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mental-health-and-jesus ¡ 2 months ago
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5-11-2025 | Bible App Their Verse of the Day | Matthew 1:21
🕊️🫶 ““And she shall give birth to a Son, and you shall call His Name יהושע for He shall save His people from their sins.” Mattithyahu‬ ‭1‬:‭21‬ ‭🫶🕊️
YouTube♥️ Channel Nathan Reynolds The Linen Railroad | Video Title :The Nomads of Yahweh | Luke 1:39-56
🕊️♥️ “And Miryam arose in those days and went into the hill country with haste, to a city of Yehuḏah, and entered into the house of Zeḵaryah and greeted Elisheḇa. And it came to be, when Elisheḇa heard the greeting of Miryam, that the baby leaped in her womb. And Elisheḇa was filled with the Set-apart Spirit, and called out with a loud voice and said, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb! “And who am I, that the mother of my Master should come to me? “For look, when the sound of your greeting came to my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy. Blessed is she who believed, for that which יהוה has said to her shall be accomplished! And Miryam said, “My being makes יהוה great, and my spirit has rejoiced in Elohim my Saviour. Because He looked on the humiliation of His female servant. For look, from now on all generations shall call me blessed. “For He who is mighty has done wonders for me, and set-apart is His Name. “And His compassion is from generation to generation, to those who fear Him. “He did mightily with His arm; He scattered the proud in the thought of their hearts. “He brought down rulers from their thrones, and exalted the lowly. “He has filled the hungry with good items, and the rich He has sent away empty. “He sustained Yisra’ĕl, His servant, in remembrance of His compassion, “as He spoke to our fathers, to Aḇraham and to his seed, forever. And Miryam stayed with her about three months, and returned to her home.” ‭‭Luqas 1‬:‭39‬-‭56‬ ‭♥️🕊️
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#Bible App | Psalm 139:14
🕊️❤️ “I give thanks to You, For I am awesomely and wondrously made! Wondrous are Your works, And my being knows it well.”Tehillim Psalms‬ ‭139‬:‭14‬ ‭❤️🕊️‬‬
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Bible App | Proverbs 18:22
🕊️✍🏻 “Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, And obtaineth favour of the LORD.” Proverbs‬ ‭18‬:‭22‬ ‭✍🏻🕊️
LORD✝️ YHWH✝️ אֲדֹנָי✝️ אלוהים✝️ Is Always With You 💗
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flowersforjude ¡ 21 days ago
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𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Remmick x Fem!Reader
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You had been taught from a young age that your body was a vessel for sin. You pray. You obey. You repent for desires you've never acted on. Until one night, something old and unholy walks out of the swamp. Remmick doesn’t ask for your obedience. He simply asks for you.
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12,353 (I'm incapable of writing short fics anymore stg)
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𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Mature Content-Explicit Descriptions Of Sex | Religious trauma, Shame-based upbringing, Mentions of blood, Vampire themes, Slight power imbalance (handled with care), Typical historical sexism, Horror themes, Smut: PIV sex, Loss of virginity, Period sex, Biting/marking, Worship kink, Oral(fem!receiving), Fingering, Begging/dirty talk, Dom/sub themes, Blood kink.
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | This is the freakiest shit I've ever written and I love it. I may have gotten a bit carried away, but I was a vampire slut as a teenager so this was like going back to my roots! It might seem a little drawn out, but I promise you it's worth it.
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“LORD, IF THERE BE ANY WICKED THOUGHT IN ME, CAST IT OUT.”
Knees sunk into warped pine, you knelt before the pulpit. Rigid spine drawn upwards like penance carved into posture. The chapel groaned with age beneath you, floorboards moaning like the ribs of something half-dead. Still, you didn’t move. Not when your knees screamed. Not when sweat slicked down your back. 
Pain, after all, was a righteous offering. 
Beyond clouded glass windows, Mississippi’s summer pressed its damp mouth to the world. Cicadas shrieked into the thick air—bold and blatant. As if even God’s smallest creatures knew no shame. 
But you did. You’d learned it young. 
At thirteen, the blood had come for the first time. Bright and damning, soaking through linen drawers like spilled sin. Your mama had wept into her handkerchief, Bible clenched to her chest.
Your daddy made you sleep in the shed out back that night. 
“You’re unclean now,” Mama had said. Her voice gentle as cattails blowing in the wind, but no less firm. “The devil speaks through blood like that.”
Since then, your body had become something separate from your soul. Something threatening to it. Something to be managed.
And so, you managed it. 
You scrubbed every corner of yourself with lye and scalding water, rubbed lavender oil behind your ears and under your arms to keep the scent of you polite. You covered your chest tight beneath your high-necked dresses and crossed your ankles even in sleep. You swallowed down every tremble, every heat that rose under your skin when you caught sight of a man’s hands. Thick-knuckled and dirty from work, veins like roots. 
