a renewed smirk lined in crimson.

“Beautiful, is that so?” You imagine your face matches the color of her lipstick, and not due to a frenzied makeout session. She doesn’t seem perturbed by the admission, however … may in fact even enjoy your little slip-up, so you might as well own up.

“.. Yes. Is that alright?” She snorts but covers it just as quickly with the back of her hand.

“Of course,” which translates to: Do you really have to ask?

Larissa pulls away and tosses the tissue into a wastebasket beneath your desk, still smiling rather haughtily. Her hands clasp in front of her as the image of the consummate headmistress falls back into place. At this point you think she’s figured out that disregarding your own orgasm isn’t much of a punishment when you so thoroughly enjoyed ravishing her; no doubt she’ll have something far less agreeable lined up for the next time you disobey.

“I enjoyed this.. ‘private lesson’ on the nuances of literary hedonism. Perhaps we could schedule another? If you’d be amenable?” It’s largely symbolic––this will happen again. And again. And possibly again. But Larissa’s offering something valuable to you: The power to decide how, when, and where this will play, if at all. The gesture doesn’t escape you.

You slip off of the desk and take slow, measured steps towards her, coming to a rest with less than a foot between you. A hint of anxiety slips through her otherwise flawless mask and you reach up nearly on tiptoe to smooth it away. “I’d like that. Maybe a coffee date is in order first,” which translates to: God yes please, but we are going to have to discuss things before we make a habit of this. Larissa releases a relieved breath and nods, covering your hand with her own.

“The Weathervane? Thursday, during your lunch period?”

“Sounds perfect.”

She leaves soon after you schedule your next rendezvous, but not before settling you into a breathless haze with a series of intense, bruising kisses, her hands snugly fitted into your back pockets.

One orgasm that wasn’t even yours and you’re already whipped. God help you.

[e-dubbc11]

Afternoon Delight

Photos are not mine. They are courtesy of Pinterest/Google

Pairing: Billy Russo x F! Reader

Warnings: Dirty talk, a LOT of it. Reader and Billy both have filthy mouths in this one so 18+ please (no minors or I’m telling), some swear words

Word Count: 1.6k-ish

Summary: Reader is reading and waiting for her boyfriend to bring her lunch in the park. A very handsome man takes a seat next to her, the book she’s reading is one of his favorites.

A/N: This is my contribution to May’s writing challenge over on the Thirsty For Cox discord server. This month’s prompt was sundress season and I honestly didn’t mean for it to get dirty but my brain had other ideas. Oh the book I took the quotes from is The Picture of Dorian Gray. I hope you like it!

As always, thank you for reading!  I appreciate it so much and comments, reblogs are welcome and encouraged. Don’t be shy to tell me your favorite part. 💕💕 💕

A gentle summer breeze rushed across your exposed shoulders as you sat alone on a park bench reading your book on an early Saturday afternoon. The subtle rustling of the trees above your head prompted you to look up and watch the sun highlight the veins in the leaves as the wind moved them in multiple directions.

The warm afternoon sun shone through the leaves on the trees, drawing attention to bright green patches of grass all over the park. It was a beautiful day.

Your boyfriend told you earlier that morning that he would meet you in the park for lunch and you couldn’t wait to surprise him with the new dress you bought.

Black with white polka dots, adjustable spaghetti straps, long with a deep V-neck and a drawstring closure, it was perfect for a day like today and you were sure he would love it on you.

Continuing to turn the pages of your book, you looked up the walkway and noticed a very handsome man walking toward you wearing a gray suit.

He had ebony colored hair, a short well-groomed beard and as he came closer you noticed his eyes. He had beautiful yet very mysterious deep brown eyes, the kind of eyes you could just get lost in while he was talking to you. They looked like two flat black marbles and they were looking directly at you.

There were empty park benches everywhere, so you didn’t think he would take a seat next to you and yet, he did. As he sat down, he smiled at you. You’ve never seen a more perfect smile on top of an already incredibly handsome face.

He said hello, you said hello back and returned the smile he gave you.

A smile like his could get you into some serious trouble but then he doubled down and opened his mouth to which you heard his soft tone, his voice was smooth like warm honey with a slight New York accent.

“I love that book.” He said.

You almost forgot you were holding a book, he was quite the distraction.

“Me too.” You said. “This is my fourth time reading it. Do you have a favorite part?”

You asked him, hoping to throw him off guard to see if he’s actually read it or if it’s some lame pick up line.

“Well…let’s see.” He said. “There are so many.”

Got him.

“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.” Chapter 2, page 23

“Oh and…”

“When we are happy, we are always good, but when we are good, we are not always happy." Chapter 6, page 106

The fact that he had those passages memorized, shocked you to your core and you felt slightly embarrassed and ashamed that you doubted him, but it turned you on at the same time.

“I’m sorry, I thought that…” You said.

He interrupted you.

“You thought it was a line, didn’t you.” He said with a sly grin.

Very few people surprised you, especially tall, handsome men just strolling through the park.

“I do apologize Mister?” You asked.

“Russo…Billy Russo.” He said extending his hand for you to shake. “I read that book a lot when I was deployed overseas.”

“Deployed? Wait, lemme guess…” You said as you carefully looked him over from head to toe. “You were a marine.” You were biting down on your lower lip, and fighting the desire to draw him in close by his tie.

