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mssishipi · 2 days ago

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the fall of a man — sjy

SYNOPSIS: You were taught that virtue was a woman’s greatest strength, that temptation was a test of will, that desire was the serpent’s whisper leading you astray. But when temptation comes in the form of Sim Jaeyun—holy, untouchable, the very image of devotion—your faith begins to waver.

content tags: slow burn, plot with little bit of porn, mutual pining, both of them are religious and virgins, set in catholic university that is lead by nuns, they don't have sex ed!! adam and eve references, religious guilt, reader crushing and thirsting over jake in religious way that's been written for almost 5k words, some of the scenes are heavily inspired by 'guilty as sin' by ts.

warning: heavy sacrilegious content, karina kind of represent the serpent in reader's pov, blasphemy, explicit content (smut): reader masturbate in the chapel, virgins trying to fuck, virginity loss (obv), blowjob, fingering, unprotected sex (condom don't exist), jake call out god's name a lot of times. wc: 16.7k

note: my darling, @fangel really inspired me and make me overcome my fear in writing the most unholiest thing in the world, i'm inlove with you, bae and you really changed my world with your fics <3 i wrote this fic for armin arlert way back 2023 but never had the guts to publish it, but hey u give me a reason to continue this fic. and to my readers out there, i hope you enjoy reading this fic, i love writing jake's pov here :)

Ever since you were a child, you followed everything your parents told you. Raised in a devoutly religious household, your days revolved around faith—joining church activities, attending every Sunday mass without fail, even flying to Puerto Rico with your family to take part in Misa de Aguinaldo.

Religion wasn't just a part of your life; it was your life.

You loved God. You loved listening to preachers, absorbing their words like scripture carved into your soul. You loved spreading the message of Jesus Christ, the warmth of faith filling you every time you shared His name.

You prayed constantly—palms pressed together, head bowed, whispering words of gratitude for every blessing, of repentance for every misstep. You prayed for strength, for purity, for the will to resist temptation.

And yet—temptation had a name.

And his name is Sim Jaeyun.

You remember the first time you saw him walking through the gates of the Catholic university you both attended.

Jake Sim was the very embodiment of devotion, of unwavering faith. He carried himself with an air of holiness, always with a rosary wrapped around his fingers or a Bible tucked beneath his arm. He spoke with conviction, every word laced with the kind of certainty only true believers possessed. And yet, to you, he was something else entirely.

The way he moved, the way his voice echoed through the chapel—it was hypnotic. Your prayers would falter on your tongue whenever he stood at the altar, leading hymns with a voice so steady, so sure.

You had watched him, your eyes tracing the curve of his lips as he spoke, the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked. You had memorized the way candlelight danced across his skin, the way the veins in his hands shifted when he clasped them in prayer.

The boy who knelt before the cross with his eyes closed in deep, persistent faithfulness.

The boy who touched the rosary beads with such reverence, his fingers gliding over each one as if they held the weight of his salvation.

But all you could think about was how those same fingers would feel tracing the lines of your body, how they would press into your skin—not in prayer, but in something far more sinful.

How his lips would taste if they weren't murmuring scripture, if instead, they whispered your name in the dark.

How his faith would crumble if he ever looked at you the way you wanted him to.

And as you sat in the pews, hands clasped, head bowed, you prayed—not for strength, not for purity, but for him.

You shouldn't think about him that way. You shouldn't let your mind wander, not here, not in the house of God.

You knew the weight of sin, the warnings etched into you since childhood. Your family had made it clear—masturbation, desire, sex before marriage—each was a path to damnation. To act on them was to betray God.

Do not lay a hand on any boy. Do not think of flesh, of pleasure, of sin. Do not touch your body with thoughts of another.

But if you had never touched him, never let your hands stray to your own skin —if all you had were thoughts, then how could you already feel guilty as sin?

The golden light of the late afternoon filtered through the stained-glass windows of the university chapel, casting soft hues of red, blue, and gold onto the polished wooden pews. The air was still, filled only with the faint scent of old parchment and melting candle wax.

You sat near the front, fingers absentmindedly tracing the spine of your prayer book. The chapel was mostly empty, save for a few students lingering in quiet reflection. And him.

Sim Jaeyun stood near the altar, carefully arranging hymnals. Even in the simplicity of his tasks, there was a quiet devotion to him—an unshaken faith that made it impossible to look away.

You tried to focus on the words of the scripture open in front of you, but your thoughts were restless. It wasn't the first time you had stayed after midday prayers, and it wasn't the first time you had found yourself stealing glances at him.

A quiet sound of footsteps against the marble floor.

"You're here again."

You glanced up to find Jake standing at the edge. You nodded, offering a small smile. "I like the chapel in the afternoon. It's peaceful."

Jake hummed in agreement, sliding into the pew beside you, though he kept a respectful distance. "It's my favorite time, too," he admitted, clasping his hands together. "When the day is slowing down, but the world isn't quite asleep yet."

You studied him for a moment, watching as the sunlight touched his face, illuminating the softness in his features. "What do you pray for?" you asked.

Jake exhaled, his gaze fixed ahead. "For strength," he said. "To always follow the right path."

You nodded slowly, looking down at your hands.

"And you?" he asked.

You hesitated. You knew what you should say. Strength. Wisdom. Purity.

But instead, you murmured, "For understanding."

Jake turned to you, brow slightly furrowed. "Understanding?"

You swallowed. "There are... thoughts I don't always understand." You hesitated, fingers tightening around the pages of your prayer book. "And I ask for guidance. To know what is right."

For a moment, Jake was silent, then he offered a small, knowing smile. "God sees our hearts even when we struggle to see them ourselves." His voice was gentle and reassuring. "Sometimes, we don't need to have all the answers. We just need to trust Him to show us the way."

His words should have comforted you. But as you looked at him—at the boy who made your heart race in ways you couldn't explain—you weren't sure if the path you longed for was the one God had intended for you.

Sim Jaeyun barely even knew you. The two of you only shared a religion class, occasionally finding yourselves in the same prayer group. Your interactions were brief—just passing glances, a quiet exchange of smiles. Sometimes, after kneeling in prayer, he would hand you a sandwich and a bottle of water and you always accepted with a small nod of thanks, though the warmth in your chest lingered long after.

During every community outreach, you would catch glimpses of him—kneeling to pet stray dogs and cats, laughter spilling from his lips as children clung to his arms, their tiny hands gripping at his sleeves. He spoke to the elderly with a patience and gentleness that felt almost sacred, offering up his seat without hesitation, carrying their bags.

He was the kind of person people gravitated toward, the kind of person who made faith feel tangible—something living and breathing, rather than just words in a book.

You wondered if someone like him, someone pure as gold, ever sinned.

Sim Jaeyun was a name whispered often in the girls' residence hall. Every night, as curfew neared, you would hear them murmuring from their bunks.

"He'd make such a good husband." "Imagine him as a father—he'd be perfect." "Any girl would be lucky to have him."

A quiet admiration, soft and innocent. So why was yours so much heavier? So much more?

Why did yours feel like something that sat in your chest, something that pressed against your ribs with every prayer, something that burned?

"Your body is sacred."

The nun's voice rang through the classroom. She moved slowly between the rows of desks, the wooden stick in her hand tapping lightly against her palm with every step.

It was an all-girls class since she was teaching anatomy. But this wasn't just about the body. It was about purity.

She stopped near the front of the room, turning to face the class. Her gaze swept over each of you, as if she could see straight into your thoughts. "God has given you this body," she continued. "A temple. A gift. A vessel meant for holiness, not for sin."

You swallowed, shifting slightly in your seat.

"Temptation is everywhere," she said. "It creeps into your thoughts, into your hands, into the desires you do not speak of. But hear me, girls—"God is watching.""

The stick tapped against her palm again.

"Masturbation," she said, the word itself feeling heavy as it filled the silence, "is a sin against your own flesh. To lay a hand upon yourself in lust is to defile what was meant to be pure."

A hush settled over the room. Some girls looked down at their desks, others sat rigid, eyes wide, hands folded neatly in their laps as if to prove they had never done such a thing—never even thought about it.

You felt a heat crawl up the back of your neck.

"When you indulge in these acts," she continued, voice sharp with a warning, "your body burns—not with passion, not with pleasure, but with sin. A fire that does not cleanse, but corrupts."

She paused, her gaze sweeping the room again,

"And when you engage in sex outside of marriage, when you surrender yourself to the desires of the flesh, that fire does not leave you. It stays. It marks you. And on the day of judgment, when you stand before God, He will see it. He will know."

A shudder ran through you. You clenched your hands together, nails pressing into your palms.

Then, the nun's eyes landed on you.

"You understand, don't you?" she asked, though it wasn't really a question.

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

And just for a moment, you thought of him.

Sim Jaeyun.

Of the way his fingers brushed over rosary beads in prayer. Of the way his voice sounded when he spoke of faith, of devotion. Of how those hands, that voice, could ruin you.

And as the nun continued, warning of damnation, of the watchful eyes of God, you couldn't help but wonder.

If God was watching, did He already know what was in your heart? And worse—had He already condemned you for it?

"Yes, I understand," you said, though the words felt heavy on your tongue.

Guilt settled deep in your chest. Your palms were damp, fingers twitching slightly as you clasped them together.

You needed to repent.

You needed to pray until the thoughts left you, until the weight of sin lifted from your heart. Until the fire the nun spoke of no longer burned beneath your skin.

"Here, an apple for you."

A small hand reached toward yours, fingers curled around a tiny, imperfect apple. The child's eyes were bright with innocence, his smile wide as he offered it to you.

It was community outreach day in the mountains, where children ran barefoot over the uneven ground, laughter ringing through the crisp afternoon air. The scent of earth and firewood lingered, mingling with the distant voices of volunteers.

You knelt slightly, accepting the apple with a gentle smile. "Thank you," you said, your voice soft.

The boy beamed, pleased by your gratitude before running off to join the others.

You were about to take a bite of the apple when a sudden tap on your shoulder made you pause. Turning, you found your classmate standing behind you, her expression impatient.

"I need you to find Karina," she said, arms crossed. "She's missing again. And we need to leave by three."

You sighed, tucking the apple into your pocket. "Alright, I'll look for her."

With that, you made your way up the stone steps leading further into the hills, where the trees grew denser and the voices of the other volunteers faded into the rustling of leaves. The fresh mountain air brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke.

As you climbed higher, a small tug on your sleeve made you stop.

"Lady, where are you going?"

You looked down to see a little girl standing beside you, her dark eyes round with curiosity. She was sucking her thumb, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt.

Crouching down to her level, you offered a reassuring smile. "I need to find my friend."

The girl tilted her head, studying you with the kind of seriousness only children could manage. Then, after a moment, she leaned in slightly and whispered, "Be careful out there."

You raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

She pulled her thumb from her mouth and grinned, baring her tiny teeth. "There's a snake," she hissed, making a slithering motion with her hands. "They bite!"

You laughed, shaking your head. "I'll be careful."

With a gentle pat on the girl's head, you urged her to go play with the others before continuing your search.

"Karina!" you called, your voice echoing through the trees. The afternoon air was with the scent of damp earth and pine, the only sounds around you the rustling of leaves and the distant chatter of children below.

After what felt like ages of wandering, you sighed, pulling the apple from your pocket. Your thumb brushed against its smooth surface as you took slow steps forward, letting yourself take a small break.

Then, just as you were about to take a bite, something caught your eye.

It was small cabin, worn by time, tucked between the trees. You hadn't noticed it before, hadn't even realized anyone lived this far up the mountain.

Lifting your head, you parted your lips to call for Karina again but you heard a low, quiet, barely audible voice over the wind.

Your breath hitched slightly, and instinctively, you stayed silent.

Tilting your head, you slowly took a bite of the apple, the crunch loud in the stillness. Step by step, you moved around the cabin, careful not to make a sound.

You crept closer, your breath shallow, your fingers curled tightly around the apple. The rough wooden cabin stood against the trees, its single window slightly ajar. Through the gap, the muffled voices inside grew clearer—soft murmurs, hushed laughter.

A breathless moan.

Your body tensed, You hesitated for only a moment before tilting your head, peering through the dust-coated glass.

And that's when you saw the most sinful acts you've ever witness.

Karina was sprawled against the wooden table, her back arching beneath the weight of the farmer pressing into her. Her dress was bunched up around her waist, her bare thighs caging his hips. His hands gripped her skin, fingers digging into the softness of her legs, his mouth trailing down the curve of her neck.

Your stomach twisted, but you couldn't look away.

Karina wasn't resisting. She wasn't recoiling in shame or horror. There was no fear in her expression, no sign of guilt or repentance.

She was pulling him closer.

Her fingers wove into his hair, tugging slightly as her head fell back, exposing more of her throat to his lips. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her mouth parting with quiet, trembling gasps.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

The nun's words echoed in your head, warnings of fire, of suffering, of bodies burning for their sins.

But Karina wasn't burning.

Your breath trembled as you stared, as the world you had known—the one built on prayer, on restraint, on the fear of temptation—began to splinter.

How is she not burning?

The apple slipped from your fingers, tumbling to the ground with a dull thud.

A hiss was heard. The sound was sharp, unnatural, cutting through the silence of the forest. Your body stiffened, a cold shiver crawling up your spine. Slowly, your gaze flickered to the tree beside you.

A snake. Its body coiled around the rough bark, scales glistening in the fading sunlight. It was watching you, its tongue flickering out.

Eve was tempted. Eve took the fruit.

Your stomach twisted violently as you staggered back, tearing your eyes away from both the serpent and the scene inside the cabin.

You ran. Branches scraped against your skin as you pushed through the trees, your feet barely touching the ground. The echoes of Karina's breathless moans clung to you, no matter how fast you tried to outrun them.

You needed to forget. To erase the moment of sin that had burned itself into your mind. To cleanse yourself before the weight of temptation swallowed you whole.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."

Your eyes clenched shut as you muttered the prayer, over and over, you repeated the words, as if their rhythm alone could cleanse your mind, could undo what you had seen.

The rosary felt heavy in your hands, the beads pressing into your palm. But no matter how tightly you held it, no matter how desperately you clung to prayer, the memory would not leave you.

"Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

You sucked in a sharp breath, your chest tightening.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners—"

Your voice broke. This was your fall.

A single tear slipped down your cheek, then another, until you were gripping the rosary so tightly your knuckles turned white. A quiet sniffle escaped you, but the tears kept coming, blurring the dim candlelight of the chapel.

You could not stop trembling, your stomach tightening, a dull ache spreading between your legs, heat pooling where it should not.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, but it did nothing to stop the throbbing. You clenched your fists, willing the sensation away, but the images had already taken root.

Karina. The farmer. The way her body had arched into him, how she had clung to him. It should have horrified you. It should have disgusted you.

Instead, a shudder ran through you as your mind betrayed you, as the image shifted, reshaped itself into something far more forbidden.

Not Karina.

You.

And not the farmer.

Jake.

Your breath hitched. The thought was wrong—blasphemous. But it came unbidden, vivid and consuming, slipping into the cracks of your mind like sin itself. You saw him above you, his hands gripping your waist, his lips murmuring something against your skin.

Your rosary slipped from your fingers, the beads scattering against the marble floor.

You gasped softly, snapping your eyes open as if waking from a dream—no, a nightmare.

Your hands flew to your chest, pressing against your heart as if you could smother the racing beat beneath your skin.

No. No, no, no.

Tears welled in your eyes again, this time not just from guilt but from fear—of yourself.

This was your fall.

The serpent had coiled itself around you, whispering its venom into your ears, seeping into your thoughts, your body.

Karina was expelled after the nuns discovered what she had done during the community outreach.

You helped her pack in silence, folding the last of her skirts into a worn-out suitcase.

Your nose was red, your eyes swollen—for many reasons. Of course, you hadn't told anyone what you saw. That was yet another reason you were a sinner. You had kept her secret, watched in silence as she was cast out.

But worse—you couldn't stop thinking about it.

And worst of all, you had lost another prayer partner.

Your voice was quiet when you finally asked, "Do you regret it?"

Karina's hands stilled over the fabric of her blouse. She stared at the ground for a long moment before exhaling slowly. "No."

"They're sending me away," she continued. "Some isolated place, far from men. Away from temptation. They'll make me enter seminary, force me to repent, try to fix me."

She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "Fix me. As if I'm broken."

You said nothing, letting her words settle between you.

Karina turned then, her gaze finding yours. "But I don't regret it. No matter what they try to tell me." A small, humorless smile tugged at her lips. "But you wouldn't understand, would you?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of her dress as you folded it, staring at the delicate lace trim. "There are a lot of things I don't understand," you admitted. Then, meeting her eyes, you added, "But I do not judge. I am here to listen."

Karina studied you, her expression is pained. Then she let out a slow breath, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You know the story of Adam and Eve," she said.

You nodded. "Of course."

"They call it the fall," she murmured, tilting her head slightly. "But have you ever thought that maybe it wasn't a fall at all?"

You frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers intertwined. "Eve took the apple. She chose knowledge, chose to know desire, hunger, craving. And for that, she was cast out." Karina exhaled through her nose, a bitter smile on her lips. "But maybe that was never a punishment. Maybe it was freedom."

She glanced at you then, "Christianity tells us that craving is sinful. That wanting—whether it's knowledge, pleasure, or love—will ruin us." Her voice lowered, "but tell me—why would God give us bodies that feel if He didn't want us to use them?"

Your throat felt dry.

"You've thought about it, haven't you?" Karina questioned. "You've felt it."

Heat crept up your neck, shame curling tight in your stomach.

Karina smiled, but it wasn't mocking. If anything, it was knowing. "It's normal to crave, you know," she said. "To want."

"In the city," Karina continued, "I heard students openly talk about sex. About how it's natural. They even discuss things like hormones, the way the body reacts to desire. When your clitoris—"

"Shhh!" Your eyes widened as you shot a panicked glance toward the door. Your hand moved on instinct, pressing against her lips to silence her.

"Do not use such vulgar words!" you hissed, even hearing such a thing felt wrong, like an invitation for sin to take root inside you.

Karina only laughed, she gently pulled your hand away, her lips curling into a teasing smile. "Why? Because the nuns don't want you to know your own body?"

Your cheeks burned, your fingers curling into your lap as you looked away. "Because it's wrong," you muttered. "You speak of things that lead to damnation."

Karina sighed, tilting her head. "Says who? The nuns? The ones who tell us that touching ourselves will set our bodies on fire?" She leaned in slightly, "Tell me, have you ever actually tried it?"

Your breath hitched as you swallowed, your pulse hammering against your skin. "I—I would never—"

Karina smiled knowingly. "Of course you wouldn't. Because you're afraid, aren't you?"

You stiffened. "Afraid of what?"

"That they were lying to you," she said simply.

You stared at her, Karina reached for your hand, her touch gentle as she placed it over your own lap. "If it's really so sinful," she murmured, "if it really makes you burn... then why don't you test it?"

Your breath caught in your throat. Her fingers pressed lightly against yours. "Go on. Just once. Just to see if their words hold any truth."

"If you want to touch yourself," she continued, undeterred by your silence, "put your fingers inside—but don't just push in and out. Curl them inside, find the spot that makes your legs shake."

Your entire body went rigid as Karina leaned closer, her lips curling, almost amused at your reaction. "And your clitoris—"

"Stop," you gasped, eyes widening as you instinctively clamped a hand over her mouth. Your other hand flew to the door, your head snapping toward it, terrified that someone might hear.

She giggled against your palm, her laughter muffled before she gently pulled your hand away. "Why are you so scared?" she teased. "It's just your body. It's natural."

Your cheeks were burning now, hot with embarrassment.

Karina sighed, tilting her head as if she pitied you. "If you ever do find someone," she continued, undeterred, "a boy—"

You swallowed hard.

"Let him play with your nipples." Her voice dipped lower, as if she were sharing a secret meant only for you. "Let him suck them, bite them just a little. It feels so good."

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

"And a boy," she went on, eyes glinting with mischievous, "his penis—"

"Karina!"

She laughed, completely unashamed of her own words. "What? It's true! If you want to make a boy weak, touch him there. Play with it, stroke it, suck on it—especially the tip."

A choked sound escaped you.

"Giving someone pleasure," she said, watching your reaction, "is just as enjoyable as receiving it. Maybe even more."

Your hands trembled in your lap. You couldn't even look at her now. Your mind felt clouded, a war raging between every lesson the nuns had taught you and the curiosity her words planted deep inside you.

Karina exhaled, shaking her head. "You poor thing," she murmured, you bit your lip hard, trying to drown out the heat rising in your body with pain.

"You should try it, you know," she said after a beat, her voice almost gentle now. "Just once. Just so you know if they were lying to you all along."

Your chest tightened, your heart hammering so loudly you feared it might betray you.

Because the worst part wasn't her words.

It was that you wanted to know if she was right.

So you repented again.

You prayed and prayed for forgiveness, whispering desperate pleas beneath your breath, pressing your forehead against the cold chapel floor. You gripped your rosary so tightly that the beads left indentations in your palm, as if pain itself could cleanse you.

But it was getting harder. Especially now, with Holy Week approaching. Longer prayers, deeper fasting, more time spent in solemn reflection. And yet, the more you immersed yourself in worship, the more temptation gnawed at you.

Especially since Sim Jaeyun was the one leading Passion Week.

You sat among the others, hands folded in your lap, your gaze fixed on the cross, trying not to think about him. Trying not to remember Karina's words.

"If you ever find someone, let him touch you, let him play with you—"

You swallowed hard, clenching your fists against your thighs.

Women and men were not allowed to be seen too close together. A proper distance must always be kept, a respectable space left between bodies. A simple conversation was permitted—but only from afar.

"You do pray very often."

The voice came from behind you. You stiffened, your breath catching in your throat as you turned slightly—only to find him.

Jake stood just a few feet away, hands clasped in front of him. "Is something bothering you?"

You turned back toward the cross, swallowing the lump in your throat. Your fingers curled against your knees, sweat forming at your temples.

"No," you whispered, though the lie burned on your tongue.

Jake was silent for a moment. Then, softly, he said, "You can talk to me, you know. If something is troubling you."

You closed your eyes. How could you tell him?

How could you tell him that the prayers weren't working? That no matter how hard you tried, the thoughts would not leave you? That he was becoming the temptation you could no longer escape?

Your eyes started to water again, he knelt beside you, as his presence settled so dangerously close—closer than what was proper.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, your fingers tightening around the rosary.

Jake watched you. From this close, he could see the way the candlelight illuminated your face, casting soft shadows along the delicate curve of your cheekbones. Your skin glowed, almost ethereal, as if touched by something divine.

You looked like a painting—one of the old Renaissance depictions of saints and martyrs.

Beautiful.