When the wicked thoughts came—as they always did, uninvited and slow—you banished them with prayer. Over and over until your throat went hoarse and your vision blurred. 
Lord, make me clean. Lord, make me still. 
You learned to live inside the rhythm of denial. Every dish was washed with precision. Every verse memorized and recited without fault. Every smile measured, every word weighed. Even your silence was studied. Measured like sugar for a pie crust. 
Your daddy called you his “God-fearing girl.”
The town called you sweet. Gentle. A lamb.
But none of them heard the screaming behind your ribs. Still, you stayed soft, obedient. 
You turned your eyes away from boys who looked too long. You flinched when your daddy’s voice turned thundering at the pulpit, screaming about Jezebels and harlots and fire licking at the feet of women who let their hips sway too loose. 
Sometimes you wake in the middle of the night, thighs damp and heart racing, some dream fleeing your memory like smoke. The shame that followed was near biblical. You would kneel in front of your window and pray ‘til sunrise, whisper to the floorboards so Mama and Daddy wouldn’t hear. 
Still, deep in the belly of you, a wanting took root. Not loud, not crude, just hungry. Starved from being ignored so long.
That hunger frightened you more than Hell.
The sun had just begun to sink when you uncurled from the floor, joints stiff, knees aching with the kind of pain that settles deep and stays. Your dress clung damp to your back. The chapel had been empty when you arrived, and now as you left, it remained the same. The air still, dust dancing lazily in halos through fogged glass. 
Stepping outside felt like surfacing from deep water. The humidity met you like breath on your skin. Thick, and warm, and a little too familiar. Your shoes pressed down the dirt path in soft grinds on the pebbles, the hem of your dress sweeping across your ankles. 
Home was only a half mile away. Past a narrow field, and through the grove of pines your daddy always said was cursed. “Too quiet,” he’d muttered once. “Ain’t right when the trees don’t even sing.”
You never asked him what he meant. You were taught not to question the wisdom of men like him. 
The cicadas faded as you reached the edge of the trees. The air shifted, cooler now, like something had drawn the heat out of it. There was no wind. No hooting owls, no coyotes yipping, no chirping of crickets. The absence of all nighttime sounds. 
You paused.  
The setting light had gone strange, pale silver-washed, as though the sun had dipped too fast beneath the horizon. The shadows stretched longer here. Almost deliberate in their reach. 
It was then that you saw him. 
He stood beneath a drooping cypress, half swallowed by the gloaming. At first you thought he might’ve been carved from the tree itself—so still and rooted. But then he moved. Not like just any man, not exactly. Not with effort or weight in his steps. He simply shifted. Like water finding the shape of a new vessel.
Your breath caught in your throat. 
His eyes, too pale to be safe, met yours across the thinning distance. He looked like some creature out of folklore. The kind from tales whispered between women who’d seen too much and men who drank too late. Broad, sharp-jawed, dressed in a white and blue striped button-down with a pair of suspenders hitched over his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled, revealing forearms etched with faint old scars, and the collar of his shirt hung open—loose, like he’d never worn a buttoned thing in his life. 
He had no hat, no weapon, not even a smile. 
You should’ve run, but your feet stayed cemented to the gravel, fists tight in your skirt.
He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you like he knew the trance you were under. A muscle feathered in his jaw. Not with tension, but curiosity. Amusement, even. And when he did speak, his voice came low and smooth, like creekwater over stone. 
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, mouth curving up in the sort of smirk Mama warned you about. “Didn’t think anyone’d be out here.”
Your lips parted and then sealed shut again. You took a half step back, careful not to trip over the hem of your dress. 
“I didn’t mean to disturb—” you began, but his head tilted just a fraction. 
“You’re the preacher’s girl, right?” he asked, eyes narrowing with delighted focus.��
You nodded, barely. “Yes, sir.”
He huffed a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “No need for ‘sir’; I’m not that respectable.”
Silence stretched between you. Even though you’d been raised on the belief that it wasn’t polite for girls to talk too much, you wanted to fill the quiet. Spill your voice into the cracks. Your pulse throbbed in your throat before you rounded up the courage. 
“You shouldn’t be out here this time of night.”
“Neither should you, preacher’s daughter,” he drawled, a flicker of something dark and knowing curling the corner of his lips. “But here we are.”
He didn’t look like anyone from town and certainly didn’t talk like one. None of the townsfolk would’ve spoken to you the way he did. Unguarded and heedless of who you were. No, he wasn’t from around here at all. And yet…nothing about him seemed inherently strange. Just out of place. Like he belonged to a different world that had nudged its shoulder against yours for a moment, just long enough to make the air odd. 
He rocked back on the heels of his feet, like he was settling into the moment, not at all eager to leave it. “Didn’t catch your name.”