He continued to stare at you with those intense brown eyes of his, he could not look away and neither could you. He held your gaze and felt yourself start to blush every time he smiled at you.

“How did you know?” He asked.

“Well…actually, my boyfriend was also in the Marines.” You said in a low breathy tone.

His smile disappeared.

“Well your boyfriend is a lucky man, I’ve never seen a more beautiful smile…on anyone.” He said.

He took the words right out of your mouth, you felt the same way about his smile.

Billy moved his head like it was on a swivel, looking all around him. “So…where is this boyfriend of yours? If you were mine, I’d never let you out of my sight.” He stated.

The struggle to keep from smiling was difficult, and you replied. “Actually, I don’t know. He said he would meet me here for lunch and he’s never ever late.”

You weren’t sure if it was the rays from the sun or Billy that was causing the warmth to rise to your cheeks.

There was something you wanted from Billy but maybe you shouldn’t ask. Although, what harm could come from reading a few pages from your book to you?

There was just something about his voice that was captivating. The way the words rolled off of his tongue was musical and hypnotic, like he was meant to read them aloud.

As he read, he’d glance away from the pages for sentences at a time to look over at you. He had memorized a lot of the passages, staring at you as he recited the words.

At one point, he stopped and lost his place because he was too busy staring at you.

“I’m so sorry.” He said. “I have to tell you, I’m very distracted by this beautiful dress you have on. Although I’m not sure if it’s the dress or the woman wearing it, maybe it’s both. I can’t believe your boyfriend let you leave the house without him, lookin’ like that. Every man that walks by this bench is having the same thoughts as I am.”

Trying to swallow the lump in your throat, the ache between your thighs grew hungry for him.

“Oh? And—what sort of thoughts would those be, Mr. Russo?” You whispered.

“Impure ones.” He hissed as he looked you up and down.

Your fingers lightly danced across the glowing skin on your chest and moved up to rub the back of your neck as his tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip.

“Thoughts of taking you back to my place, hiking that dress up over your hips and fucking you so hard you can’t walk right tomorrow, pinning you against the wall, and having your legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper into that sweet pussy of yours. I wanna hear you scream my name over and over again until your voice cracks, and I bet you’d look really pretty sitting on my dick.”

Gently, he touched your bare shoulder, and brushed the warm soft skin of your arm with his calloused fingers, those words sent shivers down your spine despite the hot afternoon sun.

Shuddering at those sinful thoughts, you leaned in to him so your face was closer to his yet your bodies remained apart and whispered against his mouth. “Is that right? Anything else?” You asked before sucking on his bottom lip.

“Or just ripping it off of you because it covers that gorgeous body of yours, then using it to tie you to the bed so I can look at you all spread out, ready to take my cock. Those are the kind of thoughts I’m having.”

A bead of sweat had dripped from your neck down your chest and in between your breasts, your panties were soaked from listening to Billy describe what he wanted to do to you, and if he wanted to fuck you right there on that park bench, you would probably let him.

“Maybe I’m having similar thoughts.” You said softly. “Maybe I want to see you on your knees in front of me, your head underneath my dress, and your tongue fucking me until I can’t see straight.”

You were so distracted by him, you forgot why you were sitting on that bench in the first place.

He inched closer to you so his thigh was touching yours, the look in his eyes was primal, his long slender fingers touched the side of your face, his other hand grazed the top of your breast and then he pushed some of your hair back behind your ear so he could whisper to you.

“Role playing is fun, isn’t it sweet girl. I don’t even need to touch you to know how wet you are for me. Love the new dress. I know I was supposed to bring lunch but I didn’t think there would be a snack waiting for me when I got here.” He said with a devilish smirk and gave you a kiss on the cheek.

You reached out to brush his beard with your thumbs and let out a little chuckle. “Wow…And I thought I’ve heard every cheesy pick up line there is, my love. Are you done flirting with me? Where’s my lunch?”

Billy held up one finger. “Number one, I’ll never stop flirting with you, number two, you’re wearin’ MY lunch…and I promise I’ll get you something to eat, but I need to get you home now otherwise we’re both getting arrested for indecent exposure.” He said with a wink. “I held out as long as I could. I’m pretty sure I flatlined when I first saw you. You look fuckin’ hot, baby.”

You leaned in close and gave him a hungry kiss, your tongue twisted with his and your teeth nipped at his lower lip which made him absolutely feral for you.

“Well let’s go home then, Mr. Russo and don’t forget our book.”

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[maironsbigboobs]

@silmsmutweek day 2:

“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.

Yield

Andróg/Beleg, E, 6k, Choose not to Warn Additional Tags: Internalised Homophobia, Masturbation, Intercrural Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements (see ao3 for detailed warning)

The first time he felt it was the day the elf returned to Amon Rûdh.

The past few days had been bitterly cold and wet, no good for hunting or fighting, and while most of the men were pleased to be under a solid roof for once, it was cramped and tense - just today Neithan had settled three squabbles that might otherwise have come to bloodshed. In no mood for joining the rabble, Andróg had settled himself in a quieter corner, in the vain hope of ending the day without a headache. 

He would not get to enjoy the quiet for long.

He had come unannounced, striding past the watchmen at the door and into the hall, laden with supplies. His face was so stern, jaw so tight Andróg could see the clenching muscles even from his dark corner. That did not surprise him; no, given their last meeting, he did not expect the elf to look at any of them with love. His hair was damp from the rain, clinging to his forehead and temples in damp, frizzy strands - it amused Andróg to see something so imperfect on his otherwise flawless face.