His gaze drifted lower, to the way your lips barely moved as you whispered prayers, the words shaky, your hands trembled over the rosary, clutched so tightly.

His eyes fell to your knees. The fabric of your skirt had shifted slightly, revealing the barest hint of bruised skin—evidence of hours spent kneeling.

He had seen piety before. He had witnessed countless prayers, watched the most devout of worshippers bow their heads in absolute faith.

But this—the way you prayed, the way you looked before the altar—felt different. He couldn't imagine what sin someone like you could have possibly committed.

His voice came quietly, "You should rest."

You flinched slightly at the sound of his voice,

"I can't," you murmured.

And then softly, without thinking—he reached out.

His hand hovered over yours for just a breath before settling atop your trembling fingers. Palm to palm, warm and steady, stopping you mid-prayer.

He didn't know what possessed him to touch you. Perhaps it was the way you looked so lost, so utterly consumed by something unseen. Or perhaps it was the fact that no nun was watching, no one to scold him for standing too close, for placing his hand over yours.

His touch was meant to be assuring. Nothing more. Nothing sinful.

But then you stiffened beneath him.

Your breath caught in your throat, your shoulders going rigid, your fingers twitching beneath his. Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs.

You turned your face toward him.

Jake sucked in a quiet breath as his eyes met yours—wide, desperate, a single tear slipping down your cheek.

He had never seen a gaze like that before. Not in church, not in prayer, not in the face of someone seeking salvation.

His fingers flexed slightly against yours, the warmth of your skin radiating beneath his palm. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, a slow, instinctive movement, like a silent reassurance.

Before he could stop himself, his other hand lifted. Gently, hesitantly, he swiped away the tear that had slipped down your cheek, his fingertips barely grazing your skin.

You gasped softly. It was the smallest sound, but it sent something through him, something that made his fingers linger just a second too long against your face.

Your skin was warm beneath his touch. Soft. Alive.

It took everything in him to pull away.

The moment his fingers left your cheek, a strange kind of loss settled in his chest. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the fabric of his handkerchief before carefully pulling it out. Silently, he placed it in your trembling hands.

"Whatever you were praying for," he murmured, "I'm sure God will understand."

As if to anchor you back into the faith you were grasping so desperately onto, he smiled.

The kind of smile meant to bring comfort. But to you, it only made it worse.

"I should go," Jake said, you nodded, unable to meet his gaze. He shift beside you, the soft rustling of fabric as he stood. His presence lingered for just a moment longer before the sound of his footsteps echoed against the chapel floor, growing fainter.

And yet, his warmth remained.

Your hands trembled as you lifted the handkerchief to your face, pressing it against your damp cheeks. His scent clung to the fabric—a faint trace of sandalwood and incense, something undeniably him.

You exhaled shakily, squeezing your eyes shut.

God will understand.

A broken sob escaped your lips as you clutched the fabric tighter, your body trembling with something you no longer had the strength to fight. Tears slipped freely down your cheeks, soaking into the handkerchief as you sniffled against it.

Your fingertips skimmed over the waistband of your skirt, then lower, brushing against the thin fabric beneath.

A sharp breath left you when you felt the wetness, sticky and warm, pooling between your thighs, evidence of the thoughts you had failed to purge.

You should stop. You should repent.

And yet, your other hand only tightened around the handkerchief, pressing it closer to your face, inhaling the faint traces of him.

Still kneeling, you stared at the cross before you. Your body trembled, shame curling in your stomach.

You sobbed, your weight tipping forward, forehead pressing against the marble floor. Your free hand clenched at your skirt, your knuckles white with restraint.

Your finger dipped inside, a choked gasp slipping past your lips at the sudden intrusion.

The feeling was new, startling and unfamiliar. You hesitated only for a moment before pressing deeper, your body clenching around the touch, breath hitching as pleasure licked up your spine.

The nuns had warned you—the body will burn.

But as your fingers curled, as something electric shot through your legs, making them tremble, you realized this was not pain nor suffering.

Your mouth parted, a quiet, breathless sound escaping as you rocked into your own touch, your other hand bracing against the marble floor to steady yourself, the overwhelming scent of him filling your senses.

Sim Jaeyun—his hands hovering over yours, the warmth of his palm against your trembling fingers, the way he had wiped away your tear.

Your fingers pressed deeper, and a soft gasp escaped your lips. You imagined it was his touch, his fingers exploring you with hesitant curiosity.

"You do pray very often," his voice echoed in your mind, "Is something bothering you?"

Yes, he was bothering you.

You pictured him above you, his fingers tracing over the same places your own were now.

"Does it burn?" he would ask, voice laced with something both sinful and sacred.

And you would shake your head—because it didn't.

It felt holy.

Your body arched into your own touch, your legs trembling as heat coiled deep inside you, tighter and tighter, threatening to consume you whole. The pressure, the ache, the need—it was overwhelming. It was blasphemous.

Yet, it was the closest you had ever felt to salvation.

A gasp tore from your lips, soft yet sinful in the silence of the chapel. Your fingers pushed deeper, your body rocking to meet them, each movement sending dizzying waves of pleasure through you.

Beads of sweat dripped from your forehead, falling onto the floor. You added another finger, stretching yourself further, testing the limits of your own body. A choked whimper escaped as your walls clenched around the intrusion, your breathing ragged. Your other hand fumbled against the floor, grasping for stability, but there was none—no safety, no sanctuary, no way to stop now.

You think about his hands on your waist, his lips trailing down your neck. Your body tensed, your fingers working faster, chasing the edge of an unknown pleasure that built higher and higher—until it was too much, too much.

With one final, shuddering breath, the world shattered around you. Your body trembled, pleasure crashing over you in violent waves, a silent cry caught in your throat as your mind went blank.

Your body slumped forward, forehead pressing against the cool marble floor, your fingers slipping out as the aftershocks of pleasure left you breathless.

There was only silence. Only your heaving breaths, the scent of candle wax and incense thick in the air, the fading echoes of his name somewhere in the depths of your mind.

Then, guilt settled in, so heavy. You had really fallen.

And yet, as you lay there, pulse still racing, you couldn't bring yourself to repent.

The days blurred into nights, and with each passing moment, you felt yourself slipping further into something you could no longer control.

You couldn't meet your own reflection anymore. The girl in the mirror was not the same—her eyes hollow with guilt, her lips parted in silent prayer that never reached the heavens. You had abandoned the comfort of your rosary, leaving it untouched on your bedside table. Even the scent of candle wax and incense, once a balm to your soul, now felt suffocating.

It was as if a devil had settled inside you, whispering in your ear, feeding your thoughts with things no holy woman should crave. And yet, no matter how fiercely you fought it, you kept returning to your sin.

Each night, beneath the shroud of darkness, your body became a traitor. Your hands moved without permission, exploring places you had been taught were forbidden. Your bedsheets tangled around your legs, damp with sweat, evidence of your transgressions.

And always, always, his name spilled from your lips.

Each time, you found yourself back in the same position—fingers trembling, thighs clenched, gasping into the silence of your room, drowning in him. And it felt too good to stop.

"Have mercy on me, O God, according to Your unfailing love..."

You whispered it every day in the chapel, hands clutching the rosary so tightly. "According to Your great compassion, blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin..."

Tears slipped down your cheeks, soaking into the fabric of your sleeves as you knelt before the altar. You sobbed, your body wracked with guilt, your lips forming words of repentance.

And yet—when you returned to your bed that night, your body trembling with guilt, your prayers still lingering in the air—

You touched yourself anyway.

"It's impressive how you always pray," Jake said, his voice gentle, filled with quiet admiration. A small smile graced his lips. Another interaction. Another moment that would be burned into your mind, another weight added to the burden of your sin.

"How you always find time to speak with Him," he continued. "I'm sure whatever you're praying for, you'd be heard."

You swallowed hard. Would God listen when your prayers were no longer pure? When you begged not for salvation, but for relief from the temptation standing before you?

You forced a polite nod, quickly wiping at your damp cheeks, hoping he wouldn't notice how red your eyes were. How broken you looked. Your knees ached from kneeling for so long, your fingers sore from gripping the rosary too tightly. If only he knew what your prayers had become—not words of devotion, but desperate pleas for deliverance.

You were about to stand, to create distance, to escape before your body could betray you again. But before you could move, Jake lowered himself to kneel beside you.

The proximity sent a shiver down your spine. His presence was grounding, yet it set something uneasy alight inside you.

"You know," he said, voice soft, "I quite admire you."

Jake smiled, warm and sincere, his eyes searching yours as if he was seeing something sacred in you. "You share a special relationship with God," he continued. "The way you pray, the way you devote yourself—it's beautiful."

"I've seen the way you never miss a prayer," he went on. "The way you kneel here for hours, speaking to Him when no one else is watching. I've seen the tears, the way you hold your rosary."

His gaze flickered down to your hands, still red from gripping the beads too tightly.

"And I think... that kind of devotion is rare."

You swallowed, forcing yourself to look away, because his words—his praise—felt heavier than anything the nuns had ever told you.

Because it was him saying it.

He didn't know that your devotion wasn't pure. That your prayers were not for holiness, but for control. That when you closed your eyes at night, it wasn't scripture that filled your mind, but the memory of his touch.

"God must love you very much," Jake murmured, tilting his head slightly. "To have someone as loyal as you."

You inhaled shakily, without thinking, you shifted back, settling onto the wooden pew. Jake stayed where he was, still kneeling, his gaze fixed on the cross. You swallowed. Your fingers curled around the rosary in your palm

"Can I confess, Jake?"

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Jake turned his head, he hesitated for a moment before moving to sit beside you, his posture still composed. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice is with quiet curiosity. "I am not a priest—I can't take such confessions."

You exhaled sharply, your grip tightening around the rosary.

"Forgive me, for I have sinned."

Jake stilled beside you his confusion was evident in the way his brows knitted together, in the way his head tilted slightly as if trying to piece together what you meant. "Why?" he asked slowly.

You couldn't look at him. If you did, you feared he would see it. The truth. The war inside you. The way he was the very thing you needed to confess.

Your throat tightened as you muttered the next following words. "Because," you whispered, forcing the words out before you lost the courage to speak them, "I don't think I want to repent."

Jake stiffened beside you. His breath hitched, his entire body going rigid. His fingers curled against his lap, gripping the fabric of his trousers. "H-How can you say that?" His voice was unsteady, a stark contrast to the usual calmness he carried. His soft features, always composed, always gentle, were now pulled into shock and disbelief.

You swallowed, your throat dry, your heart slamming against your ribs as you forced yourself to continue. If you stopped now, if you let fear take hold, you would never be free of this.

"I think of things I shouldn't."Your voice trembled, but your gaze didn't waver this time. "I touched myself."

Jake's body jerked slightly, his lips parted again, but no words came, as if he had been struck speechless, as if the confession had ripped the breath from his lungs. His Adam's apple bobbed with a harsh swallow, the tendons in his neck tightening. His gaze flickered away, darting briefly to the cross above the altar, as if seeking guidance, as if seeking a way out. But there was none. He could not look at you, not when the weight of your confession was still lingering in the air

"You..." he started, but the words failed him. He shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. His brows furrowed, "Why are you telling me this?"

Your hands clenched into fists in your lap, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to speak—forced yourself to ruin yourself completely. "Because it was you, Jake."

Jake inhale, his eyes widening, but only for a second. Something changed—something deep inside him, something that flickered behind his dark gaze like a dying flame suddenly reignited.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, your skin tingling under the intensity of his stare. But you didn't stop. You couldn't.

"I touch myself with the thought of you."

Jake's fingers dug into his thighs, gripping so tightly. His breathing turned shallow, uneven, his chest rising and falling at a pace that betrayed his struggle. His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips, before snapping back up, but the damage was already done.

He was flustered.

"D-Do not say v-vulgar things," Jake whispered, his hands trembling slightly where they rested against his lap. But it was his eyes that held you captive—wide, burning, conflicted.

Your throat tightened, and before you could stop yourself, tears welled in your eyes again. "I don't think I'm free of guilt if I confess to God."

Jake flinched at your words. His fingers twitched as if he wanted to reach for you, to stop you, to comfort you—but he didn't. Because he shouldn't.

"I keep praying for forgiveness," you continued, your voice trembling, "but I do not regret what I have done."

Jake inhaled sharply. His gaze flickered to the cross for only a moment—as if searching for guidance—before returning to you. Your lips trembled as you forced out the truth, the final confession that sealed your fall.

"I only feel guilty because thinking of you is a sinful act against my own people."

A tear slipped down your cheek, falling onto your lap, soaking into the fabric of your skirt. You weren't sure what you were asking from him—absolution, understanding, or something far more dangerous.

"God is willing to forgive again and again, right?" you choked out. Jake's breath hitched, and then you asked the only question that truly mattered. "But are you willing to forgive me?"

His throat bobbed with another hard swallow, but he couldn't speak. Because there was no answer to give. Not one that would be right. Not one that would be true. He stood abruptly. The movement was sudden, almost jerky, as if he was running—fleeing.

You watched him, lips quivering, hands still clenched together in your lap.

His palm was sweaty as he brushed it against his robe, his pulse erratic as he stepped out of the chapel, the heavy door closing behind him with a finality that made your chest ache.

You didn't call after him. You didn't move. Because what could you say? He was already gone.

Jake arrived early at the residence hall, his movements stiff, controlled, as if forcing himself into habit, but as soon as the door shut behind him, his composure cracked. His chest rose and fell with deep, unsteady breaths, his hands running through his hair in frustration. The ghost of your voice lingered in his ears, wrapping around his mind like a noose.

"I touch myself with the thought of you."

"I do not regret what I have done."

His jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He sank onto the bed, head falling back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut.

"But are you willing to forgive me?"

His breath came out shaky, ragged, as he muttered, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..." His voice was strained and the prayer did nothing.

Nothing to rid him of the images flooding his mind, of your tear-streaked face, of the way your voice trembled, of the way you looked at him as if he held the answer to your salvation. He sucked in a sharp breath as his hands gripped the sheets beside him, as the tension in his body coiled so tight it hurt.

And then—he felt the unbearable heat pooling low in his stomach. The painful ache of his cock pressing against the fabric of his pants.

He let out a quiet, desperate whine, the sound muffled against his palm as he ran a hand over his face, as if trying to scrub away the shame, the want, the overwhelming weight of you. Still, the words of his prayer tumbled from his lips, over and over, between broken breaths.

Just like Adam, he had been steadfast. Pure. Untouched by temptation. He had walked the path of righteousness without faltering, without question, his faith as unwavering as the ground beneath his feet. He had known his purpose—to obey, to serve, to resist.

And yet, you— the Eve.

A whisper of temptation. Just as Eve had reached for the fruit, her fingers brushing against the knowledge of sin, you had reached for him—not with hands, but with words.

And now, like Adam, he was failing. He had seen the fruit before him. He had heard the serpent's voice, had felt the first stirrings of doubt deep in his chest, where conviction once lived.

He wanted to reach back.

To taste. To know. To fall.

Because wasn't that what Adam had done? He hadn't been deceived—he had chosen to fall with Eve. He had taken the fruit from her hand, knowing what it would cost.

"Take a bite."

The voice echoed in his mind, low and insistent, curling around his thoughts like a serpent coiled around a branch. Jake sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, but he did not see it.

Instead, he saw you.

He imagined you whispering to him, your lips forming the very words that now tormented him. He imagined your fingers brushing against his wrist, leading him closer to ruin. Just as Eve had turned to Adam with the fruit cradled in her palm, you had turned to him with your confession, tempting him in ways he had never been tempted before.

His cock throbbed painfully beneath the confines of his pants, damp with his own arousal.

"Take a bite," the voice urged again, slithering through the cracks of his crumbling resistance. His hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He should continue praying, to fight whatever temptation the devil was filling him.

But instead, he lay there, panting, burning not with the way the nun teaches, his body betraying him as he squeezed his eyes shut. He let himself imagine.

"Heaven and earth are full," the voices soared inside the chapel, the morning light streaming through the stained-glass windows.

"Are full of your glory."

Jake's lips parted, but he did not sing. His gaze was fixed on you. You stood in the choir, your voice blending seamlessly with the others, yet somehow, to him, it was the only one that mattered.

Your long white dress fell in soft folds to your feet, the fabric catching in the gentle morning breeze drifting through the open doors. The wind moved through your hair, shifting it slightly, making it look almost weightless.

You were a vision of purity wrapped in divinity.

"Hosanna, hosanna."

Your eyes are dull and distant, told a different story. You sang the words, but you were not present. There was no joy, no reverence, only an emptiness that should not belong to someone standing before God.

"Hosanna in the highest."

But to him, you were the highest. More than the chapel's towering walls, more than the altar bathed in candlelight, more than the cross above them all. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to touch, to reach, to worship. But not as a believer should.

"Show me."

The words slipped from Jake's. Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes widening as you stared at him.

The small room at the back of the chapel felt unbearably tight, with the scent of old books and dust, the faint aroma of candle wax lingering in the corners. A candlelight was at the center of the table.

This was a place of study, of quiet contemplation, and A man and a woman should not be alone together. Not when the door was shut.

"Show me." Jake swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Show me how you touch yourself."

"H-Huh?" You stuttered, barely able to form words, your mind struggling to comprehend what he had just said. "Jake, you're so pure... I don't want you to be tainted like me. I already disappoint God—"

"Please, just show me."

His voice was desperate, his restraint fraying at the edges. Jake stepped forward, closing the distance between you.

Your breath hitched as he leaned over the table between you, hands bracing against the worn wood, trapping you between his body and the cold stone wall.

"I have thoughts about you too."

Your eyes snapped up to his, his eyes were glassy, his lips trembling as if the weight of his own confession was too much to bear, unshed tears brimming in his lashes.

"I thought of you that night," he murmured. You sucked in a breath, pressing yourself further into the table.

"I disappointed God too."

"Jake. . . " Your breath hitched at his confession as your eyes is searching on him. "Are you not afraid? Of the fire that will burn you?" you asked.

Jake's breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling as he leaned closer, his hands tightening against the edge of the table. "Does it burn you when you touch yourself?"

"Because when I thought of you," Jake continued, "my body just ached for your embrace."

Your heart pounded so loudly; you almost want to lower your head due to the proximity.

"It's not the fire that burns me."

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenched as his gaze bore into yours, "It's the ache of longing for you."

You had feared he would resist, that he would turn away, condemn you, beg for salvation. But he wasn't begging for salvation. He was begging for you.

"Take a bite," a voice in the back of your mind hissed—low and insidious.

And without another word, without hesitation, you reached for him. Your fingers curled around the nape of his neck, you pulled him in, lips met his.

A low, desperate moan escaped Jake's throat as he crushed you against him, his hands finding your waist, gripping you so tightly. His body pressed into yours, heat radiating through the layers of fabric that still separated you.

His lips moved against yours with a hunger that startled you. The tears that had brimmed in his eyes slipped down his cheeks.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, needing. The kiss was desperate, both of your teeth are clashing. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. The pressure of his mouth against yours softened after a moment, his lips parting slightly, then his tongue brushed against yours.

A soft gasp left your lips, and Jake seized the moment, his tongue slipping past the seam of your mouth, exploring, tasting. He groaned into you, the sound vibrating against your chest, making something hot coil in your stomach.

Your grip tightening in his hair as the kiss deepened, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes, coaxing you into submission.

"If you want to make a boy weak, touch him there. Play with it, stroke it."

Still kissing him, your free hand drifted lower, hesitant, until your fingers pressed over the hardness beneath his pants.

Jake cried out. His entire body jerked, his hips stuttering beneath your touch as he broke the kiss with a sharp gasp.

"Oh my Lord—"

His head fell forward, forehead pressing against your shoulder as his breath came out in ragged, uneven pants. His hands clenched at your waist, gripping the fabric of your dress.

You swallowed, watching in fascination as his body trembled beneath your touch.

Carefully, experimentally, you pressed your palm more firmly against him, stroking him slow through the fabric.

Jake whimpered. His hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction, chasing the pleasure, more relief, yet it was never enough. Your name slipped from his lips in a strangled moan, muffled against your shoulder.

"I want to see you. Please." You whisper, more like a whine as your fingers continued to stroke him through the fabric of his pants.

Jake lifted his head slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide with something that had nothing to do with faith. Tears streaked his flushed cheeks, his lips parted as they trembled.

His gaze locked onto yours, vulnerable yet so needy.

"W-Will you touch me more?"

His voice cracked at the end, his body shuddering as he fumbled with the buttons of his pants, his fingers shaking too much to work quickly. You watched as he hesitated, his chest rising and falling rapidly, before finally tugging the fabric down past his hips.

Your breath caught in your throat.

A penis. His cock was thick, long, flushed a deep shade of red. Fluid leaked from the swollen tip, dripping down the shaft in slow, glistening trails.

You remembered feeling disgusted way in anatomy class, staring at the stiff, clinical images in textbooks, thinking the male body was strange, almost grotesque.

Now, your mouth watered.

Heat pooled deep in your belly, your pussy clenching together involuntarily. You didn't even realize what you were doing until you were already on your knees.

Jake's breath hitched, his body going rigid. His wide, teary eyes stared down at you.

"W-What a-are you doing?" He exhaled sharply, his voice cracking. You glanced up at him, your hands settling on his thighs.

A whisper from your past came back to you, "Suck on it—especially the tip."

Your lips parted, and you murmured, "I'm going to pray for forgiveness." then you took him into your mouth.

"Ahhh—!"

A choked gasp tore from his lips, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. His hands flew to your head, fingers tangling in your hair, but he didn't push. He held on for dear life.

His knees buckled slightly, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps as your warm mouth engulfed him.

You tasted the saltiness of his arousal, the unfamiliar flavor spreading across your tongue, but instead of pulling away, you took more.

"Jesus Christ, this is disgusting," Jake cried, his voice shaking—yet his hands remained buried in your hair, his hips jerking forward, pushing himself deeper into your mouth.

His breath came out in broken gasps as he watched you, watched the way your cheeks hollowed around his cock, the way your lips stretched to accommodate him. His fingers trembled where they tangled in your hair, torn between holding back and pushing in further.

"It feels too good—too good, too good—" he whined, his mouth falling open, eyes glassy.

Your stomach tightened at the sound, heat curling between your thighs at the way he was breaking apart. You wanted more, you needed more.

Your tongue traced along the underside of his shaft, your head bobbing steadily, each movement coaxing more whimpers from his lips. His thighs trembled beneath your hands, his entire body shaking with pleasure so foreign to him that he didn't know what to do with it.

"You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain." The words echoed in the back of your mind, a commandment you had already shattered beyond repair.

But you like hearing him, hearing the way he gasped for God, the way his voice cracked when he moaned between whispered prayers.