 But when his gaze landed on Neithan, his expression changed; his frown giving way to a smile so bright it could have melted all the snow on the hill. Neithan froze and for a sweet moment, Andróg wondered if he would turn him away.

The room was still. But then Neithan stood, and clasped Beleg by the shoulder, and he smiled.

That was what did it. Something hot and sharp broiled in Andróg’s stomach. Neithan’s rare smile, how his face was suddenly as youthful and handsome as the spring. How the elf laughed as Neithan embraced him, and how they spoke in the elven tongue together as if they had not been parted for a moment. Jealousy, like a branding iron against his throat.

He turned his face away, sullen, sulking, as the elf took his seat at Neithan’s right hand, and began handing out his strange elvish gifts. That should be my seat. Was he not all but the second captain of these men, hardest and bravest and boldest? Why should the elf have any privilege, when Andróg had been the one here in the hard and dark days?

It was pleasing, if nothing else, to see that he was not alone in his contempt. The other men gave the elf a wide berth, and his gifts were passed around with nervous, untrusting hands. He did not blame them - who knew what witchcraft he had brought out of his hidden kingdom? Nothing from the elf’s hands was to be trusted - he had good reason to want to bring harm to them. Perhaps the frosty reception would make him leave - or better yet, would encourage Neithan to send him away. 

The gifts made their way back around to the elf, and he set them at his feet. Delight sparked in Andróg’s gut at his expression; his brow furrowed, his lips turned down in a frown, the brightness of his eyes replaced by a sharp flash of hurt. It brought to mind the memory of how he had looked, bound and bloody against the trunk of a tree. Andróg smiled; he cherished the memory, unashamed and unguilty, savouring how it had felt to bring a proud creature so low. A pity the lesson had not stuck in the elf’s mind.

Neithan squeezed his arm, and leaned in to whisper something softly in a slender ear. Andróg’s delight gave way to cold indignation. How dare this elf come here, after they had shown him they did not want him, and try and win their favour with gifts like a new stepfather? And then, he had the audacity to seek comfort from Neithan - who was their  captain,  their friend, their  brother-in-arms? What claim did the elf have to his kindness? He might have been his friend as a boy - or at least, that was what they had gathered from the little Neithan had said - but Neithan was a man now, an outlaw, not a child playing with wooden swords. Let the elf go back and steal away another child, and leave Neithan the man to his rightful kin. 

Beleg smiled then, a small smile touched by sadness. Whatever Neithan said to him made him shake his head, but then he took his hand and squeezed it. 

He’d had enough of this. Andróg stood quietly, turning away from the hall down one of the dark and twisting corridors of Amon Rûdh. The dwarf had made his home like a maze, but Andróg spent many hours exploring the tunnels, distrusting the dwarf not to have left any traps for them. He saw him now, slinking away from the hall with a thunderous expression. Ah. So he was not fond of Beleg either. That was a small point in Beleg’s favour; anything that displeased Mîm was good in Andróg’s reckoning. 

Eventually, he wandered back to his room. The halls of Amon Rûdh were not vast, but there were enough small side rooms and chambers for the men to sleep five or six a room, and it was warmer in close quarters than sleeping in the hall. Neithan alone had his own chamber, a sign of the dwarf’s favour, but often he slept among the rest of them anyway, and used the chamber when he sought a moment’s peace. None of them begrudged him that. Andróg wondered if he would let the elf sleep there. 

He’d seen the room. It had a bed, a low mattress that Neithan lined with an old cloak. He’d helped him break off the footboard, so he could lie more comfortably. He wondered if he would make the elf sleep on the floor (the thought delighted him) or invite him to share the bed (the image of the two of them pressed together - it was mostly certainly not delight that stabbed at his gut at that image, but it was not disgust either).

Andróg settled himself in his bedroll, a tangle of fabric and fur. He tried to close his eyes, but the memory of the elf’s last visit kept swimming to the front of his mind. He had always considered himself to have a sharp mind, but this memory was clearer than any, and he could almost taste the blood on his tongue, could almost smell the smoke in the air. He tried to think of anything else, as he lay there in the dark, but the same vision kept returning to him.

The elf was bound to the same ancient tree, but in this version of the memory, he was naked, bruised and bloody and heaving. Andróg imagined reaching out, turning the elf’s slumped head up to face him with the blade of his axe. In his mind’s eye he could see the sweat on the elf’s brow, his eyes dark as he hoarsely whispered a plea for mercy.

Oh, the mercy he would have given him, if they had been alone. Andróg hurriedly shoved a hand beneath the waistband of his trousers, relieving the ache in his loins by curling his fingers around his cock, stroking himself leisurely.

Beleg’s bloodied face - he imagined, then, that it was those infuriating lips around his cock and not his hand, eyes screwed shut as he tried to imagine the warm, velvet heat of the elf’s mouth, and the anger in his gaze, trapped between him and the tree.

The tension grew, a tightness in his gut he knew too well. He screwed his eyes shut and focused on the image in his mind; the elf, his scowling face, lips red and swollen as a girl’s.

He stopped, that sudden thought turning his mind dry. Was he really getting off to a man -elf though he was? The thought discomforted him, but his arousal had not faded. He stroked himself to an unsatisfying, guilty climax.

Was it wrong of him to lust after the elf? He would not lust after Ulrad or Algund or any of the others - and he was not even going to think about Neithan. He had never desired a man; oh, he knew what some of the others did in the dark, but he had never been invited and he did not care to be. So why did the elf arouse such... well, arousal in him?

He could pass a maid, Andróg thought, if he frowned less, though not a very pretty one. That was what he settled on: it was a desire for control and the lack of women in Amon Rûdh that kindled lust in him - not any true wanting for Beleg himself. He wanted to see him controlled and humiliated, not whisper sweet words in his ear and kiss him.  There was no tenderness in it, and that made it different, and that made it normal. 

Choosing to be convinced, Andróg rolled over, and eventually fell asleep.

***

Andróg’s body burned. The arrow had caught his thigh as he stood raining his own down on the Orcs, and for the first few moments he had not been too worried - it hurt, but he could still stand, and he had thought a broken leg was the worst he could expect. 

Then the burning had started. The poison had taken only minutes to take hold of him, turning his blood to flame. He collapsed, curling in on himself and crying out, trying to resist the pain, and he remembered little of the battle after that. Someone must have seen him, because he felt strong arms - several pairs, all rough and damp with battle-sweat - helped him up, carrying him inside. He could not have repeated what they said to him; all talk seemed distant and faint over the roar of his blood in his ears.

He was carried to a cool and dark sideroom - it smelt like old beer and root vegetables, and laid on the ground, a thin piece of fabric - someone’s too-small cloak? - the only thing between him and the stone floor. The noise of the world faded. Andróg groaned and fidgeted, sweat dripping into his eyes.

Was this death? Fear seized almost as fast as the poison had. He was afraid to die. Not many thoughts could bring Andróg to tears, but this, the prospect of an undignified, painful death, in this cold and dark room, terrified him. Would Andvír not even come and see him? Would Neithan? Why was he alone? Had his captain and his son both left him to die alone?

I will never see Dor-lómin again. He had not thought of it as much as he should have, in all his years in the wilds. Two decades, and then some, since he had seen those hills and plains. He had been Neithan’s age then, and twice as foolish. Maybe it was better to die while his memory of home was untarnished. What had become of it, in the wake of war?  What would become of him, after death? No timeless hall or endless merriment awaited men like him. Only sorrow and shadow.

Voices broke through his pain and despair. Neithan’s voice, quiet and low and worried. He turned his head towards the sound, but his vision was fogged, and he could only make out a tall, dark shape that must have been his captain, half-turned towards the door and carrying a lantern. Andróg reached out to him, but Neithan was lighting the torches on the wall, and talking in hushed tones to - oh, fuck.

The elf. Why, of all people to see him dying in indignity, did it have to be him? Did he take some kind of sick pleasure in it? Had he volunteered to take him out of his misery - all too eagerly, Andróg could imagine. 

“.... water.... gauze, cloth.” 

“We don’t have...”

“Find it.” 

Snatches of conversation reached him through the fog, and Andróg groaned as cool hands touched his burning skin. He twisted, thrashed, and he heard Neithan call out something. Then there were more hands, familiar ones, holding him still. 

Beleg’s voice drifted over him. There were worse sounds to hear before he died than those smooth tones, he supposed. 

“He will not survive it.” Neithan’s voice was softer than usual, and Andróg would swear later that he heard it crack. “Beleg.” He pleaded, saying something else, in a language Andróg did not understand. Andróg felt bile in the back of his throat. If Neithan was losing his composure, then surely he was completely doomed.

“Silence.” Beleg’s voice, hard now,  cut through the thick gloom of his mind, and it was so commanding that for a moment even Andróg’s whines fell silent. He heard a list of orders, heard the scurrying of feet around him, and then Beleg’s hands were on him. 

It was like something out of a story his grandfather might have told him; the elf seemed the single bright spot in Andróg’s dimmed vision, clear and sharp as glass, like one of the divine come down to save him. His hands were cool and gentle, but not as soft as Andróg had expected; the callouses felt familiar, like his own, borne of bowstrings and hunting knives. 

He could not tell what he was doing; only that bit by bit the pain lessened, the burning replaced by a duller, distant pain, and as it cleared the haze from him, he could focus more on the elf himself - the way his hair had been hastily tied, and was falling loose from the braid, the way talked without turning to look at the speaker, only his ears twitching in response to sound. It distracted him, as the wound was cleaned with some dreadful ointment, and bound. If he studied every line of the elf’s face, every crease and scar, he could block out the rest of the world. 

It was a coping mechanism. Nothing more - he was grateful to be saved, but he knew the elf would not have been grieved if he died, just as he would not shed a tear for the elf in turn. It was for Neithan he was saved. Once again it was Neithan - as he had saved them all from their own bitter selves, he saved him from death with but his words.

The elf stepped back, and placed his hand on Andróg’s forehead. His touch spread warmth through Andróg. Their eyes met, and Beleg withdrew his hand quickly, clearing his throat before he spoke to Neithan and Andvír. There was a strange look in his eye that made Andróg feel like retching. 