Your eyes flickered up, meeting his gaze. Jake whimpered, his breath stuttering as you took him further, pushing yourself until the tip of his cock brushed the back of your throat. Your gag reflex tightened, but you didn't pull away. You held him there, letting him feel everything.

"A-Ahhh—!"

A loud, uncontrollable moan ripped from his throat as his head fell back, exposing the column of his neck, veins prominent, his Adam's apple bobbing with every gasping breath.

His body tensed, his fingers gripping you too tightly, as if he was seeing God Himself in the pleasure washing over him.

His moans grew louder, needier—his entire existence reduced to you and the sin you were leading him into.

His grip in your hair tightened, his hips stuttering as he fought to keep himself from thrusting into your mouth, from losing himself entirely.

"S-Something's coming—something's coming."

His voice broke, whimpering and breathless. Still bobbing your head, you reached down with one hand, lifting your skirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric of your underwear. The moment your fingers brushed against your slick folds; a moan vibrated against his shaft.

Jake gasped, his thighs tensing, his entire body shuddering at the sensation.

Your wetness coated your fingers, and with no hesitation, you pushed one inside, curling it the way you always had when you were alone—except now, you weren't alone.

Now, it felt too good to be true. Because Jake was in front of you.

Because Jake was falling with you.

Your own pleasure built with every movement of your fingers, every muffled moan that sent vibrations through him.

His hand slid down, trembling, until it brushed against your cheek, his thumb wiping away the tears pooling at the corner of your eyes, tears from how deep you had taken him, from how overwhelming it all was.

His touch was tender, contradicting the broken, filthy sounds spilling from his lips.

"You're—" he choked out, his voice wrecked. "You're touching yourself?"

You hummed around him, confirming, not slowing down, your fingers working deeper inside yourself as his body tensed above you.

Jake whimpered, his head falling forward, his lips barely parted as he stared. His stomach coiled tighter and tighter, his body trembling as his hips stuttered, chasing the feeling, unable to hold back.

"You look so beautiful," he sobbed, his voice raw and shaking. "So divine."

His gaze never left you, drinking in the sight of you—on your knees before him, lips wrapped around his length, taking him so deep without breaking eye contact.

A choked moan tore from his throat at the way you looked up at him, at the sheer devotion in your eyes. It was as if you had been sculpted by God Himself, crafted not from dust but from light, from holiness.

Jake had always admired you.

The way you prayed every afternoon in the chapel, hands clasped. How your lips moved so softly in whispered hymns, the way your voice blended into the choir like something celestial.

How you knelt before the altar, head bowed, untouched by the world around you, your beauty standing apart from anything he had ever known.

Now, you were kneeling for him, your mouth worshipped something else entirely.

His hips jerked forward, unrestrained, a sob catching in his throat.

"Oh—oh, my God—"

His entire body shook, the pleasure nearly blinding. A choked sob left his lips as his release spilled into your mouth, hot and thick, coating your tongue. His hips jerked involuntarily, pressing deeper until your nose met his abdomen, forcing you to take every last drop.

You moaned at the sensation, fingers working faster inside yourself, chasing the same pleasure that had just undone him. The taste of him lingered on your tongue, salty, forbidden—yet you swallowed it all, not letting a single drop go to waste.

Above you, Jake shuddered violently, his hands tangling in your hair as if clinging to you for stability.

His head tipped back; his lips parted in a silent cry as he came down from his high. His fingers trembled against your scalp, stroking gently.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispered, his eyes clenched shut, his chest rising. He held you there, cradling your head against his abdomen, his body still twitching from the aftershocks.

You tapped his thigh twice, a silent signal. Jake inhaled sharply, His grip loosened instantly, and with shaky hands, he let go of you, his cock slipping from your mouth.

A thin string of saliva connected you, stretching between your lips and the flushed tip of him before breaking. Your tongue remained out, your breath ragged, your lips swollen and slick with the remnants of his release.

"You... you swallowed my seed," Jake whispered, you stared up at him through lidded eyes, your breath shaky, your body still moving, fingers still working inside yourself.

His gaze flickered downward, following the slow, desperate motion of your hand beneath your lifted skirt. His cock twitched, still sensitive, yet already stirring again at the sight of you.

"It... it should be in your uterus," he muttered, his brows drawing together. "Not your mouth."

A slow smile curled at your lips, heat simmering beneath your skin as you reached for his hand, guiding it to your cheek.

"Then pump me with your seed, Jake," you whispered.

A sharp inhale left his lips, his fingers tightening at your sides before he pulled you to your feet.

His mouth was on yours again, his hands trailing down your back, finding the zipper of your dress. He tugged it down slowly, the fabric loosened, slipping over your shoulders, pooling at your feet.

Jake pulled away, his lips parting as he took you in—your bare form. His throat bobbed, fingers trembling slightly as they traced over your waist.

He bent down, lips finding the curve of your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.

Your gaze lifted past him, to the walls of the room—where portraits of nuns, saints, and martyrs hung in quiet judgement. Their solemn eyes bore into you, unblinking, unwavering. Your chest tightened, guilt creeping in but you didn't want to stop.

Instead, you let your eyes fall shut, choosing to surrender—to savor the moment.

"Teach me how to please you," Jake murmured against your skin, his hands encircling your waist, holding you close.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers threading through his hair before drifting down to cup his face. Your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling.

Jake's eyes fluttered shut as he sighed against your palm, his lips brushing against the center of it before pressing a tender kiss there. His own hands lifted, fingers tracing the shape of yours.

You pulled away slowly, you reached behind you, unclasping your bralette. The straps slipped from your shoulders, the fabric falling away, leaving your bare skin exposed to the afternoon light. Your underwear followed, sliding down your legs until you stepped out of them, standing before him in nothing but temptation itself.

Jake's breath caught, his entire body rigid as he took in the sight of you—completely bare, completely his to look upon, to touch.

His lips parted, his gaze roamed over you, over the soft curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the smooth expanse of your thighs. He had seen statues of angels, paintings of the Virgin Mary draped in flowing white, but no work of art, no scripture, no vision of heaven itself had ever looked as divine as you did now.

You turned, settling yourself onto the wooden table behind you, your legs parting slowly, revealing yourself to him without hesitation.

A shaky exhale left your lips as your fingers trailed down your own skin, tracing along your inner thigh before sliding to your labia. You arched your back slightly, sighing as you spread yourself wider, holding his gaze.

"Come here, J-Jake," you moaned, your breath hitching as you pushed a single finger inside yourself. Jake swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he reached for the buttons of his shirt. One by one, he undid them. He let the fabric slide from his shoulders, pooling onto the floor before taking slow steps toward you.

As he neared, his breath hitched, his gaze lowering to where your fingers disappeared inside your slick folds. His pupils dilated, "It's so wet," he whispered.

Before you could respond, his hand moved. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, still slick from your arousal, and gently pulled your hand away.

Jake's gaze flickered to your glistening fingers, then he brought your hand to his lips.

You gasped, your walls clenching involuntarily as his tongue flicked out, tasting you for the first time. His lashes fluttered shut, a soft groan slipping past his lips as he took more of you onto his tongue, savoring the taste.

When Jake opened his eyes again, they were darker.

"I want more." A sudden moan tore from your throat at his words, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. You reached for his wrist, guiding his hand between your legs, breath hitching the moment his fingers brushed against your slick folds.

Jake sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers trembling as they hesitated at your entrance, slowly he pushed a single finger inside you.

A gasp escaped you as he entered. His jaw clenched at the sensation, his breath uneven as he felt you—felt the way your walls clenched around him, soft and wet and so impossibly tight.

His free hand gripped your thigh for support, his own body shuddering. Then he curled his finger.

"Oh God!" A sharp cry left your lips, your back arching at the sudden jolt of pleasure. Jake choked on a moan, watching you intently, his eyes locked onto every flicker of expression on your face.

He did it again, this time slower, pressing deeper, and your fingers dug into his shoulders. His breathing grew heavier, his forehead nearly pressing against yours as he whispered, "Can I touch your breasts?"

Your head fell back, your lips parting on a silent gasp. You nodded frantically, eyes shut, too overwhelmed to speak properly. But a pleading "please" slipped from your lips.

That was all the permission he needed. Jake's other hand rose cautiously, fingers ghosting over the curve of your breast before cupping it fully, squeezing experimentally. His breath hitched at the feeling—warm, soft, the peak pebbling under his touch.

You moaned at the contact, pressing into his palm, "You like that?" he asked.

You nodded quickly, tilting your chin up to kiss him again, swallowing his breath. Your body was burning in a way that the nuns never depicted, your core aching with want, and you didn't care how shameless you sounded when you pleaded, "Please, touch me more."

Jake swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as his fingers kneaded your breast, his other hand still buried deep inside you, working slow, torturous circles that made you gasp.

"Lean down and suck my breast," you whispered against his lips. "I heard it feels good."

Jake pulled back slightly, blinking down at you, his cheeks flushed. "Like a baby?" he asked, almost innocently, though the way his hips pressed forward, grinding his aching cock against your thigh, told another story entirely.

You let out a breathy laugh, though it was cut short when he twisted his fingers inside you, making your back arch.

"No," you whimpered. "Like a man who wants me."

Jake groaned, before lowering his head, his lips parting as he took your nipple into his mouth. The moment his tongue flicked over the sensitive bud; a cry left you.

He started gently at first, his lips soft and warm against your breast, still testing, still learning how to touch you. But as your back arched, as your fingers tangled into his hair and held him there, he grew bolder.

His lips sealing around your nipple, his tongue swirling. Then his teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, just enough to send a delicious shudder down your spine.

"Jake—" you gasped, thighs clenching around his waist, trapping him against you.

He moaned against your skin, his free hand massaged your other breast, fingers rolling the hardened peak between them, mimicking the movements of his tongue.

"Add another finger inside me—please, please," you begged, voice breaking, hands clutching at his shoulders, urging him deeper.

Jake's forehead pressing against your chest bracing himself as he obeyed. His second finger slipped inside, stretching you further, filling you in a way that made your toes curl. Your walls clenched around him, tight, warm, so wet, and Jake whimpered, his hips bucking against your thigh at the feeling of you around his fingers.

"I want you inside me," you whispered into his ear, tears slipped down your cheeks. Jake let out a shuddering breath, his body stiffening at your words. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. "They said it will hurt," Jake whispered, his fingers, still buried deep inside you, twitched. His free hand came up to your cheek, wiping away your tears with the pad of his thumb, his touch so tender it made your chest ache.

He swallowed hard. "I don't want to hurt you."

You leaned into his touch, your lips brushing against his wrist as you whispered, "I want to feel all of you, Jake. Even if it hurts, I want you."

Jake's breath hitched, his forehead pressing against yours. With trembling hands, he withdrew his fingers from your heat, watching the way your body shuddered, the way your thighs quivered as he left you empty. He brought his fingers to his lips without thinking, tasting you again, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out a quiet, needy moan.

Jake let out a shaky exhale, gripping himself at the base. His other hand rested on your thigh, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. "Are you sure?" he asked.

You nodded, spreading your legs further, offering yourself to him completely. "Please, Jake."

With a shaky breath, Jake lined himself up with your entrance, his tip pressing against your heat. His hands trembled as he gripped your thighs, steadying himself, his forehead resting against yours as he slowly, carefully, began to push inside.

A gasp tore from your lips the moment he breached you. Your arms wrapped around him, clinging to his shoulders, molding yourself against him as your body adjusted to the slow intrusion of his thick cock.

The stretch was overwhelming. Tears welled in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks as your walls struggled to accommodate him. Looking down, you saw—he had barely entered you. Only the tip, and yet, it already felt so much.

Jake let out a strangled moan, his breath stuttering as he squeezed his eyes shut.

"S-Slow," you whimpered, your body trembling beneath him. Jake nodded rapidly, biting his lip so hard. His entire body was tense, his self-control hanging by a thread as he forced himself to move at an excruciatingly slow pace.

"You’re so—" He choked on his words, a desperate whimper escaping him. "So tight—God—"

His hips twitched involuntarily, and you gasped, your nails raking down his back at the sudden jolt of sensation. Jake's breath hitched at the sharp sting of your nails, his cock throbbing as he pushed in another inch.

A broken sob escaped you.

"I-It’s too much—" you whimpered, your walls fluttering around him, trying to adjust, trying to take all of him.

"Shh, I know, I know—" he whispered, kissing your tear-streaked cheek, peppering soft kisses along your jaw, trying to ease the overwhelming stretch. His hands slid down to your thighs, holding you open, rubbing gentle circles into your skin as he murmured against your lips, "do you want me to pull out?"

You shake your head, Jake exhaled sharply, his breath warm against your skin, his hands steadying you before he pressed forward again, stretching you further. Until you felt his abdomen on your navel. Every movement forcing your walls to open for him, to take him in ways you hadn’t known were possible.

A hiss escaped you, your back arching off the wooden table at the overwhelming sensation of being completely full. "Y-You're inside me," you gasped, as your gaze dropped between your bodies.

Jake groaned softly, his hands gripping your waist, his cock throbbing inside you as he fought to remain still, to give you time to adjust. "Yeah," he murmured, "I'm inside you."

Your breath was ragged, your fingers shaking as they slid up to his face, tracing the curve of his jaw. "I'm not burning," you whispered, half in disbelief. "I'm not burning."

The nuns had lied. The warnings, the fear, the fire they swore would consume you if you ever gave in to desire—it was nowhere to be found. There was only warmth. Only Jake.

Jake swallowed hard, his gaze locking onto yours. He reached for your chin, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

"You're not burning," you whispered. Jake brows furrowing, a gasp tore from your lips as he pulled out slightly before thrusting forward again, sinking into you. His mouth fell open, his head tilting back as he felt you, felt the way your walls clung to him, squeezing him.

His lips parted, but the only sounds that came were broken, incoherent prayers.

"Oh, God—" he choked out. His hands shook as they traced over your body, touching you, his fingers skimming your sides, your stomach, your breasts. You cried out as the pain shifted, morphing into pleasure.

"You're so beautiful," Jake sobbed, he thrust back inside you, deeper than before, his arms tightening around you. His chin rested atop your head, his lips brushing against your hair as he inhaled, breathing you in, letting your scent consume him as much as your body did.

"You're—you're everything," he whispered shakily, his hips rolling into you. "Made perfect, sculpted by God’s own hands," he moaned against your skin. "How could something so sinful feel so good?"

You whimpered beneath him, clinging to his shoulders.

"I could do this every day," he moaned. Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering open, finding his face above you. He pulled back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his trembling hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, wiping away the remnants of your tears. His forehead pressed against yours.

"I would do this every day," he corrected himself, groaned as he thrust deeper, his hips stuttering slightly at the way your walls clenched around him. "Worship you like this. Love you like this."

Your moans grew louder, your nails pressing deeper into his skin, leaving marks along his back as if claiming him in return.

Jake groaned, his lips parting, his body trembling from the way you felt. "Would you let me?" His eyes searched yours. "Would you let me taint you? Every day?"

His hands roamed your body, gripping your waist, then sliding lower to cup the back of your thighs, pulling you closer. His movements slowed, dragging out every sensation, every inch of him inside you.

Your back arched, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, locking him in place, your breath coming in soft, desperate gasps as the pleasure built inside you.

"Yes, yes!" you cried out. "Taint me, fill me with your seed—I don’t care anymore!"

A ragged moan tore from his throat as he thrust harder. "You're all I've ever wanted." His pace turned desperate, frantic. His hands shook as he rocked into you. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your moans as he drove deeper, his body pressing you down into the wooden table. The room was filled with the sinful sounds of skin meeting skin, of breathless gasps and muffled cries.

"I’ll give you everything," Jake panted, his forehead pressing against yours, sweat dripping from his temple. "I’ll fill you up, I’ll make you mine—"

His thrusts grew erratic, his hips snapping forward, chasing release, chasing you.

Your walls clenched tighter, pulsing around him, and he whimpered, his body tensing, his breath stuttering as the pleasure coiled unbearably tight inside him.

"Jake, Jake," you whimpered, your hands drifted lower, fingers grazing over the stretch where your bodies met. You could feel him inside you, thick, pulsing, dragging against your walls with each deep, sliding thrust.

Your fingers dipped lower, pressing against your clit. A sharp gasp escaped you. The moment your fingers touched the sensitive bundle of nerves, a bolt of another intense pleasure shot through you.

Jake groaned at the movement, his grip tightening, his lips parting as he watched you touch yourself.

"It feels too good—too good," you sobbed, rolling slow, shaky circles against your clit, heightening the pleasure building inside you. Your walls spasmed around him, gripping him tighter, making his hips stutter.

"Oh my Lord," Jake moaned, his head dropping against your shoulder, his body shaking with the effort to keep himself together. "This—this feels too good. I am willing to sin every day to get a taste of you."

"I would trade heaven just to stay inside you forever—"

His teeth grazed your jaw, his fingers locking around your wrists, guiding your movements against your clit, urging you faster, desperate to bring you with him.

"Please—please, come for me," he begged, and with one last deep thrust, as your fingers circled your clit faster, as his cock hit the perfect spot inside you.

The pleasure snapped through you, your entire body seizing as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. Your walls clenched around him, pulsing, milking him as your climax washed through every inch of your being.

Jake choked on a moan, his body jerking as he buried himself deep, hips stuttering, his breath breaking into ragged gasps. His hands trembled as they gripped your hips, holding you still as his release spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you completely.

His lips found yours again as he emptied himself into you, his body still shaking from the intensity of it all.

You gasped into his mouth, still riding the aftershocks, feeling the warmth of him inside you. Neither of you moved for a long moment, too overwhelmed, too wrecked to do anything but exist in the sinful haze of what had just happened.

Jake’s hands slowly slid up your back, his fingers tracing over your spine made your chest tighten. Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze soft but dazed, as if he still couldn’t quite believe what he had done—what you had done together.

"Are you okay?"

Your heart ached at the tenderness in his voice, at the way he searched your face for any sign of regret. But there was none. You reached up, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering against his cheek.

"I'm full of you," you murmured, "I can feel you inside me."

Jake groaned, his hands tightening on your hips, his entire body tensing as he let out a shaky breath. Yet, even as exhaustion threatened to pull him under, his cock twitched inside you—still buried to the hilt, still too sensitive, yet already stirring again at your words

"Don't say that," he whispered, but his hands betrayed him.

They slid upward, over your waist, tracing the curve of your ribs before finding your breasts again, cupping them, thumbs circling your pebbled peaks. His fingers kneaded softly, rolling the sensitive flesh between his palms.

Your back arched, your head tipping back, letting your hair cascade over the edge of the table. Your lips parted in a breathless moan, the aftershocks of pleasure still tingling in your veins, yet now, a new wave of desire was coiling inside you again.

You were undone beneath him, your body glistening with sweat, your lips swollen from his kisses, your eyes still dazed, darkened with lust. And yet, you looked untouched.

His grip on your breasts tightened slightly, his hips pressing forward just enough to remind you that he was still inside you.

"You make me forget who I am," he murmured, his breath shaky against your throat. "What I'm supposed to be."

His lips found the pulse at your neck, trailing down again at every inch of your skin.

Neither of you noticed the way the candlelight flickered. Because you had both awakened the Tree of Knowledge.

And neither of you would ever return to Eden.

Jake had always been a man of God.

From the moment he could speak, he was taught that he was formed from the dust of the earth, molded by divine hands, a creation of purpose. His parents instilled in him the belief that he was meant to walk the righteous path, to live a life devoted to prayer, to obedience, to purity.

He appreciated every intricate work of the Creator—the way the sun spilled golden light over the stained-glass windows of the churches, the way the choir’s voices soared in perfect harmony, the way scripture spoke of faith and the reward of salvation. He saw God in everything, and in return, he gave himself to Him, dedicating his days to scripture, to service, to resisting the sins that so easily ensnared others.

Where others strayed, he remained steadfast. Where others indulged in temptation, he turned away.

He had watched boys his age succumbs to their own desires— lusting over naked bodies, wandering hands beneath heavy blankets. He had seen the way girls blushed at their names being called by the wrong kind of voice, the way they giggled behind cupped hands, oblivious to how close they danced to damnation.

But not him.

Jake had spent his youth guarding his body, his mind, his soul. He never allowed himself to waver, never let his thoughts wander to things he had been told were unholy. And if—if—his body ever betrayed him in the quiet of night, if his skin burned with an unfamiliar ache, if his mind was tempted by images that had no place in his heart, he would fall to his knees in prayer.

He would beg for forgiveness, whispering fervent apologies, asking for the strength to resist, the grace to overcome.

And for years, he believed he was strong enough.

He believed his faith was unshakable, that no force on earth could tempt him away from his devotion. He had spent his life resisting, rejecting, turning away from desire as though it were a serpent poised to strike.

During one of his evening services at the university chapel, he saw you. At first, it was nothing. A passing glance. A new face among many, just another student filling the pews, singing hymns.

But then, he saw you again.

And again.

You stood among the choir, always placed near the back, always just slightly out of reach—like something meant to be admired from afar, never touched. Your voice wove seamlessly into the others, rising with the organ, filling the chapel, but it wasn't just your voice.

It was the way you bowed your head in prayer, hands folded so delicately. It was the way you knelt before the altar, the way your fingers curled around your rosary.

And every time he saw you, every time your lashes fluttered closed, every time your lips parted to whisper scripture. He would whisper to himself, Song of Solomon 4:7.

"You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you."

Because when he looked at you, he saw something more than human.

He saw a reflection of God’s love, a testament to His creativity—flawless, untouched, pure in ways he never realized he could ache for.

He told himself it was admiration. That his heart only quickened because he saw God in you. That the warmth spreading through his chest whenever you smiled at the nuns, whenever your fingers brushed against the pages of your worn bible, was nothing but spiritual devotion.

But the more he saw you, the harder it became to believe the lie. Because you were forbidden. So untouchable it hurt.

And by the time he had a taste of your poison, by the time your lips had met his, by the time he had felt the warmth of your body pressed against him, wrapped around him. He couldn’t stop craving.

"Jake—" you whined, your voice hushed, breathless, your hands pressed against the cool tiles of the wall for balance. Your body rocked with each deep thrust, your skirt bunched up around your waist, your panties pulled aside in rushed desperation.

Here he was, buried deep inside you in the thin, suffocating space of the girls’ restroom, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you as you bounced against him. He had barely gotten them down before he was inside you.

Jake let out a shaky breath, his forehead falling against the back of your shoulder, his hips snapping forward, a choked moan escaping his lips as your walls squeezed around him.

"D-Do you love my c-cock inside you?" He stammered. His hands slid from your hips, traveling up, slipping beneath your uniform blouse to cup your breasts, kneading them, his thumbs rolling over your sensitive peaks as he thrust deeper.