Oh, he was grateful to be saved. He would thank the elf as politely as he could manage, when he had the strength to speak, and then hope to never have to speak about this again. He just could not wrap his mind around it; why had he intervened? What did he get out of saving him? He did not need to worm his way further into Neithan’s good graces - the elf was already adored by him, it was obvious. He could have let him die, and Neithan would not have blamed him. Did he want something from Andróg? Did he just want to hold it over his head - oh, yes, that was the most likely option. This was his twisted revenge; to make it harder and harder for Andróg to hate him, to have a knife to twist in his gut whenever they quarrelled. It was just the kind of mind games an elf would want to play. Wretched creatures.

“He will live,” Beleg was talking again, his voice thick, like he had something stuck in his throat.  He was undoubtedly not thrilled with Andróg being alive. “I will need to...”

He closed his eyes, and before he could hear the rest of  Beleg’s words, exhaustion claimed him. 

He was in his own bed when he awoke. Andróg stretched and groaned. His mouth was dry as bone and when he pushed himself up to look for some water, every muscle in his body protested. Fortunately, someone had left a waterskin by his bed, and he drank greedily, wiping his mouth on his sleeve - his clean sleeve. Someone had changed his clothes.

Andvír, most likely. And yet, his mind went to Beleg, and wandered. It was almost thrilling to imagine the elf undressing him - he would have been quick about it, Andróg imagined, efficient, detached. But he could almost feel the cool touch of his hands against his skin now, and he shivered. He imagined the elf’s long fingered hands, deftly unlacing the tie of his shirt, smoothly pushing it off his shoulders. Would he pause for a moment at the sight of Andróg’s bare chest, assessing his breathing, perhaps, or... or looking for more injuries? Then he would continue, neatly folding the shirt - the elf was so frustratingly neat - and then he would change his trousers, half the fabric already ruined from the arrow. He would take his time with it, of course he would, careful not to jostle the wound. So careful, so slow, as Andróg slept. Perhaps in a moment of weakness his hand would stray, and...

The sound of a door slamming further in the hill snapped him from his thoughts. What was he doing, laying here and daydreaming, like a child in the first flush of youth? He was too old for such indulgences, such foolishness. Beleg would not treat him so delicately; he was more likely to slap him across the face than anything else. 

Perhaps he should call out to him. He knew if he did, those sharp ears would hear, and he knew he would come to check on his patient. He did not need him, and yet he wanted to see his face, wanted to be alone with him, wanted to say so many things. Sorry. I don’t hate you. Thank you. 

This feeling was one he did not have a name for. Maybe he did, but it could not be that; he did not lust for the elf like he would lust for a woman. He could not - he cared little if the others among the band chose to entertain in such a way, but it was not natural and it was not him. It was the power over him that had so deeply affected him before, but he could not blame that now.

If he thought it enough times, maybe it would feel true.

He had seen how Beleg was with Neithan. How light and free his touches were, how he laughed so easily, how he was quick to usher Neithan somewhere private. Oh, it might not have been natural to Andróg, but was clear as day in Beleg, and envy bubbled in his stomach. 

He wondered if he was a game to the elf - perhaps he had cast some enchantment over him, to confuse his heart and his cock. This was his revenge, to make Andróg obsess over him, until he broke down and begged for his forgiveness and his attention. Well, he would not give in. And if he did, he would make the elf regret it. 

***

Before long, the seasons turned, and life came again to the hills and forests around Amon Rûdh. Summer was on her way, and with her, longer and brighter evenings. It was Andróg’s turn to sit at the watchpoint near the entrance to Amon Rûdh, and it promised to be a pleasantly warm night. Tucked against the wall, he sat with an unlit lantern at his feet and his axe across his lap. It was quite peaceful.

Not, though, for long. Lumbering out of the tunnels came Ulrad, as oafish and brutish as ever, and he sat beside him with a grunt.

“Evening, Andróg.”

He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “Ulrad. Shouldn’t you be inside?”

“Captain sent me to keep the two of you from killing each other.”

“Two?” His question was answered as he said it, as Beleg came up out of the tunnel. He did not look at Andróg, but sat himself in the adjacent corner, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “We never have two out here.”

Did Neithan not trust him?

Ulrad laughed, mischief bright in his eyes. Andróg resisted the temptation to punch him in the face for now. 

“New initiative. Better security. Who better to test it than you two, eh?” He laughed again, making himself comfortable. 

Andróg did not reply, instead watching Beleg. This evening he was wearing just a tunic, without a vest or cloak, and Andróg could see the muscles flexing as he folded his arms. His mouth felt dry. He looked back to the drastically less stimulating sight of Ulrad. 

“Right. Make yourself useful then, and keep your eyes on the trees.”

Ulrad was not silent for long. As the evening drew in, he could no longer keep his mouth shut, much to Andróg’s dismay.

“So, elf.” Few had taken to calling Beleg by name, and he had never voiced a complaint where any of them could hear. Andróg wondered if he preferred the lack of familiarity. 

“Yes?” Beleg turned away from the horizon to look at Ulrad - very firmly at Ulrad, and not Andróg. “What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking.” Never a good sign. “They say elves can tell if you’re wed from your face. Is that true?”

Beleg laughed. It was a good sound, rich and hearty. “Only of other elves.”

“So you wouldn’t know if I’ve a wife or not?”

“Ulrad, my friend.” Andróg’s chest tightened. Why did Ulrad get to be his friend? “One does not need to be an elf to see that you  are unwed.”

“Asshole.” He scowled, and Beleg only smiled. “Have you got one then?”

“A wife? No. There have been lovers, but I am not the type to settle down.”

“Huh.” Ulrad looked thoughtful, which made Andróg even more uneasy. “I didn’t think you elves were like that. Maybe you aren’t all as prude as we thought.”

Beleg shrugged. “Perhaps.”

For a few minutes, Ulrad was quiet again, leaning back against the stone wall. Andróg, foolishly, thought they might have some peace. He was, of course, wrong.

Ulrad pointed with his chin to Andróg. “What about him? Can you tell if he’s got a wife?”

Beleg’s sharp gaze turned to him, and Andróg was sure he could see into his mind, into his heart.

“I don’t know.” Beleg hedged, “He has a son...”

“You can have a son without being wed. Or don’t elves do that sort of thing?”

“Rarely. Only I meant that he has a rugged charm. A lady might like that.”

Andróg quickly looked back at the plains before them, so Beleg would not see him flush.

Ulrad snorted. “If you think that’s charm, you must be mad, elf.” He shook his head and stood. “I am not staying out here and listening to that. It might be catching.”

With that, he slipped back into the tunnel, leaving them alone. Andróg would interrogate him later; he suspected someone had put him up to sitting out here with them. It was not like Ulrad to volunteer.

He looked at Beleg again, wondering if he should say something. He could tell him to go inside, but if Neithan had commanded it then Beleg would be unmoved. 

While Andróg agonised over what to do, Beleg brought the silence.

“The land here is very fair.” Andróg rolled his eyes. Of course the damn elf wanted to talk about nature. “If you stand at the top of the hill, you can see the Taeglin flowing.”

“Perhaps you can. My eyes are not as keen.”

Beleg laughed. He was in a jovial mood today; Andróg usually found him dour in his presence. Andróg would secretly admit, if only to himself, that he liked the sound, and how the corners of Beleg’s eyes crinkled with it.

“You have sharp eyes for a man your age.” Beleg said, “I hear it usually fails as Men grow old.”

“I am hardly old.” Andróg huffed. “I am barely forty.” Despite the lines of his face and the grey in his beard, he was not that old even for an outlaw; Algund was nearing sixty, and was still as bold as any of them. But it was a hard life out in the wilds, and two decades of it would grey any man. 

“Forgive me, I meant no offence. You are...” Beleg paused, “You are not a youth, I mean. Like Andvír. You are mature. I like that.”

Please just stop talking. Andróg grunted. “Right.”

“Right.”

Beleg shifted, stretching. It must be quite uncomfortable for him, in Amon Rûdh, given his height. Even some of the taller men among them found everything too small or too low. Andróg wondered if he fit in Neithan’s bed.

Beleg scooted closer to the entrance, halving the gap between them. 

“I met a Man in Brethil, once. He could hit a target at two hundred paces. Very impressive. Very strong, too. Once, we...”

Andróg stopped listening as Beleg continued to ramble. He was not interested in what a Man in Brethil could do at two hundred paces. He was thinking of Beleg’s touch again. He was very animated as he spoke. Had he always been so, and Andróg had never noticed? 

He found himself inching closer, watching the fluid movements of his arms and hands. He had powerful shoulders, like any archer, and Andróg knew Beleg could lift even more than his form suggested. Belthronding must have weighed almost as much as a man.

And yet, I could overpower him. I did it once. I could again. Mouth dry, he imagined it now, springing on Beleg while he talked, silencing him with a hand over his mouth. He could hold him down against the stone and have his way with him - in his fantasy the elf pleaded, struggled, but still opened his legs and moaned prettily while Andróg fucked him. 

“And another time,” Beleg was still talking. “We were alone in his house, and I wanted to bathe, so he - you are not listening.” Beleg closed the final gap between him, leaning close enough now that their knees were touching. 

“My mind ran away with me.”

Beleg’s eyebrow arched. He had handsome eyebrows, dark and thick, set above the cool grey of his eyes.  I have never looked at another man’s eyebrows before. What has he done to me?

“It is certainly a stimulating memory to recall.” Beleg agreed, with a smile twitching on the corner of his mouth. Andróg wasn’t sure what was so funny. “I am sure it is to hear, too. What did it make you think of?”

Shit. He struggled to think of something quickly. 

“Is it true, what you told Ulrad? You do not have a wife in Doriath?”

“Oh.” Beleg blinked. Andróg grimaced. That was not the question he should have asked.

“No wife.” He shook his head with a wry smile. “No husband.” The confidence in the statement reignited Andróg’s envy. It was easy for someone like Beleg to be unashamed.

“And no little bastards either. Though, not for lack of trying.” He winked at Andróg.

Andróg felt dizzy. The image in his mind then, of Beleg seducing and charming his way through endless admirers - it made his limbs heavy, and his cock harder than it had ever been in his life. He hoped Beleg could not tell.

“Oh.” 

He could muster no more words, and a heavy silence grew between them.

 Beleg’s hand rested on Andróg’s knee. Andróg looked up at him. The sun had well and truly set now, and the moonlight cast a faint glow across Beleg’s face - or was that part of him, an ancient elvish quality that Andróg had no name for?

Beleg did not look away. There was an expectant look in his eyes, as though he was waiting to see what Andróg would do. Frustration gnawed at him. Once again the elf played with his emotions like he was a toy. Why did he have to be the one to act?