"Answer me," he pleaded, breath hot against the shell of your ear.

A sharp gasp left your lips, your head tilting back against his shoulder as your walls clenched even tighter. "Y-Yes," you whispered, your fingers curling against the cold tile, your knees going weak.

"Say it."

"I love it, Jake," you sobbed, barely holding yourself up as he drove into you faster. "I love your cock inside me—I love it so much—"

Jake whimpered, his grip on you tightening, his entire body shuddering against yours as he lost himself again.

Nothing in this world felt holier than you. Every secret rendezvous was another prayer whispered in the dark, another moment stolen between fleeting glances and hurried footsteps, another sin sealed between trembling lips.

It was your skin against his, pressed against the cold walls of empty classrooms, hidden beneath the dim glow of flickering candlelight in the chapel, tangled in sheets that smelled of guilt and devotion.

It was your kiss—sweet and sinful, your lips brushing against his top lip before capturing him fully, pulling him under, making him forget the weight of his conscience.

It was the way your fingers found his face, tracing over his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, down to the sharp line of his jaw.

"Jake," you would whisper, your touch like a baptism, washing away the person he once was and leaving behind someone entirely yours.

Your hands never hesitated when they roamed his body, memorizing the contours of his muscles, the dip of his collarbone, the ridges of his spine. Your body molded to his, fitting perfectly, as if you had been crafted just for him.

And God, how could something that felt this right be wrong? How could he look at you and believe this was damnation?

You were not a temptation.

You were his salvation, And if this was sin—if loving you, wanting you, needing you—meant turning away from heaven, then so be it.

Because Jake had already made his choice and he would choose you every time.

"They say if you have sexual preferences, it's called a kink," Jake mused, his arms wrapped loosely around your shoulders as he stared out at the lake, watching the water ripple under the soft afternoon light.

It was a rare that the both of you escape—just the two of you, away from the suffocating walls of the university. Here, it was quiet. Peaceful.

You hummed in amusement, leaning back against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. "Hmm, I think I have a nose kink."

Jake chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "A nose kink?"

You grinned, turning to look up at him, mischief dancing in your eyes. "I love your nose," you said simply, reaching up to tap the tip of it gently with your finger. "I love how it bumps against my clit."

A giggle slipped from your lips as Jake let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, his ears tinged slightly pink.

"You're unbelievable," he murmured, pressing his chin lightly against your shoulder, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his fondness.

You shifted, wrapping your arms around his, your fingers playing with the fabric of his sleeves. "What about you? Do you have a kink?"

Jake pretended to think, his lips pursing before he finally admitted, "I love your tongue."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh?"

His smile widened, his fingers trailing lazily along your arms. "I love how soft it is when you kiss me," he said, voice dropping slightly. "I love the way it feels against my skin, how warm it is when you—"

He stopped himself, biting his lip, his cheeks darkening as he let out a flustered chuckle. "You know."

You turned fully in his embrace, resting your chin against his chest as you beamed up at him. "Say it."

Jake groaned, rolling his eyes, but there was nothing but adoration in them as he dipped his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "I love how your tongue feels when you're tasting me."

Your giggles turned into full laughter, your arms tightening around him, and he let out a breathy laugh of his own, shaking his head in defeat.

The wind rustled through the trees, the lake shimmering under the sunlight.

"Do you think God still loves us?" you asked, Jake's fingers threaded through your hair, slow and gentle, playing with your scalp as he stared out at the lake, watching the way the sunlight danced over the rippling water.

"Yes," he said, without hesitation.

You blinked, tilting your head slightly to look up at him. "How can you be so sure?"

Jake exhaled softly, his lips curling into a small, thoughtful smile. "Because love doesn’t disappear just because we fall." His gaze met yours. "God loved David even after his sins. He loved Peter even after he denied Him three times. Love isn’t something that fades because of our mistakes. It’s unconditional."

Your chest tightened at his words, at the quiet conviction in his voice.

"Then why do I still feel guilty?" you whispered, pressing your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Jake sighed, his chin resting lightly atop your head. "Because we've been taught to fear Him more than we've been taught to trust His love."

Silence stretched, only the soft rustling of trees and the distant laughter from the festival carrying through the breeze. After a moment, Jake spoke again, "but when I’m with you…" he paused, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your arm, "I feel closer to God than I ever have before."

You pulled back slightly, eyes searching his, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest. "How?"

He smiled, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead again before whispering,

"Because you are the most beautiful thing He’s ever created."

Your breath hitched, your hands tightening around his shirt as warmth bloomed in your chest.

Jake tilted his head, his lips hovering just above yours. "And if loving you is a sin…" he murmured, a teasing smile playing on his lips, "then I guess I’ll just have to keep repenting."

His hands wandered lower, tracing slow, idle patterns along your upper thigh. You shivered slightly at his touch, but it wasn’t just the sensation that made your breath hitch—it was the way his finger moved deliberately, forming letters, one by one, spelling out a single word:

"Mine."

Your lips parted, your heart stuttering in your chest as your gaze flickered up to meet his.

Jake only smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting, "I will leave the university," he said suddenly.

Jake exhaled slowly, "I’ve realized a lot of things, and one of them is…" He hesitated, searching your face, then sighed. "I don’t think I was ever meant to be the man they wanted me to be."

Your throat tightened. "Jake—"

"Everything is okay," he reassured you, his voice firm, calming. "I don’t regret any of it. Not the prayers, not the faith—but I also don’t regret you. And if the only way to keep you is to walk away from what was never truly mine, then I’ll do it."

Your eyes glistened with unshed tears, your fingers curling around his wrists. "You would do that?"

"I would do anything for you," he muttered, "I was never meant to be a saint, and I don’t think I want to be anymore." His fingers tightened around yours, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch, in the certainty of this moment. "I just want to be yours."

A breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding. You swallowed, your lips parting before you whispered, "Ruth 1:16-17."

Jake tilted his head slightly, his brows raising in curiosity. You smiled softly, squeezing his hand. "Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay."

His gaze softened, warm and full of love, as if in that moment, there was nothing else in the world but you and him. Jake swallowed, his fingers tightening around yours as he whispered back, "Song of Solomon 3:4."

Your breath hitched. A sharp sting burned behind your eyes as you realized what he was saying, as the words sank into your skin, into your soul. Tears welled up, spilling onto your cheeks as he brought a trembling hand to cup your face, his thumb wiping them away.

"I have found the one whom my soul loves."

A quiet sob escaped you as you leaned into his touch, closing your eyes, letting the weight of his words settle into the deepest parts of you.

That was the day you faced the judgment of others.

Whispers followed you down the chapel halls, sharp as knives, spoken behind cupped hands and lowered eyes. You were no longer the devout girl they had known, no longer the image of purity they had placed on a pedestal.

You were cast out, stripped of the life you had once known, condemned for surrendering to the desires they warned you against. For falling, like Eve, for stepping into temptation and taking the bite that could never be undone.

But none of it mattered. Because just as Adam had followed Eve into exile, Jake followed you. It had always been him and you. It would always be him and you.

You would always choose him—religiously, faithfully.

You clutched Jake’s hand, sweat beading on your forehead, your body trembling as pain surged through you. Your body trembling with exhaustion. The midwife kneeled before you, her voice firm yet reassuring, guiding you through labored breaths as she prepared to deliver your third child.

Jake pressed a kiss to your damp temple, whispering words of encouragement, of love, his grip unwavering as he held onto you, just as he always had.

He wiped away the tears spilling from your eyes, just as he had that day by the lake, when he promised you that everything would be okay.

And as you cried out, as life pushed forward, as your body bore the proof of your love.

"You’re so strong," he murmured. "Just a little more, my love. I’m right here."

Another sharp cry left your lips, your back arching as the final push sent waves of relief crashing over you.

A baby’s cry filled the room.

A sharp, piercing sound, followed by the relieved murmurs of the midwife as she carefully wrapped the tiny, wriggling form in soft cloth. Your head fell back against the pillow, your chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. Jake’s hand trembled as he reached for you, his lips pressing against your knuckles, his gratitude unspoken but infinite.

Tiny footsteps thundered against the wooden floor.

"Mama!"

The door burst open, and two small figures ran inside, their eager little hands gripping the edges of your bedsheet.

Cain and Abel—your firstborns.

Their wide eyes shimmered with excitement; their faces flushed from running. Cain, the elder, clung to Jake’s arm, while Abel climbed onto the edge of the bed, trying to peer over your shoulder.

"Did it hurt, Mama? Are you okay?" Cain asked, his brows furrowed in concern, his little hands gripping onto Jake’s sleeve.

"It’s okay, my love," you soothed, your voice weak but filled with warmth as you reached for them. "I am okay."

Jake’s breath hitched as the midwife gently placed the newborn into his waiting arms. A soft gasp left his lips as he cradled the tiny child against his chest, his eyes glistening with tears. His fingers traced the delicate curve of the baby’s cheek, his voice breaking as he whispered, "Seth."

At the sound of his father’s voice, the newborn let out a small, sleepy whimper, tiny fists curling against Jake’s chest. Cain and Abel watched in awe; their excitement momentarily silenced as they stared at their new baby brother.

"Seth," Abel repeated softly, as if testing the name on his tongue.

"He’s so small," Cain murmured, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to reach out and touch him.

Jake let out a choked laugh, pressing a kiss to Seth’s forehead before carefully settling beside you on the bed. His arm curled around your shoulders, pulling you close, his free hand still cradling your newest son. And as your children gathered around you, their voices filled with wonder.

As Jake’s lips found your forehead once more, you exhaled, a breathless, relieved sigh. You thought of Eden. Of Adam, formed from dust. Of Eve, crafted from his rib, made for him, meant to be his. The two of them had once lived untouched, unburdened, perfect in their innocence.

But love—true love—was never meant to exist without choice.

And so, they had fallen. Not out of defiance. Not out of sin. But out of love—a love so deep, so human, it had rewritten the course of existence itself.

Your body spent, your children nestled close, your husband’s arms wrapped around you as he held his world in his hands. Your tired eyes fluttered shut, as Jake pressed another soft kiss against your skin, your newborn stirred gently in his father’s arms.

Falling had never been a punishment. Because It is a gift.

perm taglist: @won4me @ikaw-at-ikaw, @kristynaaah, @fancypeacepersona @tunafishyfishylike @vvenusoncasual, @cutehoons02,

#enhypen #enhypen fanfic #jake #jake x reader #sim jaeyun #jake smut #enhypen smut

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biteyoubiteme · 3 days ago

Text

I've got you

taehyun x fem!reader warnings: 🔞!!! established relationship, clit play, strength kink, no protection, creampie, prob forgot some sorry wc: 2.5k an: this was requested by the lovely @luvsicktyun ily you always know what I need to write next >< I hope you like it :)) not proofread forgive me pls pls pls [m.list]

Your hand was steady on the wall, cold and firm as you shook your head, “No, I can't let go,” taehyun had heard the persistent denial to never release the barrier the second you had held on. Legs trembling and arms wide as soon as you stepped on the ice. You hadn't even fallen but the stumble after hitting one little dip had been enough to scare you into place now.

“I've got you,” his voice was a smooth balm of reassurance over your twisted fear and yet you held your ground. “This was a horrible idea, you proved your point, it is more than just skating around and chasing a puck, its precision,” it had been the word taehyun had brought up in defense of your mindless teasing.

And it wasn't as if you didn't appreciate the sport. You had spent countless hours sitting right up in the bleachers a few steps away. Watching Tae as he went around the rink for practice. The loud ring of the coach's whistle making it past your headphones time and time again pulling your gaze up from your book like a direct call to catch sight of your boyfriend. You knew the sport was hard, knew it took skill, and work outside and on the ice but it hadn’t hit you until that very second that even the basics would feel this difficult.

“You didn't even fall,” he was giggling at you, dimple on his cheek a single point for you to focus your pout on.

“Don't laugh,” but it was hard not to feel your own chuckle bubbling up to follow his.

“I'm not,” his lips sealing as he tried and failed to rid himself of his smile. “You just hate that you're not instantly good at something, come on just one more try, I won't even let go,” he had kept one hand close to you the entire time the two of you had been out on the empty rink. Even your almost fall had been guarded by the faint heat coming from Taehyun'spalm waiting at your waist. Now with him crowding your back, guiding you with his gentle hold on your hands there was little excuse as to why you shouldn't let him lead you.

“Okay…” there was still the faint fragility hidden in your voice as you let go of the wall, lined with the scratched plexiglass meant to protect those sitting around the bleachers from a flying puck. You had never wanted to venture out this far onto the ice, waiting right out of the gate once practice was over was fine enough. But Taehyun had talked about taking you out to learn to skate even before the two of you started to date officially. Even that first night when the two of you had met, your confession of never having even been in a building holding a rink still fresh between the two of you when he let the words fall, I could teach you to skate. He had been just as captivating then, head slightly tilted as if tuning out the rest of the room, his sole focus on you as he blinked, eyes falling to your mouth only long enough for you to notice the butterflies blooming in your belly.

You had made a promise that night in agreement, flippantly and now regrettably as you felt your left foot slip out from under you. But Taehyun did not let you fall, his hold unmoving as he righted your movements before you could reach for the wall for comfort again. The two of you shouldn't have even been on the ice, the extra skates left on the counter, cleaned, and pulling the two of you to the ice without a second thought. But your skirt did not provide any cover if you fell, the ice unforgiving enough to leave half the team with bruises from their ankles to their chin, although taehyun reminds you that they get the injuries from playing not skating around the rink a few times.

“See one foot after the other, just glide,” taehyun keeps his stance wide enough so that he can demonstrate what foot should go next, the perfect mirror as he pushes off helping you finally make it even just a few feet from where you had entered on the ice. “Look at that, you're a natural, sweetheart,” but you're still holding onto his hands in a way that tells him he won't be able to pry you free.

It had taken a bit of convincing to even have you slip the skates on, him getting down to one knee, patting his thigh as the final say-so. You had obliged, letting him tie the skates on tight enough to keep your ankles secured and help you wattle out to the ice. And once you got the hang of the easy motions without feeling as if you were going to fall, Taehyun switched to skating backward in front of you. His hands in yours, warm thumbs brushing over your knuckles as a silent reminder that he wouldn't let you fall if he could help it.

But you were doing better, confidence built after the single lap you had made around half in his arms and half just like this but taehyun was loosening his grip, “you've got it, I know you can do it, sweetheart,” his encouragement giving you enough strength to finally let go. For a second it feels like you will fall, stomach turning for as long as it takes you to stabilize yourself, arms wide on either side of you as you look up at taehyun and his proud grin.

“I did it!” your voice is dipped in disbelief, even if you're hardly moving, standing there frozen in the middle of the rink. And it's worth the slight fear when Taehyun is looking at you like that, caught there with his smile, his happiness funneling into you. It had taken a lot to get you to find your footing, gliding in the same strokes that he had shown you.

You're skating was not perfect, Taehyun watched the way you didn't push off until you were done letting the ice drift you to a stop like a little baby deer on a lake iced over for the winter. Your face heated from the blood rushing to warm your features, your fingers numb and trying to find heat in Taehyun's grasp when the two of you finally started to make it back off the ice.

It started innocently, your foot resting right on his thigh as he helped to undo the tight laces he had done up, his hand staying right on your calf finger lightly tracing patterns on your skin like he had all day to spend right there in the locker room. You were leaning back on your hands looking down at him when he tilted his chin, “You know I always hated how we had to drive all the way home after a game before I could finally fuck you,”

There was a stutter in your breathing, your knees only slightly pulling in together like the anticipation of his next move made you react without a second thought. The sight of the movement was right on the edge of his vision, his grin loose enough to tell you his intentions with the comment. He let his fingers slip up your leg, finding the warm skin on your thigh even more enticing when it's just under your skirt. “I told you we can always pull over,” your voice is nothing more than a whisper.

“Hum,” he shrugged as if he was taking in the suggestion for review, fingers going higher and higher, right until you could just feel the ghost of his touch warm against your panties, “but I know myself, I need space to make sure I have room to get my girl off just right,” it's the last thing he says before you're gasping, the pad of his thumb pressed right over your clothed clit, rubbing soft circles just to watch the way your brows scrunch in a soft pout, knees pulling in to trap his hand right in place.

“Tae-” You didn't want him to stop, but your eyes instantly flicked to the door behind him, the two of you shouldn't have even been here this late, any of the roaming staff could walk in to find you falling apart right here with only his fingers.

“Worried? We only have the one door in and if we block it the only thing we would have to be mindful of is the noise,” he says it right on the edge of your whine, the sound rising in your throat the second he picked up a faster pace on your clit, fingers slipping along the wetness building up. “But you'll be quiet, won't you sweetheart?”

You nodded, chin dipping enough so that he knew you would comply with anything that he said especially when he wastouching you like this. It was enough so that he pulled the two of you up, hands all over you, desperately pulling you closer for a kiss. Fervent as if it was the first time, stumbling as you threaded your fingers through his hair. Taehyun pressed you against the door, hips locking you in place as he pressed sloppy kisses down your neck. “You're already so hard for me,” voice pierced through with a bit of teasing, his hand running down the curve of your ass to hook your thigh in his grasp, hiking your leg up to open you wide enough to grind his hard bulge right against your soaked panties.

The vibration of his humming response was pressed right to your pulse point, “I can't help it,” the words less of a confession and more of a statement, because he had made it clear time and time again how easy it was to pull a reaction from him when it came to you. Hard after nothing but a single thought and there on his knees he had the smallest glimpse of the white fabric outlining your cunt, there was no going back now, not when you were grinding back chasing the friction of him.

It was easy for him to slip his free hand down between the two of you, pushing your panties aside and soaking in the way your body trembled at the brush of his warm fingers back on your clit. All talk of being quiet fell from your mind the second he started to drag his fingers through your slick folds, your soft moan echoing in the empty locker room. “Tell me you need me just as bad,” his kisses leading from your jaw right back to your mouth, your response caught right on the edge of his mouth, “please… I need you,”

You whimpered when he pulled his hand away from the slow circles he had been tracing against your clit, his hand fumbling with the button of his jeans, zipping the zipper down to tug himself free from the fabric. Your arms wrap around his neck, your breathing shallow as you watch him pump slow strokes along his cock, flush and already leaking pre-cum. The sight alone made you clench around nothing, aching to have him as close as you could possibly get him. His fingers on your thigh dug into your skin as he muttered, “Jump,”

It was a simple enough command, his hold unwavering just as it had been on the ice, his hands cupping your ass as you leaned your back against the door behind you now effectively pinned in place by taehyun. He had always been strong, bands of muscle lining his arms, no strain of effort written across his brow, not when he was focused on lifting you just right so that he could run the tip of his cock between your slick folds, relishing in your soft mewls as he just barely breached your entrance.

The room is a chorus of both of your moans as he lowers you on his cock, your body sinking all the way down, the back of your knees fitting perfectly against the pit of his elbows, fingers digging into your ass in a near bruising hold. The angle pushing him in deep enough to make your lashes flutter, arms tightening, nails scratching along his scalp as you tug his hair. He leaned in close, capturing your mouth only to find himself groaning against your lips as he found the perfect steady pace to rock his hips to.

He wouldn't care if anyone did hear the two of you, not when he was this lost in the feeling of your cunt squeezing him enough to make his mind lose itself to the feeling, hips having a mind of their own as he picks up his pace. “You feel so fucking perfect,” the words swallowed in the mix of your kisses, his mouth hot as he leans to press his face into the crook of your neck, the sounds of your bodies meeting coating the air.

You could feel the build up of your orgasm in your stomach, every stroke of his hips snapping against yours tightening the ball of your sanity until it was ready to burst. “I'm close Tae- I'm so-” you were gasping, his cock twitching as his thrust turned sloppy at your words. He was always so in tune with your body, knowing you were close, knowing it was him thatwas bringing you closer to the edge was enough to carry him right to that cliff with you.

“I've got you, sweetheart,” his open-mouthed kisses leading right up to your ear, “I need to feel you finish on my cock, please,” it was the ribbon of desperation tied around the final word that pushed you over the edge, back arching as you let your head roll, your moans leaving you as if he knew the exact way to pull them free. Your fluttering cunt triggered his orgasm, his hips jerking, husky moans now drawn out and rumbling in his chest as he spills ropes of his cum into you without care. Every slow drag of his cock only made you tremble from the sensitivity as he let the two of you ride out your high.

You knew the second he tried to put you down your legs would feel wobbly, your arms tightening around him as if mentally preparing yourself for the struggle. “Careful I might topple over if you put me down,”

His chuckle was followed by a peppering of kisses along your cheek, his softening cock pulling out of you before he helped you put one leg to the ground, moving your panties back into place so that the mess he had made of you wouldn'tspill. “I could just carry you all the way to the car,” he let you lean on him, your knees just as weak as you knew they would be, thighs shaking as he softly kissed the edge of your smile, “lay you down in the backseat and see how much more room there is to ruin you back there than in the front,”

taglist 🏷: @kissmekissykissme @seungfl0wer @lunesdesire @chasingthatjjunie @taegyutomorrow @izzyy-stuff @g0r3wh0rre @filmnings @jellymochii @felixleftchickennugget @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @dawngyu @luvsicktyun @hyukascampfire @bamgyuuuri @xylatox @lickingan0rchid @no1likemybbgcharlie want to be added to the taglist? check out my rules to see how to join!want to be taken off the taglist? send an ask!

#txt x reader #taehyun x reader #kang taehyun #txt smut #taehyun smut #txt hard hours #txt hard thoughts #taehyun hard thoughts #taehyun hard hours

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emeraldserenade · 3 days ago

Text

Operation Kiss And Tell ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: You kiss Joaquín while on a mission to keep your cover

tw: fem!reader, reader wears a dress, none?, barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

If you sent me the request that's sitting in my inbox, I promise I am working on it. Also, I had decided during class today that I would write a fic as long as the notes my professor gave out today is. It's 17 pages front and back, so I am deciding what to write. There is a poll that will be open for 1 day (starting a little after this is posted), so if you want a say go and vote.

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You and Joaquín were placed together, normally you never went undercover. You stayed in missions where you didn't have to pretend you were something else, it made you nervous to pretend. You always thought that you would ruin the mission with your inability to fake things, so when Sam told you that you had to pretend to be Joaquín's wife, you were terrified. Not of Joaquín, you could never be, but of the idea of faking something like that. Especially when you knew you were in love with Joaquín.

"Come on, it shouldn't be too hard," you mumbled to yourself as you adjusted the dress you were wearing.

"Are you talking to yourself?" Sam popped up in your door way making you yelp in surprise. Joaquín and Bucky both ended up behind Sam ready to help you.