He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to know what Beleg would do. He wanted. But he did not move, caught on an edge of doubt. If he was imagining this all... the very thought made him shudder. He could never be alone with the elf again. Beleg was so friendly with Neithan - maybe this was simply his way, and Andróg read too far into gestures of friendship, into a little teasing among allies. He was not like him. He did not know how men desired.

He turned away.

“It is a long night. We should not get distracted.”

He did not look at Beleg’s face again that evening.

***

“Victory!”

Neithan raised his sword high, and a cheer went up among the outlaws. An Orcish incursion on their lands had been swiftly routed, and though the battle had been rough, they had all come out with their lives. Andróg cheered with the rest of them, sweaty and exhilarated.

As the band limped back towards Amon Rûdh in high spirits, he caught sight of Beleg among the revellers. Andróg’s heart skipped. With blood smeared across his cheek, his shirt stained, and his hair pulled back, he had never looked so earthly, and so beautiful. 

Andróg made a resolution then. He needed to get him alone.

Inside Amon Rûdh, barrels of ale had been cracked open and there was much shouting and laughing as the men tended to their wounds and celebrated their victory. He saw Ulrad describing in great detail to Neithan how he had cleaved his foe’s skull. 

“Andróg,” Neithan clapped him on the shoulder and pulled him into the conversation. “Where have you been? I thought we’d lost you among the orcs.”

Andróg laughed. “No, not me.”

“How fortunate,” Ulrad snorted, “Since we seem to have lost our elf, and we need someone to hunt our supper.”

“Lost him?”

Neithan rolled his eyes. “Aye. He disappeared to clean himself up, vain bastard.” 

Andróg feigned reluctance. “I would rather not, at least until I have had a drink. He is more tolerable drunk.”

“There.” There was a glint in Neithan’s eye as he shoved his tankard into Andróg’s hands. “Find him for me, then. Tell him to get himself back to celebrating.”

“Is that an order, Captain?”

Neithan shoved him towards the hallway. “Yes. Now go, and hurry back.”

Andróg down the drink in one gulp, and left the tankard on a stool, before winding his way through the now familiar halls of Amon Rûdh until he reached Neithan’s - and Beleg’s - room.

The door was wide open. He stepped into the room.

“There you are.”

Beleg did not jump, even caught half dressed. He grinned at Andróg and dropped his dirty tunic. “Is it a crime to want to be in clean clothes? Unlike our comrades, I prefer not to walk around covered in Orc... residue.” 

Andróg could not wait a moment longer. He crossed the room in a few strides and pressed his arm over Beleg’s chest. Pushing him back and pinning him against the wall. Beleg did not resist.

“You have driven me mad, elf.” The smug look on his face made Andróg scowl, and to rid him of it, he kissed him. 

Beleg kissed him back. Their lips met and fire flooded Andróg’s body, as he devoured those perfect, maddening lips that had haunted him since he first laid eyes on Beleg. In his dreams he had tasted sweet, but now he could taste the saltiness of his sweat and the faintest, bitter taste of beer. Beleg had been drinking already.

He pulled apart to catch his breath. The elf’s face was a sight; blushed and still bloodied. “You wretched creature. You have bewitched me. I must have you.”

Beleg laughed. He laughed so hard tears sprang in his eyes. “Oh, you blind fool of a man. Bewitch you? If only! I have been trying to get you into my bed for months. If I could enchant you, you would already have had me half a hundred times.”

Andróg’s mind spun. “Ulrad.”

“Yes. He was helping me. He drew the short straw.”

“They knew?”

Beleg snorted. “I am not a subtle man.”

Assholes. He had no doubt they had found it amusing to watch Beleg make a fool of himself. Andróg would deal with them later. Now, though, he had finally had the elf where he wanted him, and he was not going to waste this chance. 

He tugged the drawing of Beleg’s trousers. “Off.”

Beleg did not need telling twice. 

Naked beneath Andróg, he was more beautiful than he had ever expected, and yet, not half as perfect. He was not untouched by the world; Andróg spied bruises and scars new and old, the faded ink of an old tattoo, a reddened groove at his hip where his arrow-belt had been too tight. He smoothed his fingers over it, and watch Beleg’s breath catch. 

“I want to see you.” Beleg complained, and the familiarity of his whining was a comfort. “It is only fair.”

“Later.” He could not, now, reveal himself in front of Beleg. It felt too much, too real - if he could still pretend that this was about conquering Beleg, not lust or, worse, some kind of true care, then it was easier. He did not want to think now, when he finally had the prize he was after.

Beleg must have sensed his ill-ease, because he was silent, save for the heavy rise and fall of his breathing. Andróg let his gaze drop. Beleg was hard already (how long had he imagined something like this, Andróg wondered), and Andróg smugly noted that elven cocks were no greater than a man’s; Beleg was slender and long, like the elf himself, hairless but for a neat patch of dark curls between his legs. Vain bastard indeed. 

Andróg did not touch him, instead “I, ah, I have never... not with a man.”

To his relief, there was no mocking. As bold as always, Beleg unlaced his trousers, and his calloused fingers were just as familiar around Andróg’s cock as he had pictured. Beleg stroked him once, twice, and then he tore his gaze from it to glance around the room.

“I have an idea. We need, hm.” Beleg frowned. “Pass me the wood oil.”

 Andróg handed it to him, and Beleg slicked his hands. Once again, he took Andróg’s cock in his hand, but now with his own, stroking both of them together. He groaned, his head falling back against the wall.

Andróg moaned, rocking his hips into Beleg’s hands. It was clumsy; Beleg’s hand was too slippery to grip well, but the slide of his cock against the elf’s was intoxicating. Andróg wanted more.

“This is how elves celebrate?” he mocked, and Beleg laughed breathlessly, his face flushed.

“Among other ways. Kiss me.”

“You are not giving the commands here.” He gave him half his desire, burying his face in the crook of his neck and sucking at the skin there until he was sure the elf would be sporting dark bruises come morning. Beleg quivered, and Andróg felt his cock twitch against his own.

“I need you.” Beleg pleaded, the sweetest sound in all Arda. 

Andróg was so hard he could hardly see. He took the oil from Beleg, splashing it haphazardly over Beleg’s legs, smoothing it over his skin - his thighs were as soft as a woman’s, and lacked even the finest hair. It fascinated him - he could have spent hours exploring the exact differences in their bodies, and testing all the ways in which Beleg might be just like a man. But he feared Neithan - or worse, Ulrad - would come looking for them if they did not return, and he was not prepared to have everyone knowing about this.

He pushed Beleg’s hand out of the way, guiding him to stand so Andróg could slide his cock between his legs. Beleg moaned.

Beleg’s thighs were smooth and slick, a soft heat around his cock. He was not sure how Beleg could enjoy this, with his cock slipping against Andróg’s stomach and lacking the sweet friction of their hands, but hearing no complaint he chased his own pleasure, holding Beleg against the wall and fucking his thighs. 

“Mhm, like that...”  Beleg’s breath was heavy against his ear, and Andróg groaned as he fell a flurry of sharp kisses along his jaw, only encouraging Andróg to rut harder against his elf. He felt Beleg’s hand between them now, as he stroked himself in tandem with Andróg’s thrusts.

Without warning, Beleg tensed, the firm muscles of his thighs tightening around Andróg’s cock almost unbearably, as he climaxed over his own hand and legs. The sight was breathtaking, Beleg’s face beautifully relaxed in bliss - there was the beauty of the ancient elves in him that Andróg had never seen before. He spilled moments later with a grunt, their seed mingling on Beleg’s skin.

Andróg let go of him, watching the elf slump against the wall. For a moment, Beleg was silent, and Andróg thought he might be regretting this - but then his eyes opened, and there was nothing but desire in them. 

“So you do know what to do.” he teased, “I thought you would be bolder. In my dreams you were.”

Andróg wanted to know about these dreams, but Beleg was already reaching for his discarded tunic. His hair was tangled and sweaty, sticking to his face, and after wiping his hands and thighs with it, he sighed. Elves were quickly sated, it seemed. 

“Go and enjoy yourself, Andróg.” He thought it might be the first time he had ever heard Beleg say his name. “I need to wash up before someone else comes looking for me. Save a drink for me.”

Andróg cleaned himself up with Beleg’s tunic, realising now that Beleg had definitely borne the brunt of their celebration. His thighs were sticky with oil and seed. He grinned. There was something magical about seeing an elf so dishevelled.

“Don’t be too long. We’ll drink it all without you.”

Beleg turned around, and grinned back at him. “Now, that is a threat. Begone.”

Andróg laughed all the way back to the hall.

[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 ♡

[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."

[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.

[azafranes]

But the bravest man among us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. 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. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also.

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[pecuniarypriss]

Leave an object in my ask and my muse will react to it being given to them.

@oculusxcaro said: [Object] A serving of coffee, good and strong. There's milk and sugar on the side to add if Brian pleases!

pecuniarypriss:

────────────

{!!} – Brian detected the steaming cup of coffee that was placed in front of him and raised a brow in contemplation. He subsequently folded up the newspaper he’d been surveying and settled on a courteous smile as he regarded the purveyor of the caffeinated beverage. ❝Ordinarily, I’m a tea drinker during the day, but…I suppose it is the weekend…❞ A conflicted crease between his brows as he carefully considered his options. Did he dare give in to desire? ❝I only came here to meet a friend! Although, they do say that the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it…❞ Honestly, it was as if he was contemplating doing something appalling, the way he was carrying on about it. Just drink the coffee, Brian!!! He twitched nervously for a moment more, his self-control gradually waning with each tedious second that passed between him and the stationary cup of coffee. Ultimately, in spite of his reluctance, his inhibition cracked and he reached to stir in a mischievous helping of sugar and just a splash of milk to the freshly poured coffee, ❝Oh, to Hell with it! I could do with the caffeine. I’ve been up since five with the kids and I’ve been running on very little sleep as it is, so I suppose I need it.❞ Though no matter how he tried to justify it out loud, Brian couldn’t help but feel that he was breaking some kind of unspoken rule about the frequency of coffee consumption. Nevertheless, he drank it anyway, but not without the requisite guilt associated with self-indulgence. He chuckled, ❝I really shouldn’t be doing this.❞ And yes, his life truly was that dull.

[sanstemptation]

I got asked where the name for the blog comes from and what it means. It's actually a nod to the quote above by Oscar Wilde. On the subject of temptation he was also quoted saying:

“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.”

Art by Artblancheuk on Etsy

[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.