"God, Sam, you scared the shit out of me!" You placed a hand over your heart and Bucky grumbled and left the doorway. Joaquín hung around for a little longer before leaving too.

"You didn't answer the question," Sam sat down on the edge of the bed, looking you over with a thoughtful look.

"Yes, I am talking to myself," you told him, sitting down next to him.

"Nervous?" Sam wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him.

"A little, yeah," you admitted, Sam ended up as your closest friend over the few months.

"Is it because you think you're going to be bad or because you're hopelessly in love with Joaquín," Sam questioned.

"I am not in love with," you paused as Joaquín walked into the room fully ready to go.

"Sure you aren't," Sam told you, not even caring that Joaquín was in the room.

"Are you ready?" Joaquín shifted his stance under both your and Sam's gaze.

"Yeah, let's go," you stood up and brushed your hands down your dress.

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"I'm sorry," you muttered, knowing what you were about to do. Joaquín didn't have time to ask what you were apologizing for before your lips landed on his. Joaquín barely hesitated before he was kissing you back with just as much intensity as you.

You peaked an eye open and saw your target slowly grabbing for his gun still. In another moment of panic, you pulled Joaquín closer by his collar. You felt his hands land on your waist and pull your hips flush against his. Another peak at the target let you know he let his gun go but was still watching you two. You decided to make the most out of this and completely focused on the feel of Joaquín's lips on yours.

"We've got the guy, where are you two?" Sam's voice from your comms pulled both you and Joaquín out of the kiss. You shared a look with Joaquín before you wiped the stray lipstick on his lips away and ran for the doors. You two met up with Sam and Bucky outside where they had the buy already in police custody.

"Sorry, we got caught in the crowd," you lied, knowing Sam would question you more about it later.

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"Got caught in the crowd?" Sam walked into the room you were staying at, you were freshly showered and lounging in bed in just an oversized shirt.

"Shut the door," you didn't even look up from your phone when you told him.

"So what really happened?" Sam ended up on the bed next to you, you could smell his body wash wafting off his skin.

"I kissed him," you put your phone down. "And he kissed me back," you added.

"Explanation?" Sam questioned.

"I noticed that the target saw us, he was reaching for his gun so in a moment of panic I kissed him. And he kissed me back, and I pulled him closer, and he pulled me closer. And his lips are so soft, and," Sam cut you off.

"Ok, I don't think I need to know more," Sam told you and you nodded. "That explains why he's just staring into pace with a stupid love sick look on his face," Sam told you and you looked at him.

"What?" You sat up straighter.

"Yeah, ever since he got out of the shower he's just been staring at the wall with the stupidest look of love plastered on his face," Sam explained. You and Sam talked for a while before he decided he was ready for bed, leaving you alone again.

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You might have been surprised when Joaquín walked into the room later that night, if it weren't for the fact that he had been coming to you after nightmares.

"Joaquín?" Your sleep filled brain made out the vague shape and look of Joaquín walking in the door.

"Hey," he gently greeted you before just slipping into the bed. Unlike the other nights, he hesitates to pull you closer to him.

"You ok?" You gently questioned, aware of how late it is.

"Yeah, just," Joaquín sighed and you got worried. "Did the kiss mean anything to you? I know you kissed me because of the target spotting us but," Joaquín trailed off and you smiled at him.

"Joaquín, that kiss meant so much to me," you admitted, he finally pulled you flush against him so you two could cuddle into each other's side.

"Good because it meant so much to me too," he told you and there was a silent agreement that whatever you two were going to do about this, you would do it together.

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Masterlist | Requests

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #mcu #cabnw #cabnw spoilers #marvel mcu

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karikarasuno · 2 days ago

Text

part four | part five | part six

flowers. law buys you flowers as a thank you for taking care of him. he doesn't even know if you like flowers, but he saw the bouquet at the grocery store and figured it wouldn't hurt.

unfortunately, now he feels awkward. he's never been one to overthink. analytical, yes, but never nervous that he's going to do or say the wrong thing. when it comes to you, though, he finds it hard to concentrate. he very oddly wants to impress you. he also really enjoys the way you feel comfortable relying on him.

so, of course, he hesitates knocking on your door with the bouquet held firmly in his strong grip. what if you don't like them? or worse, what if you're allergic? he shouldn't feel embarrassed by the thought, but he does.

whatever. he's got nothing else to lose, so he rings your doorbell. you're breathless when you answer like he interrupted something. and he could have given the fact that your clothes look thrown on, your tank top sitting slightly askew on your chest and he has to fight the heat crawling up his neck at the fact that you're not wearing a bra.

"hi!" you breathe out with a friendly smile, adjusting your shirt when you notice. "how are you feeling?"

"good," he clears his throat when his voice breaks, "better."

"i healed you," you nod with a sly smile, hand rising to lay flat over your heart. the sight makes him chuckle. you always make it so easy for him to relax. to just feel normal.

"guess you're the real doctor around here." he stretches the hand holding the flowers to you and he watches as your eyes light up and a slight blush tints your cheeks.

both of your hands rise to cover his and you lean over to sniff the side closest to you. "i'm glad someone's finally noticed how talented i am."

you wink at him over the bouquet and he fights a smile. "i'm assuming these are for me?"

you take the flowers from him, delicately touching the petals. he only nods, shuffling a bit in your doorway. timid.

"how'd you know these were my favorite?"

"lucky guess," he shrugs, but something twists in his chest. pride, maybe. or perhaps it's something deeper. something sappier. something he hasn't felt in quite a long time. "it's a small thanks for everything you did."

"well, if you really wanna show me your gratitude i think i have something else in mind." your eyes wander down his body shamelessly. he tries not to tense up at the implication. but excitement drops low and heavy in his gut.

"my tv recently stopped working and the new one just came in..." you take a step back, beckoning for him to follow you inside. his eyes follow yours to the living room where a wide box stands in the center. he knows exactly what you want and he can't help but laugh.

"now you're just using me," he says with a shake of his head, but he still closes the door behind him. he still walks over to the large box even though you're heading towards your kitchen with the flowers. there's already a mount on your wall from the last tv, so this isn't a tough task. just a quick replacement.

"hey, it's not my fault," you call out from the kitchen, but he can't see you. "i could ask one of the guys to do it, but they're not as reliable as you."

that makes him feel good. until he registers the word guys. "what guys?"

he bristles. he has no right to feel this way. to be jealous. he'd be delusional to think he's the only man in your life.

"well i used to get kid to do this stuff, but he's useless and i hate him," you laugh. he warms at your disdain for your ex. "usually i get zoro to do it, but he's forgetful. franky on the other hand is super good at this stuff, but he doesn't go anywhere without robin and that makes scheduling tricky since we're all so busy most of the time."

you come over carrying a vase, showing off the bouquet pleased before setting it in the center of your dining table. he watches as you keep spinning the vase until you like the way it looks, nodding in satisfaction when you're done fiddling with it. cute.

"but you, on the other hand," you twirl to face him, "you're always around exactly when i need you."

his entire body warms up. law likes being needed. and you in particular are always so needy.

"i'm always happy to help," he says, grabbing the scissors you're holding out to him and slicing the tape to open the box. you plop on the recliner beside him, just watching as he removes plastic and styrofoam. your gaze is attentive. there's clear tension sparking between the two of you, but he ignores it. because he has a task to complete.

"hold the box for me so i can pull this out." he grips each end of the tv firmly but with care. you slide off the recliner, kneeling in front of him as you reach for the box. the position you put yourself in does not go unnoticed by him. he's positive it's intentional on your end, especially when you look up at him, eyes big and brows furrowing just slightly.

"like this?" the question itself is riddled in innocence. but he knows you well enough now. he knows what game you're playing, but until now his role in it has been passive.

"yeah, just like that." he keeps his tone neutral, but encouraging. you bite back a smile, pursing your lips to one side as you glance away from him. his keeps his own smile to himself, pleased by your reaction, before rolling his shoulders back and lifting the television out the box.

he asks for your assistance one more time just to hook the tv onto the mount on the wall. it's bigger than your last one and takes up most of the wall across from your couch. it's really nice.

"here," you hand him the remote as soon as he sits on the sofa. mindlessly he starts to set it up for you, flipping through the pamphlet that came with it. he knows you're watching him. your body is curled up on the cushion beside him. neither of you say anything though. but he can tell what you're thinking. because he's thinking it too.

honestly it's all he can really think about. he’s touched himself countless times to the thought of you with your thighs around his head. with your hands in his hair. with your lips on his neck. he’s thought of you on his drives to work, in the shower, in the brief moments before sleep catches him. it’s annoying the amount of space you take up in his mind.

you shift beside him, knees grazing his thigh as you move closer to him. the smell of whatever you’re wearing on your skin reaches his nose. the memory of you in his bed, beneath him and moaning his name, is triggered by the scent.

“what’s your email?” he clears his throat, eyes trained on the screen before him.

“hm?”

“to set up your account i need your email,” his eyes betray him as they move to glance at you. it was a mistake. your head is tilted and your breaths are steady but they’re so deep your chest rises and falls heavily. his eyes betray him again when they glance down. your boobs are pressed together, your nipples are poking hard against the thin material of your top. it’s cold in here, he reasons.

you start spelling out your email address, but law’s distracted. he misses a letter, you laugh, he corrects it, but then he misses another one.

“let me do it,” you chuckle when you see he’s clearly struggling. but he instinctively pulls the remote out of your reach.

“i got it this time,” he says, pointing the remote at the tv again. he’s not looking at you for the sole purpose of concentration.

“i’m starting to think you can’t spell my name,” you reach over his body to try and take the remote from him again, but he swats your hand away. it’s a playful back and forth, but you become more insistent. his hand grasps your wrist to push you away, but your shin finds his thigh. you’re practically in his lap.

he tosses the remote to the other side of the couch, grabbing your thigh with his free hand and swinging your leg to rest on the other side of his hip. straddling him.

“is this what you wanted?” he teases, his hand resting on the top of your thigh as yours comes to his shoulder.

“i don’t know what you mean,” you feign innocence, but your eyes are locked onto his lips. law rubs his thumb gently on the inside of your wrist. and if he glances down, which he won’t, he would see how close your chest is to his lips. “i wanted the remote.”

“right, so then how did we end up here?” his eyes are trained on your face. the tension is so thick it’s almost tangible. like he could grab onto it and mold it in his hands. he watches as you swallow. your lips part to say something but for once you’re at a loss for words.

“you tell me,” you whisper, leaning forward so that your forehead comes to rest against his. you really are too much. he’s never felt as drawn to anyone as he does you. you’re inescapable. it’s almost annoying except for the fact that it seems as though you want him just as badly.

his hand slides up your thigh until his fingers are wrapped around your hip and his thumb is pressing into the crease where your hip and thigh meet. he hears your sigh stutter out from between your lips. your eyes are closed now and you relax into him. you seat yourself fully into his lap instead of hovering politely like you were a few seconds ago. your breath smells like coffee. another addiction he can’t seem to rid himself of.

you kiss him softly at first. kind of shy. as if you’re testing his resolve. your lips tenderly meet his like you’re trying to share a secret with him, but you can’t quite get it out.

“i think,” he releases your wrist and moves to cradle the side of your neck instead, pulling you in closer, “you should kiss me like you mean it.”

something snaps between you at his words. a string pulled so tightly the strands shred and fray as your lips slot harshly between his. suddenly you’re holding urgency in your hands. you tug at him. your fingers seem to be everywhere all at once. and if he wasn’t as desperate for you, he’d hardly be able to keep up.

your tongue slips between his lips and licks into his mouth. a moan crawls its way up his throat when you grind down on him. your hands are quick where they pop the button on his jeans, far more agile than he expects when they pull the zipper down.

“wait,” he says against your lips as you begin to reach beneath his underwear. he’s surprised by your whine of impatience. amused when you huff an annoyed “i can’t.”

“ok,” he relents with a chuckle, bracing his hands on your hips. “go ahead.”

you kiss him again, sloppier than the last as you finally wrap your fingers around him. “oh, law.” he can’t breathe. not well at least with the way you stroke him. there’s added pressure from the confined space. and his cock is drooling with precum as it smears against your palm.

his hand rises to hold the back of your head, tilting it to deepen the kiss. his fingers tangle in your hair and he groans when you circle his tip as best you can in the tight space.

“lemme taste you,” you mumble out between kisses.

“what?” his mind is mush, his thoughts are broken and nonsensical. it takes him a second too long to process your request. instead you’re slipping off of his lap and sliding down to kneel between his parted legs.

“what’re you doing?” it’s a stupid question. he doesn’t even know why he asked because your fingers are already hooking into his pants and underwear and slowly trying to tug them down.

“what i’ve been dying to do.” you look up at him, pupils lust-blown and gaze hopeful. he lifts his hips just a bit to help you free him. your eyes widen when you see him. hard and reddened and aching. his cock twitches in response. his breath is caught in his chest and his abs are tightened in a way that’s almost painful.

you take him in your hand. your touch is gentle, exploratory. you stroke him slowly but your grip is firm and he’s biting back a groan that threatens to erupt from his chest.

your lips are next. they follow the path of your hand, featherlight as you drag them from base to tip. he can’t tear his eyes away from you. your tongue sweeps across your bottom lip, inadvertently licking his head just barely. but that alone has his hips jumping in your hold.

you conceal a smile. one that he catches a glimpse of before those same lips part and you take him into your mouth. you sigh out a small moan. almost of relief as your eyes drift shut and you start working him with both your mouth and hand. you take your time. spit starts seeping out from the corners of your lips as you continue to take him deeper.

nothing he could have ever imagined comes close to this. your tongue presses against his shaft and you swallow around him. this time he can’t hold back the noise that escapes his mouth. it’s deep and guttural and he watches it wash over you with a distinct shudder.

it only serves to spur you on. you start working him faster. your head bobbing as your hand meets each motion fervently.

he sees your other hand slip between your thighs. he can’t see what you’re doing but the action makes his hips buck and you gag around him.

“hah, shit,” law moans, his face is burning and his skin is so hot yet there’s goosebumps littering his arms. “are you touching yourself?”

“kinda hard not to,” you say, a string of spit connecting you to his dick as you pull away. your eyes are glassy from the tears that line your lashes. when you lean back in your tongue meets him first, licking a stripe along the back of him until his tip is pressed against the flat of your tongue. you look up at him with big wet eyes and he’s starting to lose it. his control.

law’s hand finds its way into your hair again, his fingers curl against your scalp gently, testing your limits. when you don’t make an effort to tell him to stop he balls his hand into a loose fist. he applies just enough pressure to make you whine, and when he tugs on your hair your eyes roll back.

he can’t do it anymore. his resolve crumbles into ashes as you light him on fire. your lips suck his cock back into your mouth. warm and wet and so skilled. he’s nearly envious of any man who’s had you before him. he can’t even stand the thought, especially when your fingers, covered in your own slick come up from between your legs to massage his balls.

“fuck, that’s-,” his words are failing him. law can’t even think with your mouth on him. “fuck, you’re gonna-,”

he’s so close. both of his hands are now practically knotted into your hair, following hopelessly as you continue your onslaught of sucking and licking. you moan around him every time his breath catches in his throat, or whenever his cock twitches against your tongue, or whenever he pulls a little harder on your hair.

it’s positively ridiculous how easily you’re unraveling him. he’s been so pent up, so frustrated, for weeks. law doesn’t need anyone. he’s fine on his own. but he needs you. he craves you in a way that feels dangerously addictive.

your name tumbles off of his tongue clumsily. the syllables disjointed as his orgasm rips down his spine, his voice nothing but crunching gravel. your hand grips his thigh when he comes, your nails scraping against denim as he unloads into your mouth. he doesn’t mean to hold you there. really.

but he can’t help the state that he’s in. that you put him in. he’s nothing but base instinct. something close to a whimper plucks at his vocal chords as you swallow every last drop until there’s nothing left for him to give you.

his back meets the cushion of your sofa again when he finally comes down. when the rush finally dies off and all that’s left is syrupy endorphins shooting through his veins. his breaths leave his mouth in hurried, pathetic puffs.

his vision is blurry but he can still make you out. you look a mess with your lips swollen and wet. your lashes are clumped together with tears. your hair is a nest from where his fingers pulled and twisted.

“i don’t think you realize how sexy you are,” you say, your voice is hoarse and you’re wiping at your lips with your fingers.

law pulls you into his lap again, clutching at your biceps until you follow his wordless request.

“it’s not me,” he murmurs, kissing you once you’re seated. “it’s you.”

his kiss travels to your jaw, open-mouthed. “you make me like this and i couldn’t even tell you why.”

he peppers wet kisses down to your neck, burying his face there as you move to give him more access. you’re so pliant in his grip again, your body just melting into him as he mouthes at your collarbone. he could do this forever. just gripping you wherever he can, tasting wherever you allow him to.

“you’re one to talk,” your voice is barely above a whisper, just wistful interest, “i can’t stop thinking about you. it’s like you’re haunting me.”

he chuckles into your perfumed skin, your words resonating strongly. he does feel haunted by you. your laugh, your wittiness, your body. he’s so ready to take this further. to undress you. to pleasure you in every way he can.

but his phone rings. you groan in annoyance. so he ignores it, deciding it’s much more worth his time to slip the strap of your tank top off your shoulder with his teeth. he likes the way it makes you shiver.

he urges you closer to him with his hand on the small of your back, plastering you to him. his lips dip lower, kissing the top of your breast as you sigh.

“mmm,” you hum, your fingers curling in his t shirt when he bites the tender fat of your chest.

but just as he’s about to venture lower, like he so badly wants, his phone rings again.

“jesus,” he grits out, fishing his phone out of his back pocket.

“don’t answer it,” you complain, all soppy and pitiful and his dick hardens just a bit again.

“it’s the hospital,” he says, knowing he has to answer since they called twice.

“hello.” it’s shachi. one of law’s high risk patients is having some post surgery complications and he has to go in. he’s disappointed to say the least.

“i gotta go,” he says, forehead pressed to your sternum to avoid the look he knows you’re wearing.

“i thought you were off today,” you say, whiny again and he really doesn’t know why your petulance turns him on so much.

“i’m on call.” you pull back to make eye contact with him and you look kind of angry. he physically has to remove you from his lap to keep from kissing you again. so he tosses you onto the seat next to him as you continue to glare in his direction.

“i’m going to scream,” you say, and law laughs. “i’m being serious. if we get interrupted one more time i’m gonna purposely get hit by a car because maybe we’ll finally fuck if i’m in a hospital bed.”

“that’s not funny,” he stands, shaking his head as he tucks himself back into his pants. you attempt to kick at his leg, but he catches your ankle before it makes contact, his hand bunching up the fabric of your cartoon pajama pants.

“are these men’s pants?” his brow furrows because he just noticed them.

“yes,” you yank your ankle back to no avail since law’s grip is strong.

“your ex’s?”

“ew no,” you yank your leg again, “i got them from walmart because they looked comfy.”

he drops your leg and it lands heavily on your couch as he moves to zip up his jeans.

“oh my god, are you jealous?” the delight in your tone doesn’t go over his head, instead it grates over his ears shockingly loud.

“no,” he lies because he honestly doesn’t understand why he even feels this way. he’s getting far too attached to you too quickly.

“oh you so are and if i wasn’t so sexually frustrated i’d totally give you shit for it.” you’re propped up on your elbows, grinning from ear to ear at him. well, at least you’re just as crazy as he is.

“i’m leaving,” he tosses a throw pillow at you and it bounces off your head. your laugh muffled by it, all maniacal and endearing.

“have fun at work,” you taunt, wiggling your fingers goodbye at him as he makes it to your front door.

“have fun alone,” he teases back, knowing exactly what condition he’s leaving you in.

“i’ll try,” you pout, staring at him through your lashes. “but my vibrator doesn’t compare to your mouth.”

he rolls his eyes, but a smirk tugs at his lips anyway. “next time.”

“no, next time you’re fucking me or else i might actually die.”

#ok forgive me for making law a little possessive #I just feel like he’s a little toxic and territorial #and he matches my freak ok?!!#enjoy🫰🏽#shortnspicy🌶️#neighbor!law au #trafalgar law #law x reader #trafalgar d law x reader

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jewishvitya · 2 days ago

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I'm gonna be completely honest, I followed you because of your politics/judaism-related posts but I've honestly always been curious as to what the hell Yuri On Ice!!! is about, because I've heard of it so much but I haven't the slightest clue what's up with it besides ice and possibly yuri(although it's probably yaoi? Idfk)

"What is YOI about" is such a funny question to me I can come up with so many meme answers.

But seriously, we meet the main character at rock bottom. He's talented and ambitious and he feels he just performed horribly at a major competition after getting terrible news, and we watch him pick himself up from that. He isn't confident, but he also knows he shouldn't be underestimated. His internal contraditions are one of my favorite things in the show, they make him feel real.

The other main character is also at a pretty low spot. He needs a change. And that change is going and supporting the other's growth.

It's about figure skating as a sport. And for me it's also about mental health, about carving your way out of depression and burnout and embracing connection with people who can help you.

I tried very hard, I'm really bad at recognizing what a spoiler is and avoiding them lol

Yuri is a name. Two of the three main characters are named Yuri. A Japanese Yuri (that most of us spell Yuuri) and a Russian Yuri (that the show calls Yurio, to differentiate).

No lesbians. Just Yuuri. But he's gorgeous.

I draw a sketch of him sometimes when I need to help myself feel better.

The main characters are Viktor, Yuuri and Yurio. The two adults are the ones in a relationship. The kid kinda treats them like embarrassing parents sometimes.

So, yeah, the main ship is m/m, and the fandom did make our own f/f ship.

Look at them, I love them. You'll get 3 seconds of each of them, and half a second that shows potential if you squint. We have fun building on that.

This show is my comfort space.

#riki babbles #yoi

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angelgoeslewd · 2 days ago

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Being in a relationship with Anaxa and Phainon…

Part 2 of this.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ content, minors DNI! Possessive/Yandere behavior, explicit descriptions of sex, cum eating, double penetration. Slight Phainaxa content.

📝a/n: more in bed headcanons soon! this is more relationship dynamics lol

...Anaxa has only ever been good at sharing physical objects. Food, why not? Gold? He is richer when the spirit is fulfilled. But when it comes to conceptions, especially those of his own interests, he finds it much... much harder. He's selfish in that manner. His time is his time, the type of teacher to say, "I dismiss you, not the bell," if such bells existed. But he's absolutely awful at sharing your attention. His blood might actually boil over if he ever caught you doing another teacher's homework in his class, but he'll direct his anger at them, not you. If Phainon is ever absent for any reason, and someone else takes his seat beside you? God help them. They will learn why Anaxagoras is skirted around. Constantly calling them to the front for readings, biting comments thrown at them the entire class period, about their grades, their handwriting, anything Anaxa can bitterly bring up.

That's exactly why he and Phainon have a sort of symbiotic relationship when it comes to you. Phainon is probably as close as Anaxa will get to trusting someone as it will get. The mutual agreement they have works both ways. As a Chryso heir, Phainon can't directly deal with anyone who he feels gets too close. Anaxa simply doesn't care and intimidates the hell out of anyone. Anaxa obsesses over the thought of sharing even an ounce of you with anyone else but Phainon. Phainon is someone he knows well. Someone he's taught, molded, and helped to shape. In a way, he sees him as an extension of himself.

That's why, he supposes, it doesn’t bother him when Phainon wraps his arms around your waist in class, peering over your shoulder at the book you two share (Phainon 'accidentally' forgot his.) But no amount of introspection can tell him why his mind purrs in contentment at the sight. Shouldn't he want to be Phainon? Shouldn't he rip the other man's hands away from you? But with Phainon... it's different.

Because Phainon is just so good at sharing. Anaxa is somewhat selfish in bed as well, not in terms of pleasure, but in how that pleasure is achieved, in chasing what he wants to pull from you. Phainon coos above you, feather-light, callused fingers running up and down your chest as Anaxa edges you. "'Naxa," he calls, pulling a sneer from the other man.

"Definitely do not call me that."

Phainon giggles, absolutely drunk out of his mind at the sight of you in his arms, Anaxa below, all of you naked and intertwined in bed. "Sh! Come, touch them. Feel their skin under your fingers, love." He does not give Anaxa a chance to deny his request, reaching for his wrist and pulling it up your body. It's still wet with your first release, leaving trails on your body. Phainon will lick up later as he locks eyes with your mysterious little scholar, who watches on bemused.

No matter who he's getting to touch and lick and suck that day, Phainon greets it welcomely, like the two of you are completely tied together in his mind with one big happy love bow. And the concept is so foreign to Anaxa, who just wants to claim, to dominate. Phainon is the one cumming right onto of Anaxa's, mixing their cum with his finger and telling you to taste them. Phainon's hands follow yours from behind as you suck Anaxa off, resting his hardened cock against his back, waiting for Anaxa's word to pleasure himself... if he's really lucky, Anaxa will do it himself. Phainon's wettest dreams are the ones where you get filled with both of them.

The ones that have him pulling you into an empty hall later, to have a quickie on the desks, tugging off your panties to leave on Anaxa's desk later. The ones that have him batting his eyes at the teacher over his table, daring him to play hooky with the two of you later.

And Anaxa? Anaxa doesn't realize how much he considers Phainon just as much His as you, until he sees some unlucky fan flirting with the heir on one of his rare outings. The thought of losing Phainon within this whole... thing you three have, has him angrily storming over and tugging Phainon away by his ear, the other's man's confused shouts ignored, as Anaxa locates the nearest alley, pushes Phainon up a wall, and sticks his tongue down the man's throat. Warning him to never put up with such an insult to Anaxa's claim ever again.

Phainon mellows the temperate spirit of possessiveness within Anaxa, Anaxa claims the two of you with a fierce fist.

#hsr #hsr x reader #hsr anaxa #hsr phainon #honkai star rail x reader #anaxa x reader #phainon x reader #anaxa x reader x phainon #honkai star rail #angelic songs #☕ of hsr

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yeonmuse · 3 days ago

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SYNOPSIS — Park Sunghoon doesn’t usually like involving himself with those at Chaconne academy, but when he finds out his little sister’s music teacher attends and she starts getting a little too close she forces him to let his guard down. Now he’s gotta juggle new people and new emotions entering his life and she’s got to face her past in order to hold tight to him and her future.

ᥫ᭡ f!reader x Park Sunghoon ── 𝒢enre. Uni au. fluff, angst non idol enha. feats. ot7 [reqs are closed] ᝰ.ᐟ 𝓁ibrary 🎻

⍣ ೋ AUTHORS NOTES . Strong angst themes, slow burn but mostly fluff. I’m not sure where this idea had come from considering I have 4 unfinished series out right now but I wrote this in 4 days so lets fucking go i guess??? Includes Choi Yeonjun, Bae Jinyoung, Kim Sunwoo, Jung Wooyoung, Shen Ricky, Xu Jiaqi and Asaya Jurin.

Sunghoon had finally found himself giving the movie some attention, having missed so much of it the first time he wanted to give it his attention this time. He wanted to know why you had loved the boogie so much, what was so special about it that it made your eyes sparkle the moment your eyes set upon the screen.

“Is this seat taken?” Sunghoons gaze had been glued to the screen by now, so it had gone completely unnoticed by him at first, that you stood right before him. It wasn’t until he heard a gasp from Yoari and a whisper of your name. The girl was quick to jump out of her seat and wrap her arms around you. As Sunghoon watched you lift his sister into his arms his throat ran dry. Here you were standing before him in the exact same outfit you’d been wearing the day you were meant to have the first date.

For the first time he actually got to look at you, to drink you in and memorize every detail he’d missed the night of Yoaris recital. He was glued to his seat, even as you placed his sister back on the ground and your eyes locked with his.

“Hi.”

“yn I”

“I believe you owe me a date.” At your words Sunghoon fell quiet, unsure of what to say or how to react because he hadn’t even expected you to talk to him again. He nodded silently, watching as you took the seat beside him, his gaze every now and then shifting to you who sat at his side, only this time you could feel his gaze on you every time and a subtle smile made its way on your face.

You thought it’d be fun to mess with him a little, brushing your fingers against his every now and then whenever he’d reach for popcorn, or touching your arm against his whenever he’d placed it on the armrest. You could feel his body tense with every touch.

Sunghoon had been losing his train of thought the longer he sat there beside you. All he wanted to do was turn and talk to you but of course that’s something that was frowned upon in theaters. Not to mention that there’d actually been far more people there than there had been last time — perhaps because that happened to be the weekend.

Yoari had run off into the theater's arcade, leaving the two alone as they observed her play from afar. For a minute it was silent until Sunghoon finally opened his mouth to speak.

“Thank you.” Sunghoons brows furrowed at her sudden interruption and surprise apology.

“Thank you for calling him, my dad. I should have let you talk, I shouldn't have just shut you out. You couldn’t have known what your mom had been planning to do.”

“Yn, why is it that you’re apologizing when I’m the one that avoided you first? I chose not to listen to you, I wasn't there when you really needed me and i” he was forced into silence as your lips pressed against his, his arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, the sudden kiss catching him by surprise though he didn’t shy away. He held you tightly against his chest as if you’d slip through his fingertips as he let go, your lips molding together like the perfect pieces of a puzzle.

“I guess we’re both bad at listening to each other.” You whisper softly as the two of you finally pull away to catch your breath.

“I guess so.” He couldn’t hide the smile on his lips as he brushed over your lips with his thumb.

“I think I’ll need one more, i still feel like apologizing so i might need another one just to shut me up” you can’t help but laugh at his not so subtle play to get another kiss, though of course you obliged. Your second kiss getting interrupted as Yoari came running over with a large pink bunny plush in her hands.

“Look what i won!” The two of you quickly pull away from one another and wipe your lips clean as she sticks out her plush to show you both, luckily she had been far too interested in her bunny at first to have witnessed the shared kiss.

“Look at how cute.” You encouraged, watching how her eyes sparkled as she moved over to show Sunghoon.

“Yeah? And you won it all by yourself? Without my help?” He teases, lifting her into his arms with a smile.

“It took me all of my tokens just to get it!” You couldn't help but laugh at her excitement, finding it absolutely adorable. You couldn’t help but adorn her, for as long as you’ve known the two siblings they’d become the reason that you’d smiled quite often, even if things had been quite rocky with the three of you a few days prior.

“Can we please do the photobooth before we go! I want to take pictures with pinky and yn.”

“What about me??” Yoari looks over at you before holding her bunny tight to her chest.

“Should we invite him too?” Sunghoon scoffs and you have to hold back your laugh.

“Hmm I guess it's okay.” You respond teasingly. “Otherwise he might get sulky again like he did when you told him he’s bad at playing with dolls.”

“He really is bad” she restates making you laugh again and Sunghoon gives her a pout — which doesn't make her change her mind she still thinks he’s bad at it, as he carries her over to the photobooth.

“How many should we take?”

“Four! One for me, one for you and yn and one for mr pinky.”

“Four it is then.” You all climbed into the photobooth, Yoari sat in between you and Sunghoon with her bunny plush sat on her lap. A photo session lasting a consecutive 10 minutes as Yoari dictated each of their poses until they’d taken exactly photo strips worth of photos.

By the time it had been time to go the sun had already fallen from the sky, the moon having taken its place and Yoari had fallen fast asleep in the back seat. The ride back to your dorm had been quiet, none of you wanting to wake Yoari. The moment you’d arrived on campus Sunghoon followed suit as you stepped from his car. Though he couldn’t walk you to your dorm with Yoari in the car he’d at least wanted to wish you goodnight.

“Yoari was really happy to see you tonight.”

“Only Yoari?”

“We both were, not having you around.. not being around you for the last few weeks has been hell. I’m used to not being around people. I'm used to keeping to myself if it isn’t Jake or Jay but you, I can't stay away from you I don’t want to stay away from you. When I’m not with you, I don’t like it.”

“Sunghoon.”

“I’m sorry for everything, everything that happened. For not listening to you, for my mother, for trying to push you away in the beginning. Just don’t leave? Don’t go back home.”

“Sunghoon I’m not- I’m not leaving.”

“You're staying??? But you said that —”

“I know what I said to Hoon, I talked to them, my parents and my mother. We won’t be going anywhere. And though it’ll take me some time to get used to my actual mother possibly being in my life, I don’t want her to not be in it.”

“Then if you’re staying…” he takes a step closer, closing the space between the two of them before taking her hand into his own.

“Let me take you on a proper date this time, one that you won’t run away from. One that Yoari or my family isn’t attending.”

“You’ve got yourself a date Park Sunghoon, just the two of us.” A smile makes its way onto your face as the two of you leaned in for a kiss. His hands resting on the nape of your neck as your lips melted together once more, this kiss lasting longer than the first until he’d finally decided to let you go. His eyes followed you as you made your way across the campus and into the girls dormitory. As he stepped into the car the smile was immediately wiped from his face as he was frightened by his sister who was now awake in the back seat. (She had felt the car stop and woke up, where the two of you got out of the car she had been peaking the entire time)

“Are you two dating?” Sunghoons gaze shoots over to the dormitory entrance where you had just disappeared inside of.

“Not yet.”

4 months later

“Sim Jaeyun can you hurry your ass up or we’re going to be late, this is the last time I ever decide to carpool with you.”

“Can you two stop arguing for one day, you know if you get they’re arguing yn is going to eat you both alive if today isn’t perfect.”

“Maybe if he didn’t park 5 minutes away I wouldn't have anything to complain about.”

Both Jurin and Jake had been going at it as always. The two have rode together along with Jiaqi and Sunwoo, all of them deciding to carpool to Yoaris recital rather than every one of them taking separate vehicles. As if the drive hadn’t been long enough the two spent the entire walk to the venue going back and forth.

“About time your asses get here, her performance starts in five minutes.”

“Sorry there was traffic and Jake parked 3 blocks away from the venue.” Jiaqi apologizes, properly throwing Jake under the bus to avoid being yelled at by you.

“It doesn’t matter just get inside, she’s looking forward to seeing all of you out there tonight, the others are already here. Oh and don’t forget to record we need all the footage we can get, also — ”

“Alright enough angel I think they got it, you’ve also texted it on the groupchat a good number of times.” Sunghoon chuckles, his arms snaking around your waist from behind.

You turn to face him as the others make their way inside. A pout on your lips from his interruption that he ignores simply by placing kisses on your pouty lips over and over.

“Tonight will be fine, you’re here, everyone came and Yoaris going to do great, Just calm down.”

“I just want tonight to be perfect for her, I wasn't there last time and I- ”

“And you’re here tonight, that’s all that matters, tonight will be amazing, she knows how much you care about her and you didn’t mean to miss it that night.”

“Okay..” your eyes scan Sunghoon and he can’t help but feel his heart tug in his chest at the way you look at him. It has been two months since he’sd officially asked you to be his girlfriend and ever since then you’d had him wrapped around your finger with ease. No matter what it was you did he’d find you cute or beautiful, even on days when you’re sick or when you thought you didn’t look your best he’d adorned you.

“Now let’s go, the show is starting soon and the doors are gonna close.” He locks his fingers with yours as the two of you make your way back inside to sit and join the others.

Just as Sunghoon had said the night had gone perfect. Yoaris' eyes lit up the most they’d found her family and the rest of you in the crowd. Everyone has shown up to the show including your parents —- all three of them. By the end of her performance she’d left you in tears at how proud you’d been of her, which ended with her consoling you and wiping your tears only to make you cry harder at how cute she was. Sunghoon and your friend found it funny, Yeonjun having gotten it on video and sent it to the group chat immediately which was a cause of most of the laughter at dinner that night. A night that ended in you all sharing memories of the past few months since you’d arrived at the school and planning ahead for your futures whether that be what career paths lied ahead or future trips. One thing was evident that night and it was you had finally found the perfect place for you to call home.

🏷️ @jwonistic @bubblytaetae @pkjay @heesallure @planetmarlowe @dreeki @butterflywonz @lillotus17 @squiishymeow @river-demon-slayer @sol3chu @st4rryst4r @firstclassjaylee @right-person-wrong-time @riribelle @gaytron3000 @heesunghooney @i03jae @blackhairandbangs @sunooqvrlsx @addictedtohobi @enaile23 @ivyvioletcarson @kristynaaah @starbyeol1512 @tinyteezer @jkslvsnella @brianashiftz @starbyeol1512 @miuwonis @zaycie @hollxe1 @yukiscoffeebreak @enhaz1 @manobillie

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merakiui · 2 days ago

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Oh our dearest Mera!

It is the birthday of everyone’s favorite egg man!

Might I please request some birthday egg blurbs?

Apocalypse octatrio receiving a virgin darling bride who they realize their anatomy is more than capable of holding clutches by the dozens!

Sincerely,

Mer Eggs Anon.

(Also ps: I am just being overdramatic for the funny hahas, you don’t actually have to do it lol)

MY LOVELY MER EGGS!!!! (づ๑•ᴗ•๑)づ🎂 HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYYYY!!!!!!!! May it be an occasion full of happiness and sweetness!! <3 please enjoy these apocalypse thoughts!!

It really is so perfect you're capable of holding lots of clutches than other brides. There's no need to prepare you more extensively or force you to drink all manner of potions to prevent any strain on your body. But if you were to ask I'm sure they would be accommodating.

Azul likes to think you were made for him, a selfish, delusional thought he can't help having every time you're in his arms. And you're a virgin!!! He couldn't have asked for a better bride. Because he's neurotic and likes to be prepared, he'll have given you the overview well in advance just so you'll know what to expect. It's not as if you can get out of this contract and partnership anyway, but knowing what's to come does put one's mind at ease. He doesn't even know your limits, or lack thereof, until he's through with the first few eggs and there's still plenty of room.

Octo-mers are known to produce and lay lots of eggs because very few survive. Greedy to a fault, he'll want to see how much more you can hold. And wouldn't it be great if more eggs than usual survive!!! >w< he'll make sure of it, he'll promise you over and over, as he's peppering your neck in venomous kisses and stuffing you full of all the eggs he can possibly give.

Floyd likes to surprise you, so of course you're doing it in his mer form when you aren't expecting it. It's better that way. Plus, more babies!!! :D something something the toll on your body isn't so extreme if he does it this way,,, or that's what Azul claims anyway. He doesn't really care about statistics and evidence. He can smell how anxious you are, taste it on the air, feel the tension in your body when you press yourself up against the pool wall. There's nothing to be scared of. He'll treat you nice and good. Even though it sounds earnest, that slimy grin of his tells you otherwise. You're scared of his strength and size, of those two impossibly huge and inhuman cocks that curve up from his slit, but this is your duty as a bride.

I think Floyd would make sure to prepare you, spending an obnoxiously long time between your legs, his long tongue thrust up inside you, fingers working you open. He's really careful with his teeth and claws. Such a sweet eel who craves the taste of you and every cute sound you make. He'll fill you with some fluid (you think it's cum, but then you're not sure) that makes you feel hot and numb,, pain is the last thing you'll feel when your hole stretches around his cock(s). Floyd expects you to take half a clutch, maybe even the full clutch if you're able to, so it's a very thrilling surprise when you're able to take more than that. His Shrimpy sure knows how to surprise him hehe. >:D it's a good thing, too. He has plenty more eggs to give. :) you're not leaving that pool until you're really knocked up,, so much so he'll have to help you out.

Jade..... orz in the time leading up to breeding season, he tells you that you ought to prepare yourself. He can help, of course, but you shooed him off because that sharp smile is not to be trusted. So instead he was keen to sit and watch as you struggled around the dildos he gave you,, all for training. It was humiliating even though you know he's your husband now and so this shouldn't be so embarrassing. Still,,, you hated how he could look at you so casually, seemingly unaffected by the erotic display in front of him. He has fun gently bullying you.

By the time you're slipping into the pool with him, you think you're ready. You'll have to be. You tell him you're a virgin and he says he knows this because it's written in your file, and you splash him because now is not the time for his smart-ass remarks. You're not sure what to do, so he takes the lead, taking hold of your hips. You watch in fascination and horror as his own anatomy is made present and suddenly you wonder how this is ever going to work. But then he's pressing his mouth to yours and you taste blood, and within minutes you're hot and desperate and begging him to just put it in and stop teasing. You'll get what you desire, and maybe because you feel so euphoric you don't even register any pain or the eggs as they slip into your womb. You'll cry because it feels too good, and Jade is in utter awe at the way your greedy womb takes in more eggs than he was expecting. This is good; he wasn't intending to stop even if you were past your limits. :)

#twisted chit chat #mer eggs anon #twst apocalypse au #n/sfw #tw: oviposition

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thebibliophilevigilante · 3 days ago

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Jesus, this woman loved to tease. Being a sharpshooter himself, Jason couldn't fight the smirk that threatened to bloom over his lips. "Oh, pretty girl," he drawled close to her ear. "Don't make bets you can't cash. I'll be keeping those devilish lips of yours busy for hours."

He stared forward then as the line shortened, his body bracketing Madison to solidify a bubble around her. As she spoke, she had curled into him. Teal eyes flicked down to see brown doe eyes sparkling with mirth up at him after her dig about the guy who helped her onto the bike.

"I was trying to let you have your independence and whatever," he grumbled, glancing away in frustration. "Didn't think you'd want my hands on you after we literally just met. Can bet I won't make the same mistake twice."

Her hands around his bicep caught his attention as they climbed onto the ride and took their seats, and he grinned wolfishly. "I suppose there is something...rewarding about seeing a girl who can hold her own when riding horses. Watching how she loses herself, body bouncing and spirit so completely free, forgetting the creature under her is a huge animal that could wreck her world if the opportunity arose. She looks like the most beautiful vision in the world then, and she's being so good while demonstrating just a smidgen of control. She should be praised for that."

He left the statement in the air between them then as metallic gears started to shift. His jaw locked as he prepared for the ride.

The mechanism started slow, bucking softly here and there as a teaser before it kicked into high gear. The way it jerked and bounced caused Jason's stomach to roll. He shot people, for fuck sake. A tiny ride like that shouldn't have had an effect on him.

Then he hazarded a glance to Madison, and the effect had changed entirely.

Madison's million-dollar smile was lighting up the sky again as she rode. Her hair was waving in the wind. He'd catch hints of her shampoo here and there, floral with a soft pear undertone. It was mesmerizing. The way the rest of her body moved was hypnotizing in itself, her supple chest heaving upward with each buck of the machine.

Fuck. Be a gentleman, Jason. Don't want to frighten her off by being like every other perv that's stared at her chest.

And of course, as he was trying to keep his thoughts focused and mostly clean, fate somehow intervened and teased him more.

Some dumb punks were pushing each other around, tossing their weight, and pushed his brunette date into his lap. The arm that had been under her head flew out around her waist, fingertips clawing into her hip to press her close. Her perfect little figure bounced with the ride, her chest in his face, her core grinding down into him.

"God fucking dammit," he hissed out.

He turned his head to the other side, trying to will his thoughts to ANYTHING to keep himself in check. Bruce ripping him a new one for denting the Batmobile. Alfred in a dress. His shitty fucking pre-manor life. It was no use. The situation was definitely having an effect, and he was certain she'd be able to feel it.

As the ride stopped, she checked on him, and his grip around her waist tightened.

"Do not fucking move. Please," he almost begged. "Just...give me a moment."

As people started leaving the ride, one of the boys to the side smirked at the vigilante. "You're welcome, man."

Jason snapped his head to the young gun, fire raging behind his stare. Now his problem was dying down as he went into protector mode. "You could have hurt her," he seethed. "She could have cracked her head open, or flown right off this ride and died. Walk away before I drag you away in a body bag, you reckless piece of shit."

When it comes to getting intel, there are several ways to go about it. One could ask politely, or ask the right questions to eventually draw information from their target. There is intimidation, threatening your target and demanding the information in exchange for remaining unharmed. Then there is incognito surveillance, appearing inconspicuous and melding in with one’s environment just listening and watching.

The current session was the latter.

A raven-haired man with a blanched tuft in his bangs kept his teal eyes trained on the book in his massive, calloused right hand. His left swirled his take-away cup absentmindedly. He was reading words, but they weren’t registering in his brain. His focus was more concentrated on the conversations around him, and what information he could gather before his next patrol.

The first three rules of real estate are location, location, location. Burnley Brewhouse definitely had that, especially for Jason Todd. It was conveniently placed right on the very edge of Burnley, practically at the juncture of where Crime Alley and The Bowery neighborhoods started (which were all Jason’s domain). By day, the neighborhood was full of regular citizens, students and tourists. By night, the whole area was crawling with denizens of the dark wheeling and dealing for their own personal gain and vices while putting others at risk.

Jason brought his cup to his mouth for a sip, his eyes flicking to the counter where two men with heavier builds were waiting for their order. One had a rough 5 o’clock shadow, the other a scraggly, unkempt blond beard, both wearing holy jeans and beat-up leather jackets. He recalled seeing them once during a patrol a couple of weeks prior, skulking around by the Freight Yards. They were definitely up to no good then, and could offer him decent information in the present. The barista handed both of them a take-away cup, and his eyes quickly glanced down to his book again, his peripherals watching as they meandered around to sit at a table caddy-corner from his in the back corner of the shop.

“Terry was telling me about that new candy order he has coming in,” 5 O’Clock muttered lowly to his friend. “Said it should get here overnight, and we can distribute to the stores first thing in the morning.”

Scraggles ran his nails over his beard as he listened. “Loaded with sugar? Y’know these kids can’t get enough of their sugar.”

“He said it was everything needed from the inventory list. He said he has his pal Molly coming in to help with the shipment too.”

There was a small pause before, “How many donuts did he get and where from?”

“11 for the crew. I think he said they’re from Declan’s over on 14th Street.”

Jason had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Those two idiots were blatantly discussing a drug drop in broad daylight just as if they were talking about a regular candy store shipment.

He switched the book to his right hand as he snagged a napkin from the holder and a pen from the table. He scribbled a note to himself, writing the characters’ names from his book, followed by “PG 11, DL 14.” He knew his own shorthand; the character names were to keep up appearances. “PG 11” would remind him the drop was scheduled for 11, and “DL 14” would remind him the ship would be at Dock Bay 14.

His attention went back to his book as he brought the pen to his lips, teeth nibbling on the retractable plunge as he appeared deep in thought. He was about to tune back into 5 O’Clock and Scraggly’s conversation when the cafe’s entry bell rung.

His eyes flitted to the door to assess the entrant, and he froze. A young brunette with piercing dark eyes was glancing around, looking for a place to perch herself no doubt. She was breathtaking, and certainly unlike any other person he had seen come in to Burnley’s. As she turned to the counter, he couldn’t help the large grin that danced over his face. First he got lucky with the tip-off. Would he be lucky enough for that gorgeous girl to sit anywhere within his vicinity?

@rpwiththelilflower

#rpwiththelilflower #thebibliophilevigilante

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belit0 · 1 day ago

Note

Hello! I was just thinking about about how itachi would react in a non massacre setting where he fall in love with sasukes s/o. How would sasuke react to that? I think where itachi does love his brother a lot I feel as though he's kind of selfish and would downplay his brother as not ready for dating even if they are together for 3 years plus. I think sasuke would fight at least verbally with his brother that there's no chance and he's not a kid

For legal purposes... Itachi is 27 years old here, and Sasuke is 22, (Y/N) as well, all grown-ups!!! Thank you.

Itachi would not allow himself to fall so easily. He would fight it—rationalize, compartmentalize, bury it beneath layers of logic so thick that even he would struggle to see the truth beneath them. And yet, love is not something so easily silenced, not when it takes root where it shouldn't.

At first, it would be quiet. Subtle. A lingering glance too long to be accidental, a passing touch that burns in its briefness, a fascination with (Y/N) that he excuses as mere observation. She is his brother’s girlfriend, nothing more.

But then, she becomes something more.

It happens in the moments in between—when she laughs at something Sasuke says, and Itachi finds himself watching the way her lips curve, the way her shoulders shake. When she trains, sweat-damp and determined, and something primal stirs in him at the sight of her unwavering focus. When she speaks to him without hesitation, without the weight of his reputation clouding her words, and he feels something dangerously close to desire.

It is selfish.

And Itachi is not a selfless man.

-You’re not ready for such commitment, Sasuke.- The words would be soft, almost kind, but the intent beneath them would be anything but.

Sasuke would scoff, dark eyes flashing with irritation. -Three years... Three years, and you think I’m not ready?-

Itachi would tilt his head, an almost amused look in his gaze, but there would be something else, too—something that makes Sasuke’s stomach turn.

-Time is not a measure of readiness. Nor of understanding.

Sasuke's jaw tightens. He knows Itachi. Knows when he is being led, when words are meant to corrode rather than convince. His fists clench, and for a moment, he considers striking him, forcing the truth out with something tangible, something that can’t be twisted.

-You think you know her better than me?- It’s a challenge, low and seething.

Itachi does not answer, not at first. He merely watches him, dark eyes unreadable, the way they always are when he is about to say something Sasuke won’t like.

And then—

-I know what she wants.- A pause. Deliberate. -Do you?-

It’s infuriating, how calm he is. How easily he undermines what Sasuke holds dear, how he makes him doubt without ever raising his voice.

Sasuke doesn’t think. He moves, a fist flying towards his brother’s face—only for Itachi to catch it, fingers closing around his wrist with practiced ease.

Their gazes lock, and for the first time, Sasuke sees it. The depth of Itachi’s selfishness, the quiet, insidious hunger that he keeps so well concealed.

Itachi lets go, smooth and effortless, as if the moment never happened.

-You should think carefully, Sasuke.- His voice is almost gentle. Almost. -Before you fight for something that was never yours to keep.-

It is then that Sasuke understands.

Itachi intends to take her.

#naruto shippuden #naruto #naruto imagines #uchiha clan #uchiha itachi x reader #itachi uchiha x reader #itachi x reader #uchiha sasuke x reader #sasuke uchiha x reader #sasuke x reader #uchiha itachi #itachi uchiha #itachi #uchiha sasuke #sasuke uchiha #sasuke

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writinginatree · 12 hours ago

Text

All the Blood that You Still Owe

Relationship(s): Xaden Riorson & sibling!reader

Summary: An unpleasant surprise awaits on Hedotis, and you react with far less composure than your brother.

Warnings: Spoilers for Onyx Storm (set during chapters 33/34), canon divergence, mommy issues, implied daddy issues, anger issues, self-worth issues, we got all the issues baby!, unresolved childhood trauma, meltdowns, self-harm tendencies if you squint, graphic description of blood and violence, violence against children, murder, dissociation, self-hatred, vaguely suicidal thoughts

Title from MCR's song "I Don't Love You", go listen for some extra angst!

Landing on the rocky shore near the capital of Hedotis, you immediately dislike the place. You can't pinpoint why — on the surface, it seems like a beautiful, peaceful place. Nonetheless there's something about it that makes you uneasy in a way none of the other isles did. It's not just the lack of magic, either; uncomfortable as that is, you're starting to get used to it.

Observing the city — Vidirys, Violet had said it's called — it seems wrong somehow, with all those identical houses. It feels like looking at the background of a painting someone didn't want to put much effort into, just copying the same view over and over to create the illusion of a real place. Creepy, somehow, despite the superficial serenity.

The rest of the squad are all gathered a little farther up the beach, but you hang back, reluctant to part from your dragon.

The contrast of Dioghal's blood-red scales against the pale landscape only amplifies the lack of color around her, and you can't help but think what easy targets you make like this. Not that it should matter — according to Vi's handy guidebook, the people of Hedotis are supposedly peaceful. That doesn't make them trustworthy in your eyes, though. You're naturally suspicious of people who remain neutral in any and all conflicts happening around them, and you'd be willing to bet they do have weapons, possibly aimed at you this very moment from some hidden spot.

With these things in mind, you tense when you notice the group of locals stepping onto the wooden walkway that connects this piece of beach with what looks to be a market just outside the city.

Though you can't see any weapons on them, and they're all dressed in light tunics and gowns entirely unfit for combat, you double-check that all of your own weapons are where they belong before you give Dioghal's leg another pat and hurry after your squad, who are already going toward the locals.

Xaden raises a brow at you when you fall into step beside him, a wordless scolding for falling behind. Guess he doesn't quite trust the purported peace, either.

You're glad you aren't the only one who finds the place a little unsettling, because it really shouldn't be. But try as you might, you cannot shake the unease. Even the welcoming committee — if that's what it is — doesn't sit right with you. They should be wary of armed strangers on dragons showing up on their shore, but the way they're strolling toward you looks perfectly relaxed and casual. Almost like your visit doesn't surprise them.

No, you definitely do not like this. But these people could have the answers you're looking for, so if this is a trap, you're just going to have to deal with it. To calm your nerves, you remind yourself that Dioghal will be watching over you from afar. She won't let anything happen to you.

As you draw near, you notice a tall woman in the group of Hedotians — or is it Hedotics? — You should ask Violet later, she'll know what they're called — who seems strangely familiar.

Your discomfort intensifies, but you force yourself to keep walking, staring at the pale wooden boards beneath your feet as your group reaches theirs and greetings are exchanged. When the man from the triumvirate — he introduced himself, but you were only half listening — beckons his wife forward you glance up, and your heart stops, only to double it's speed.

It's the familiar-looking woman, and up close, you know why she's so familiar.

"Xaden," she says. Then her gaze jumps to you, frozen in place half a step behind your brother and a little to the side.

You barely hear her saying your name over the rushing in your ears, only vaguely register Xaden acknowledging her as he pulls Violet closer to his side. On the inside you're seven again, abandoned, confused, and fucking furious.

But unlike back then, you're armed now.

The metallic sound of your sword coming out of its sheath draws everyone's attention, and Garrick grabs you around the waist before you can take more than a single step toward your so-called mother.

"Let me go," you demand in a low growl barely loud enough for those nearest to hear. You can't seem to get enough air to speak any louder.

Instead of letting you go, Garrick forces your sword-arm down and pins it to your side. Despite the endless hours of training you've put in, you're no match for his strength — you might as well still be that seven-year-old you were when your mother left, so effortlessly does he restrain you.

"Calm down," he has the audacity to whisper into your ear. "We have a mission, remember? Don't fuck this up because of her."

He's right, you know that. It's just hard to care when so suddenly being faced with the woman you've missed and hated for the last thirteen — no, almost fourteen — years. Years you've spent imagining seeing her again — at first, it had been a happy, tearful reunion you'd pictured, back when you couldn't fully believe she had left for good. You'd thought you would apologize for whatever you had done to drive her away and all would be well. Then, as you'd grown older and understood she really had abandoned you, you imagined her looking at you full of regret and apologies, begging for forgiveness you would deny her. Later still, after your father had died and you were left alone under the care of some Navarrian loyalist, soaking up the world's cruelty like a fine handkerchief dropped into a pool of blood, you started dreaming of revenge. Your mother, Navarrian leadership, everyone. In your dreams you made them all pay for the hurt they'd inflicted on you and your brother, knowing you'd never be able to do so in reality.

But now you're here, and so is Talia. It would be so easy. So gratifying to make her see what pain she caused you and give it back to her tenfold.

Garrick's words echo in your ears as you notice the rest of the squad watching you with varying degrees of confusion and disapproval. Don't fuck this up. No, you can't afford to ruin this mission the way you do everything else. You've got to keep your shit together. For Xaden's sake, if not for that of everyone else on the Continent.

With that thought, you force your muscles to relax, and let Garrick guide your sword back into its sheath. His hold on you eases, but he hovers right behind you, ready to grab you again should you make it necessary.

You won't. Won't disappoint your brother and friends, won't ruin the mission, won't make things more difficult for them. You just have to hold in this burning rage. You can do that, have been doing it all your life. Calm. You have to be calm. If Xaden manages not to throw a fit at the sight of your mother, surely you'll manage not to do so either. Be calm.

Forcing yourself to take slow, measured breaths (nice and calm, nice and calm, nice and calm) you look anywhere except at Talia.

Someone starts making excuses for you, claiming that in your exhausted state you had merely gotten startled by Talia's suddenly stepping forward and overreacted. You meant no harm, they say. You're perfectly safe to be around, they say. It won't happen again, they say. Lies, all of it.

But no. It mustn't happen again. You can't ruin the mission. Keep it together. You have to keep it together somehow.

The man from the triumvirate — your mother's new husband — who observed your outburst with cold disapproval looks like he doesn't believe a word, but doesn't withdraw his invitation, either.

You really, really don't want to go to his house, though.

"Garrick," you mumble, since he's still standing closest to you, "I want to leave."

This is how it always went when you got overwhelmed while stuck at some stupid event as kids; you'd tug on the sleeve of whichever of the boys was closest to you and he'd sneak you out while the other two distracted the adults that wanted to keep you there before eventually joining you. But this is not a boring ball or dinner party, and you are no longer a child. You are here on a mission, and there's too much at stake to just blow it off, you know that even as you ask to leave.

"We can't, not before we find out if they have some answers for us," Garrick whispers back. He rubs his hand up and down your arm, trying to soothe you. "I know it's hard, but just remember that we're doing this for Xaden."

He's right. Gods, you know he's right, but every second in your mother's presence feeds the hatred burning inside you. Soon it will consume you whole. You don't know how you're supposed to keep it in much longer, if you can keep it in.

But you have to try. For Xaden. For your brother's sake, you might manage. If he can look at Talia without bursting into tears or punching something, then so can you. But of course Xaden has always had much better self control than you, a different kind of anger. Where your own anger burns like a raging fire, demanding to be let out, Xaden's turns his veins to ice, freezing his voice and eyes, a mask of deadly quiet.

You're not even sure if he is angry at your mother, or just disappointed, sad, whatever. Your rage is more than enough for both of you, anyway.

Talia's husband clears his throat. "Shall we?"

"Of course," Aaric says, stepping forward to take control of the situation, since neither Xaden nor Violet make any move to reply. The sideways glance he gives you in doing so says to get your godsdamned shit together. "Thank you for the invitation."

"You don't have to come," Xaden mutters to you, hanging back while the group slowly starts toward the city. You can tell he's upset too, but unlike you, he keeps it all on the inside. If only you were capable of the same. "Stay with the dragons if you want."

As much as you want to do so, it feels wrong, like you're failing both Xaden and the whole squad. What's the point of being part of this quest if all you do is lag behind?

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. You can always still join us later, if you feel up to it."

Us. That means Xaden intends to go with them. Of course. He's more important to the mission, and if both of you stayed behind, the man from the triumvirate might take offense. You should care about that. He's important here, and that means his opinion could decide whether or not these people will help you. But all you can think about is that all this time, your mother has been here, with that man. Had she left specifically to be with him, or did they meet later? Does it even make a difference? No, you decide. You hate both of them either way. And no matter how much you tell yourself you should, you just can't go with them to their house, where you'd probably have to sit in a stiff reception room and make pleasant conversation while the anger continues to eat you alive. You can't.

"Go. It's fine," Xaden encourages again. Nothing is fine. Not to you, and certainly not to him, either, but he's good at pretending things are fine when they're not. "You can do a sweep of the area if Dioghal isn't too tired, see if you spot the irids."

"I doubt they're here."

They aren't; you feel that in your bones. Hedotis is not a place dragons would like. Or are you just biased because you don't like the place?

"Yeah, me too. But we have to make sure, and it'll give you something else to focus on."

"Okay. I'll see you later then."

Xaden nods and follows the others, catching up with Violet, who walkes at the back, waiting for him, in a few long strides.

For a moment you look after them, feeling like a failure. They're almost out of earshot already, so you could break down now, scream and cry like the turmoil inside you demands.

You don't. Instead you turn, walking back down the beach to where Dioghal waits.

You wish your brother could have remained behind with you. Or better yet, that you could all leave this whole fucking place already. Selfish reasons aside, you also don't like the thought of leaving Xaden to deal with your mother alone. Her absence was just as hard for him as for you. Harder, maybe. But he won't really be alone, he has Violet and Garrick to take care of him, so you suppose it's alright. It makes no matter, anyway. Wishes won't get you anywhere; that's a lesson you learned the hard way. Xaden will bury his feelings and fulfill his duty the way he always does, while you will fight the urge to cry and scream for as long as you can and eventually break down, the way you always do.

Dioghal lowers her head when you reach her, chuffing in a way that sounds vaguely worried.

You curse the lack of magic in this place, desperately missing the mental connection to your dragon. She watched the interaction, but you don't know if she was close enough to hear, to understand what exactly made you so upset.

"That— That woman," you explain out loud, almost choking on the words, "that was my mother."

Dioghal croons, a blast of steam parting your hair. Her head swivels around to look after the group with narrowed eyes, like she's contemplating to follow them and show Talia exactly what happens to people who upset Dioghal's rider — death, usually.

"Can we just fly, please? Xay asked that we look around for the irids while the others talk to the triumvirate."

Dioghal lets out a low growl, and for a moment, you think she'll ignore you and go after your mother. Unlike you, she doesn't have anyone to grab her and talk some sense into her. You almost want her to do it. That way, you'd get the revenge you've dreamed of for so long without being directly responsible for ruining the mission. But then Dioghal straightens, averting her piercing gaze, and you know she's decided to let Talia live for now.

That should be a good thing, but it doesn't feel like one.

As you scale Dioghal's leg and get seated, you picture her claws sinking into your mother's flesh, her strong jaws closing around her, the resulting spray of blood as red as her scales. There's so many ways she could go about killing her. Biting her head clean off or slowly ripping her limb from limb, snapping her in half or clawing her guts out. Burning her, like the traitor she is. She could stab her with the poisonous bulb of her tail, make it slow and painful.

Gods, what the fuck is wrong with you? It can't be normal to wish these things upon your own mother, no matter what she did to deserve it. She may have abandoned you, but the fact remains that she's your mother. You're pretty sure that's supposed to mean something to you, even now, so why doesn't it?

If Dioghal could talk to you here, she would tell you it doesn't matter, that this hatred doesn't mean you're broken somehow. She understands your overwhelming anger better than anyone else ever has. You're one and the same in that way, quick to lash out for the smallest reasons, unable to let go of the big reasons, no matter how much time passes. Sometimes you wonder if that's why she chose you, because you're as unforgiving as she is, with a temper to match her own. And other times, you wonder if this similarity might be a bad thing, if maybe you would have been better off with a more reasonable dragon — say, a green, like your cousin's — that would teach you control over your emotions, instead of encouraging you to act on your rage like Dioghal tends to do. She forgets that you're human, that unlike dragons, you're supposed to have morals, a conscience.

If Dioghal ever caught those thoughts, she would probably eat you alive for doubting her.

She leaps into the air, and you wish you could leave the feelings plaguing you behind just like the ground, quickly shrinking with distance, but it's never that simple.

You can blame the stinging in your eyes on the wind, having foregone your goggles in your hurry to get off the beach, but there's no denying the sob that works it's way up your throat. Another follows, and another, and now your cheeks are stained wet, and with your eyes closed, you can pretend you've flown into a cloud and that's where the wetness comes from, but you know that if you open them, you won't be in the clouds. It would make no sense to fly that high, not when you're supposed to survey the isle for signs of the irids.

Bending at the waist, you press your face against Dioghal's warm scales and try to pretend your distress away. When that doesn't work, you allow yourself another sob, two. You have to stop. Dioghal may understand your anger, but she doesn't have much patience for tears. You squeeze your eyes shut, gnawing at your lip until blood floods your mouth. It's a reassuring taste. The pain in your lip isn't enough to distract you from your emotional hurt, but it gives you the strength to push past it and straighten in the seat.

Far below you, Hedotis's capital sprawles into the distance in it's orderly rows of identical pale houses. You can't deny there's a sort of beauty to it, but the city does not look alive the way Aretia or even Basgiath's small village of Chantara do. This kind of orderliness isn't natural.

It's hard to wrap your head around the fact that this is where your mother must have come from, that your ancestors lived here — maybe not in this very city, but in one like it somewhere on this isle. These are your roots. Talia's home, that she abandoned you to return to.

You hate it.

For hours, you fly along the coast, steering clear of any human dwellings and searching for signs of dragons in the less populated spots. As expected, you find nothing.

Despite how hungry Dioghal must be, she shows no intention to land and find something to eat. You know it's your obvious distress that keeps her in the air; she's protective of you to a fault, like— You flinch at the thought. Like a doting mother. Your eyes burn. Your mother abandoned you, but at least you now have a dragon to play the role she didn't want. Not that you'd ever say that to Dioghal's face. She has a habit of waving that poison-dripping scorpiontail of hers in your face when you call her out on her overprotective behavior, and she would take even more offense to being called a mother hen, no matter how true it is.

Guilt nags at you for keeping her from her well-deserved meal. She has to be tired, too. The flight to Hedotis had taken all night, and thanks to your meltdown, Dioghal has been circling overhead for another four hours or so while the others rested and fed themselves. Without magic to give them strength, the dragons tire faster than they're used to.

"Maybe we should land," you yell over the wind. It's not just lonely being unable to talk through your mental link, but also terribly inconvenient. "I've calmed down now. Honest."

Her head swings around, golden eyes scrutinizing you in that way that makes you feel like she can see through you, straight to your soul. Apparently Dioghal is satisfied with what she sees, because she makes a turn for the northeastern shore, where you can make out Tairn and Sgaeyl's looming forms once you get closer, and slowly descends to land on a colorless beach near a colorless house.

Talia's colorless house, you realize, spotting Xaden and Violet on it's veranda. The distance is too big for you to hear them, but from the look of it, your brother is arguing with Sgaeyl. Amazing how he manages that even without being able to talk to her.

She roars something in his face, maybe Don't tell me what to do or Behave until I'm back, and turns, making a slightly friendlier sounding noise at Dioghal before flying off, Tairn and Andarna close behind her. Dioghal nudges you toward the house and turns to follow the small riot. You assume the sound must have been an invitation to eat together. Dragon relations are a mystery to you, but as far as you can tell, Dioghal is something like Sgaeyl's cool aunt.

Not wanting to go into or even near the house, you're contemplating whether you should just make yourself comfortable in the sand or maybe go for a swim, when you notice two dark-haired boys watching you. They hadn't been there when you'd scanned the area from the air, which means they must have come from inside the house, probably attracted by Sgaeyl's roar. That in turn raises the question of whose children these are. You don't want to think about it, but... It's your mother's house. Of course it's possible someone else lives there with her and her husband, maybe a widowed sister or something. Or maybe the kids belong to someone who works for them; you just have to look at the place to know they have a whole army of staff. And yet the most painful conclusion also is the most obvious, the most likely — if Talia has a new life with a new husband, why shouldn't she have new children, too?

The thought makes you feel like crying again, so you turn to stare out over the water and do your best to ignore the boys. You don't want to know who they are.

And yet, when you hear voices a moment later, you turn to look again. You blame it on the self-preservation instincts Basgiath has instilled in you, edging on paranoia. Even before that, you never liked having something happening behind your back, but now it positively makes your skin crawl to be facing away from potential danger. What you see doesn't seem very dangerous, though. The boys are still there, and a woman fusses over the pair of them — some kind of maid, judging from the look of her.

Maybe that is their mother. Or maybe it's her job to look after them. What do you care?

But you do. You trail them with your eyes as they start back toward the house. Just as you're about to lose interest and turn away, Talia rushes from the house, straight toward the boys.

Your throat constricts. No. You don't want them to be hers.

But as you watch on, it's obvious they are. You don't understand what they're saying, since it's all in Hedotic and you're almost out of earshot, anyway, but you don't have to. It's all over Talia's face, in her tone, in every gesture and touch she makes. So loving, so tender.

Your heart aches as you watch her run her hands over their hair like she'd done yours when you were little. When she'd still loved you. Or pretended like she did, anyway. You're not sure which it was, and it doesn't really make a difference. Those times are long gone.

Your shaking hands curl into fists as the hatred inside you grows, demanding an outlet.

Not enough that she abandoned you. No, she fucking replaced you. With these boys, who no doubt are nicer, better behaved, less prone to meltdowns. You'd always known you weren't good enough, too difficult to be considered worthy of her love.

Xaden spent years trying to convince you it hadn't been your fault she left. He and Dad loved you despite your faults, wasn't that proof enough that you weren't unlovable like you thought? Sometimes, you almost believed him. After all, your mother had abandoned not only you, but Xaden, too — flawless Xaden, who you'd always been aware was your parents' favorite, who always had to serve as your good example when you acted out. Not even he had been enough to make her stay, so you'd let him convince you that maybe the problem really wasn't you. Maybe there was something wrong with her. It was easy enough to pretend so; she was gone, and memories blurred with time.

But now here she is, playing the loving mother for these boys, so it must have been your fault after all.

You stalk closer, unsure what you'll do when you reach them. It won't be pretty, that's all you know. You feel like a predator advancing on its unsuspecting prey.

Just a handful of steps and you'll be right behind them, and they still haven't noticed you.

Mom. The word is on the tip of your tongue, but you can't get it out. It feels too wrong. She will always be your mother, there's nothing you can do about that, but she stopped being your mom the moment she disappeared into the night without so much as a goodbye.

You still remember how you'd woken up that morning, happy and unsuspecting. You remember Xaden, who'd been awake earlier than you, sitting over his untouched breakfast — chocolate cake, left over from his birthday the day before. You knew something was wrong then, and that it had to be serious. There wasn't much that could kill Xaden's appetite, especially when it came to cake. You remember how you hesitated, slowly walking to the table and sitting down, not sure you wanted to know. Finally, you gathered your courage and asked what had happened.

"Mom is gone," Xaden had responded glumly, shoving his untouched plate of cake to you and rising from the table.

"Gone?" you'd asked, briefly wondering if he meant gone as in dead. Adults sometimes talked that way, but you didn't think Xaden would. "Gone where?"

"Away."

Xaden had stomped off to his room — to cry, presumably — and you dug into the cake he'd spurned, vaguely angry with Talia for making your big brother so sad, but still thinking that surely she would come back after a few days at most.

Her absence hadn't sunken in for you right away the way it did for Xaden. You missed her, sure, and you were upset, yes, but that was mostly because Xaden was upset.

Your mother had always been there, so it made no sense to you that she shouldn't be anymore. That she should have abandoned you seemed as absurd as the idea of water not being wet, or fire being cold. Children and their parents belonged together, that had always been a simple fact to you. Therefore, it wasn't until a few weeks had gone by that you were able to believe that she wasn't coming back.

Then you started to wonder why, and it didn't take long to come to the conclusion that it must have been your fault somehow. It always was. When she was unhappy, or tired, or had a headache, when something broke or there were chocolate smudges on the window; it was always because you had thrown a tantrum or refused to go to bed, because you had been too loud, too clumsy and careless. In your parents' eyes, you could never do anything right. Talia especially had always seen right through all your attempts of being good, of being like Xaden, straight to your rotten core. For as long as you remember, you always felt that something was fundamentally wrong with you, and your mother knew it, too. She never said so, tried not to show it, but she must have felt it, or she wouldn't have left.

And it's true, there has to be something wrong with you. Otherwise, you wouldn't be slinking toward the wholesome little group like a wolf amongst sheep, mind racing with bloody scenarios. You should be happy to see her, not want to throttle her.

You're close now, a step or two more and you'd be close enough to reach out and touch your mother's back, should you want to. You still have no idea what you want to say or do when she notices you, if you'll even be able to get any words out or if the rage will take over like it did this morning.

You hesitate. It might be better to turn away now, before it's too late.

That's when one of the boys notices you, tapping his mother's — your mother's — arm and saying something in Hedotic, wide eyes on you.

You can only imagine what you must look like to these people, who have only ever known peace. The raised scar running along your collar bone that Dioghal gave you at Threshing is on full display with your flight jacket unbuttoned, the array of weapons strapped to your body glinting in the sunlight. You wonder if the boys have ever seen a blade before, kitchen knives aside. You don't think so. Not with the way Talia and the maid were fussing over them, like they're precious little treasures that need to be wrapped in silk and kept safe. So unlike you and Xaden, discarded to be forged into deadly weapons in the fire of war.

Talia turns, gasping in surprise to see it's you standing there, you, who she'd certainly noticed separating from the group that morning.

A tentative smile touches her lips. She takes a step toward you, hand raised as if to cup your cheek, but falters at your hard expression. Still smiling, but less so. She's nervous, probably struggling to see the pathetic child you were in the soldier before her.

"How nice that you could join us after all. Xaden's girlfriend said you wouldn't, that you had to monitor the area. I'm so glad—"

"I didn't," you cut her rambling short. It's only half a lie. Xaden sent you patrolling mainly to distract you, so it wasn't like you'd had to do it. "I just didn't want to see you."

You thank Dunne that the words come out just as coldly as you intended them to, despite the tears wanting break free again.

Your mother flinches, and the smile falls.

Good. How dare she talk like that, after being gone for almost two thirds of your life? Is she really that ignorant of what pain she caused you, or does she simply believe she's entitled to your forgiveness? Whichever it is, she'll know better soon.

"You abandoned me," you say before she can recover from the shock of your words, which should not have shocked her at all — wouldn't have, if she'd ever cared enough to truly know you. You've always held onto your grudges, clung to them, really. "Abandoned us. Does that mean nothing to you?"

You assume the whelps don't understand the common language — it's only common to the Continent, after all. A shame, really. You want them to know their mommy isn't as perfect and loving as they probably think, to know she's already left a pair of her children behind without looking back once and there's nothing stopping her from doing the same to them.

"Of course it does," Talia exclaims, "but you have to understand—"

"I don't have to understand shit!"

Dragons don't listen to sheep, that's what Dioghal would say.

"I didn't want to leave you behind, but I couldn't take you with me," Talia continues to defend herself. "Xaden was the heir, and you..."

You're the spare, that's what she's too cowardly to say. She should have thought about that sooner. Of course she couldn't take either of you from Tyrrendor, that would have defeated the point of your very existence. She knew her children would have to grow up in Aretia when she married your father. Was she planning to abandon you even then, years before you were born?

"I couldn't bring you!" she repeats.

The tear that runs down her cheek only make you angrier. What right does she have to cry?! It's your and Xaden's lives she ruined, while she was here playing house with her oh so lovely new family. It makes you want to turn the whole place to rubble. To climb onto Dioghal and torch it all, force Talia to watch her neat little house burn the way you'd had to watch Aretia burn. To take away the happiness she'd found while you were suffering.

"You could have stayed!" You meet Talia's eyes for the first and last time and repeat yourself more quietly, "You could have stayed."

Then, faster than Talia could ever hope to comprehend, you grab the younger boy by the shoulder, ripping him away from her and setting a dagger at his throat in the span of a second.

"No! Gaius!" she shrieks, color draining from her face. "Don't hurt him!"

Her fear is both gratifying and infuriating. If someone had done the same to you, would she have cared as much? You almost laugh at the thought. No, if it had been you in that boy's stead, she wouldn't have given a damn.

Talia pushes the other boy behind herself, hand clasped so tightly around his arm he winces in pain. She doesn't notice, gaze fixed on her youngest. At least you think he's her youngest. For all you know she could have more children hidden inside the house.

The maid shuffles backwards with tiny steps, as if you won't notice what she's doing that way. She's still well within knife-throwing range when she turns and makes a run for the house, but you let her go. It's not her you care about, and any help she might return with will come too late. The blade is already nicking the boy's skin; one wrong move from anyone and he'll be dead.

"Please," your mother cries, "let him go! We'll do anything you want. My husband is part of the triumvirate, he can give you whatever information you want, just don't hurt our boy!"

She thinks you're doing this for information? Things must've not gone well for the others so far, then, a realization that only adds fuel to the burning rage inside you. Doesn't she care at all what happens to you and Xaden, not even enough to put in a good word with her husband?

You shake your head, lips curling in disgust. Does she have no spine or dignity at all?

"The only thing I want is for you to suffer. And since you seem so attached to these boys, killing them will be a good start. You think I'm just taking this one hostage?" You laugh, the resulting sound harsh and ugly in a way that sounds foreign to your ears, not like you at all. "No. I'll make you watch me slit both their throats just for fun."

"They're children!"

"So were we!" you scream, voice breaking as you finally lose control of the tears you've been wrestling with for hours. "We were just children too when you decided you didn't want us anymore and fucked off without a word! You think that doesn't do anything to a child, being abandoned like that?!"

"You had your father!"

"Until we didn't," you bite out. "But that's not even the point! The point is that you pretended to love us while you had to put up with us, and then as soon as you could, you ran away behind our backs like the coward you are. Would it have killed you to tell us you were leaving, to give us a chance to say goodbye?!"

As you speak, you give the boy in your hands a shake, your dagger scraping his skin ever so slightly. He cries out for your mother, who is staring at the blade against his neck with such intense concentration you doubt she heard a single word you said. You don't know why you even bothered.

She says something to the boy in Hedotic — hopefully to calm him. She would have to be an even bigger fool than you thought to believe he could escape you.

"Please don't hurt him," she sobs again. "Do what you want to me, but let Gaius go!"

As if. Killing your mother is still on the table, but for now, watching her fear for her son's life is much more satisfying than the brief pleasure of putting a knife into her would be.

If only you could stop crying. Talia is not worth your tears, and you hate letting her see you cry, hate giving her that power over you. Crying in front of people has always felt humiliating, like a display of your lacking self-control. And crying in front of your mother now, after all the time that's gone by since she left, really ruins the picture of the cold-blooded soldier you want her to see. You want the thought of what the innocent child she left behind has become to haunt her — a futile hope, probably. If she cared, you wouldn't be in this situation.

Shouts from the direction of the house alert you that others have become aware of what's happening, but your eyes never stray from your mother's panicked form. For better or worse, she has your undivided attention.

You should do it now. Drag it out much longer, and whoever is coming from the house might manage to stop you. Peaceful place or not, they would be fools not to have some sort of security personnel. You could probably take them on, but that would mean letting the boys go, and that is not happening. They're the ticket to Talia's personal hell.

From the corner of your eye, you see Xaden approach. He moves carefully, the way you would around a corned animal, and stops a dragon's length away.

He calls your name, so softly you almost miss it, and cautions, "Don't do something you'll regret, baby."

"What difference does it make? She's always looked at me like I'm some sort of monster, so I might as well prove her right."

It's stupid to be acting like this, you know. It's Xaden who will turn into an actual monster if you don't find a way to cure him. You're not going to get any closer to doing that by throwing pointless tantrums about things no one can change. But you've never been good at regulating your emotions. Even when you were little, your anger always consumed you. You thought you'd gotten better — you'd had to. All the power that comes with being a rider is dangerous in the hands of someone with the emotional stability of a toddler, so you'd worked hard on learning better self-control. Using sparring sessions to work through your feelings, you now usually manage to avoid the violent outbursts you were prone to as a child. But there is no coping mechanism strong enough to save you from the sheer hatred for your mother that has festered inside you for almost fourteen years, the embers of the despaired rage from when she'd left reignited into the burning flames they'd been when the pain of her departure was still fresh. The moment you saw her, the rage overwhelmed you the way it always had.

"It's not about her," Xaden reasons. Can't he see you're beyond reasoning? "It's about how you will feel once you've calmed down."

"Better, that's how I'll feel!"

But even in your frenzy, the tiny part of you still capable of rational thought knows that's not true. Never once have you actually felt better after one of your outbursts. You always think you'll feel better after you let it out, but every time you're left drained and ashamed instead, picking up the pieces.

One time — you must have been about eleven — you'd broken Xaden's snow globe, which had been a gift from your mother, in a rage. You'd felt horrible afterwards, and not just because he refused to speak to you for more than a week. After that, you'd promised yourself you wouldn't lose control of yourself like that ever again. Keeping that promise had been impossible, but the memory almost makes you halt. It's never too late to change, right?

But then your gaze falls back onto your mother — the same mother who'd thrown you away like an old toy she no longer wanted, never looking back, never caring what became of you in the rebellion or the impending war, now so keen on protecting these boys — and the hatred wins out.

"What makes them worthy of the love she denied us?" you demand of Xaden, not really wanting an answer. If she ever loved you at all, she has long stopped doing so. If there is a reason for it, it doesn't matter. "Why does she get to be happy with a new family while we had to suffer and fight for our lives every day for years?"

Without waiting for a response, you turn your dagger so that instead of the edge of the blade being lined up with the boy's throat, it's the tip that presses against his fragile skin.

For a moment you stare at your mother and wonder how it has come to this. Her desperate pleas mix with the boys' crying and the frantic voices of your squad, fading into the background until all you can hear is the racing of your own heart.

Then the dagger pierces skin. You sink it in to the hilt and yank sideways, slitting his throat wide open in a move you've practiced hundreds of times on the mats of Basgiath's gym. Never would you have thought that this would be how you'd come to use it for real.

Talia wails, lurching forward, and you shove the body into her outstretched arms. A fountain of blood sprays over your hands and your mother.

She cradles the boy to her chest, crying and blubbering words you're too far gone too understand. Maybe it's Hedotic. She's focused entirely on the life you already took, and that's her mistake. She doesn't notice you sidestepping her to get to the other boy, who stands frozen in terror, until it's too late.

He screams in fear as you advance on him, lifting his arms in an attempt to fight you off, but of course he doesn't stand a chance. If he'd ran while you were killing his brother he might have made it into the house. As it is, they're about to be reunited.

Talia screams again, even louder than before. "Simeon!"

She gets to her feet just as you stab the boy straight into the heart. Through the haze of your own tears, you watch as she catches his falling body and sinks to the ground with him, wailing all the while.

There's a blur of movement, and then someone's arms are around you, pulling you back against a strong chest. He holds you tightly, like he expects you to resist, squeezing your arms against your ribcage in a way that would be painful if you weren't so detached from your own body. Someone else takes your bloodstained hand into their own, prying your fingers apart to take away your blade.

You let it all happen, numb to the world.

People are shouting, hectically buzzing around. None of it registers. Your vision blurs, not with tears this time, but simply going unfocused. You barely feel the hands turning you to face away from it all. Now that your anger has run it's course and is wearing off, there's nothing left in you but the deep underlying despair you've long gotten used to.

You vaguely realize it was Xaden holding you as he lets go, stepping to your side and wordlessly leading you toward the ocean, where the dragons are waiting. You hadn't even noticed them returning.

As you walk, your head starts to clear, and you slowly become aware of yourself and your surroundings again. The way the sand shifts under your boots with every step. Warm blood dripping from your fingers, the heavy smell of it mixing with that of the sea. Your brother's hand, strong and steady against your back.

You're glad he doesn't take it away, even when you reach the dragons. If he did, you might just crumble under the weight of what you have done.

You keep your eyes trained on the sand beneath your feet, not wanting to see the horrified looks on everyone's faces. There can be no doubt they are horrified, after what they just witnessed. Even you are disturbed by your own actions. The uncontrollable anger might have been an almost constant companion for most of your life, but never before had it driven you to kill someone.

In the heat of the moment, you'd only seen the boys as tools to hurt your mother, but now it sinks in that they'd been people of their own. Children. Innocent. It hadn't been their fault that Talia replaced you with them. Now they're gone, and you can't take it back. You're not sure you want to, and that scares you most of all.

You look back only once. When you do, Talia still kneels in the blood-soaked sand where you left her, sobbing over the bodies of her youngest sons. Part of you thinks you should have finished the job and killed her too, but another, crueler part buried deep inside you whispers it's just right this way. This way, she'll suffer far more, for far longer. Then, viciously, you wonder if that's true. It was so easy for her to replace you and Xaden with these boys, who's to say she won't replace them just as easily? She probably is not yet too old to get pregnant again. Well, let her. No matter what she does, she'll have to live with the memory of their deaths, of her own helplessness in the face of your righteous fury. You hope it haunts her till the end of her days.

When Xaden stops walking, you do, too. Some of the others are rushing back into the house to get their things, but Xaden doesn't leave your side. Taking your rucksack from you, he digs through it until he finds a towel, and leads you to the edge of the water to clean the worst of the blood off you. Neither of you speaks a word while he does so.

You just stand there, staring into space while the past hours replay in your mind over and over again. The bloodshed could have been avoided, you think numbly, if only you had stayed in the air a few minutes longer. If you hadn't landed just when Sgaeyl roared, the boys would have been safely inside the house, and you would've never even known about them.

Finally you drag your gaze up from the ground to look at your brother. You're not sure what you expect to see on his face — disappointment, anger, horror... some sort of negative reaction to the atrocity you just committed, certainly. But you find neither. Instead, he's gazing at you with affection and worry you do not deserve. The look he gives you is almost like he understands, like he might have done the same. But that's absurd. Xaden would never throw a fit like that, would never let his anger out on innocents. He's the sane one of you two, the responsible one. He never would have risked the mission— Oh gods, the mission!

"I'm sorry," you whimper. "I ruined everything."

He shrugs, like it's not a big deal. As though you broke a tea cup or maybe a window, not ruined international relations forever by murdering innocent children. "They weren't going to be much help anyway."

"What if they know something that could help us and now we'll never know? It'll be my fault if— if—"

...if Xaden fully succumbs to the dark, is what you mean, but can't say so when you're not sure who might hear. As the isle of wisdom, Hedotis is the most likely to know a cure, isn't it? But thanks to you, there's no way any of you will be welcome here again, no way of being given access to their collected knowledge.

Your brother shakes his head, brushing a tear off your cheek. "They don't have magic here, so it's unlikely they know anything that would help us. Even if they did, they didn't give the impression of wanting to share their knowledge, regardless of your behavior. And they don't have an army they could aid us with, either."

He's just saying that to make you feel better.

They don't need to have magic to have information about magic. And information is something the people of Hedotis surely hoard. Aaric, Violet and Xaden are good at this whole diplomacy thing. They would have managed to make some kind of bargain and learn something useful if you hadn't fucked everything up.

They should have left you at home, never let you near anything or anyone important. Your mother was right, you're nothing but trouble. It would've been better for everyone around you if you'd never been born.

"I didn't want to hurt anyone," you whisper. At least you don't think you did. You certainly hadn't wanted to want to hurt anyone, which basically comes down to the same thing... doesn't it? "I just— I was so mad at her, and— They were right there and all defenselessness and—"

"I know," Xaden soothes, running a hand over your hair. "I know, baby. You don't have to explain yourself. I'm not judging you."

"You should, though! I— I'm—"

By now you're crying too hard to continue speaking.

"Shh, it's alright. You're not a monster," he says, somehow guessing what it is you'd meant to say. "You're just upset."

You certainly are, but that doesn't excuse what you've done.

Despite what he might think, Xaden's lack of concern about the matter is far from reassuring. Not that you want him to be mad at you, but his complete disregard for the lives you took makes you wonder if maybe he's already lost more of his humanity than you knew. But no. Surely he's just pretending not to care to your benefit. How could he be a soulless venin when he's looking at you so gently, soothing you just like he had so often when you were children and your parents didn't have the patience to deal with you? Venin or not, he's still a better person than you have ever been.

"Mom was right," you say, and immediately cry harder. Now you've done it, now you've called her that after all. "She always knew something was wrong with me."

"Nonsense," Xaden starts, but you don't let him speak. Now that you've started talking, the words just keep pouring out.

"I shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't be so mad at her, because it was my own fault she left. She never would have left if it wasn't for me. You were perfect even as a child. All I ever did was throw tantrums and cry." You manage a self-depreciating laugh between sobs. "Still do, apparently. I can't even blame her for wanting to get away from me, I'm just sorry you had to suffer for it, too."

Xaden takes your face between both hands, forcing you to look at him, though it's hard to make out his expression through the tears blurring your vision.

Shaking you for emphasis, he says, "It was not your fault. We've been through that a thousand times after she left, baby. There is nothing wrong with you for being emotional."

Calling you emotional is a severe understatement. For as long as you can remember, you've always been too much. Too clingy, too loud, too easily overwhelmed, too quick to cry and rage. Needy and out of control, a disgrace to your family line. Xaden can say it's not true all he wants; you know it is. And now you're a murderer too, on top of all that.

"And for k-killing those kids? Is there nothing wrong with me for that, either?" you ask angrily.

Xaden sighs. "You made a mistake. It happens. If you didn't feel bad about it I'd worry something's wrong with you, but you clearly do. It's okay. We're all capable of bad things."

You don't know what to say to that, so you don't respond.

For a few minutes, Xaden simply lets you cry. He doesn't try to calm you, doesn't scold you for breaking down. He just holds you, providing an anchor in reality and making the occasional soothing sound.

Then, someone says something. You can't make out the words over the sound of your own sobs, but the voice sounds like Violet's, and there's a note of urgency to it that gets your attention. You feel Xaden nod, and then he takes your hands, gently removing them from the death grip you're clutching the back of his shirt with, and holds you at arms length so he can look you in the face.

"I'm sorry, baby, but I need you to calm down, now. At least enough to get on Diogahl and fly. I know you're upset, and you can cry all you want later, but we really need to go. Okay? Think you can do that for me?"

You nod, even though you're not at all sure you'll be able to mount your dragon, let alone keep your seat once you're in the air. You can barely breathe.

Maybe that's okay. Maybe it would be better for everyone if you lose your seat and plummet into the sea. At least then you wouldn't hurt anyone anymore, wouldn't destroy everything you touch, wouldn't constantly disappoint those you love. Maybe they'd be better off without you. Your mother definitely was — or would have been, if you hadn't come back into her life.

"Hey," your brother's gentle voice pierces through the mess of your thoughts. "Breathe, baby. It's okay. If you can't fly—"

"I can," you croak, wiping your face with your sleeve. More tears are still falling, but you manage to trap the sobs inside, at least.

A glance toward your mother's house shows what brought on the hurry to leave: guards are coming. You knew they had to have some, but there's no triumph in being right. Forcing a deep breath, you swing your rucksack onto your back and tighten the straps with shaking hands. Meltdown or no meltdown, you can fly. You have to. You refuse to be responsible for even more bloodshed.

"That's the spirit," Xaden praises, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. "Try not to think too much about what happened. Just remember there's more to you than that anger, and that I love you, even if Mom doesn't. You're not evil."

"Okay. I'll try." The guards are getting close; you really have to hurry now if you want to avoid them. "Love you too."

Xaden waits until you've made it up Dioghal's leg; only then does he run to Sgaeyl, taking his seat as the others climb into the air. You get away just in time, and with your brother's words in mind, you hold on tight and don't look back.

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