Giving out your name to strangers never seemed like a good idea to you. It felt wrong just to hand it out, especially not to spooky men alone in the woods. 
“Don’t think you need it, mister.” Your words are nearly swallowed by the blood rushing in your ears. 
That smirk returned, subtle and crooked and ruinous. “Suit yourself.”
His voice curled around the words like telling you he’d figure out your name anyway. Whether you gave it to him or not. And maybe he would; in a town as small as this, everybody knew everyone. 
He took a step forward. Not as a threat, not even boldly. 
The breath in your chest locked up tight anyway. Your ribs caging something suddenly wild and very much awake. Heat pricked at your cheeks, and shame rose in your belly like smoke curling from a chimney. You didn’t know this man, but the shape of him, the sound of him, felt like something your body recognized before your mind could catch up. 
You were both terrified and enchanted by him. 
“You always walk this way alone?” He asked.
You glanced away from his thralling eyes, throat going bone dry. “Ain’t usually anyone else out here.”
“You’re a peculiar thing,” he chuckled, pointing a wagging finger at you. 
You stiffened. “Why d’you say that?”
He shrugged, hands tucked lazily in his pockets. “I’ve been ‘round town awhile. Seen enough to know who stares down their nose and who just keeps their eyes down.” He fixed you with those keen eyes, turning up his nose almost like he was sniffing. “But you look like you’re tryin’ not to see at all.”
You sucked in a breath. You could feel your heart banging around inside you, like it wanted out.
This was wrong. 
Not just him, but the way the trees leaned in like they were listening, the way your skin felt charged under your dress. You could hear it echoing in your skull, how your name would sound rolling off his tongue if you’d chosen to give it to him. 
You didn’t even realize you’d taken a step back until your heel slid slightly on gravel.  
“I should get goin’,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out like water breaking through a dam.
He didn’t stop you as you danced around him. 
“Sure,” was all he said, amusement bending his voice. “Don’t let the woods eat ya on the way home.”
Your pace started out slow, but you could feel him behind you. Something made you look back. 
He’d moved back to where you first saw him, there under the swaying cypress tree half devoured by dusk and shadow. He stood just as still, only now his head was tilted the slightest bit. Like he was listening to something distant or savoring something close. 
When he caught you glancing at, him he grinned. Wickedly. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he’d caught a glimpse of the crack in your pious little shell and was toying with the thought of prying it open.
The moonlight caught his eyes, or maybe it wasn’t the light at all. For just a moment, they flashed red. Not bright. Not like fire. But like crimson blood. It was just a glint, sharp as wet teeth in the dark. 
Your breath hitched as you took a step back, your eyes still on him. Then another until your pace quickens into something just shy of a run. 
He watched you leave, that grin widening as you stumbled through the brush, skirts snagging on twigs, heart pounding like a hymn sung too fast. He didn’t chase after you, but he drank in your fear like it was fine whiskey. 
You could almost hear that smile taunting you. Ain’t you lucky I let you go?
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YOU DIDN’T WALK HOME NEAR THE GROVE ANYMORE.
You took the long road instead, through rows of dry fields and along the ridge where wild blackberries grew. 
But no matter how hard you tried to avoid it, you still saw him. 
Not fully at first, just a shape in your periphery. Standing motionless at the edge of things. Watching the horizon as though he had all the time in the world to wait for you to come to him.
You never stopped when you saw him; never spoke to him. You kept your eyes forward and your mouth shut. But your palms went damp against the cotton of your skirt, and your heart slammed into your ribs. 
You hadn’t slept that first night. 
You stayed curled under your quilt, ears straining at every creak in the house. You told yourself it was just wind on the windows, just the groan of old nails in old wood. But deep down, you knew better. 
Because the next evening, he was there again—this time down by the riverbed. 
You’d gone to fetch water just as the dark came on, trying to outpace the setting sun, but when you reached the bank, he was already there. Sitting on a fallen log like it was a church pew, skipping stones across the slow-moving current with easy, idle flicks of his wrist. 
He didn’t speak, but he didn’t really need to. 
You could feel his gaze on your back the whole time you filled the pail, like fingers dragging down the slope of your spine without ever touching skin. When you turned around, he was gone. 
You blinked once, twice; nothing but empty woods and water rippling in dusky light. The pail trembled in your hands the whole way home. 
By the third night, you started to wonder if you were going mad. 
You didn’t tell Mama or Daddy. You couldn’t. What would you even say? That some pale-eyed stranger was haunting the dirt roads and riverbeds. Staring like he could see every wicked little thought you’d tried so hard to drown.
No. 
That would only earn you a slap and a verse from Leviticus. 
So you stayed silent, but you didn’t feel safe. 
Especially not the fourth night when you saw him outside your bedroom window. 
It was just past midnight; the house had gone dead quiet hours ago. The air was heavy with heat and thunder-stillness. You’d risen from bed to press your forehead to the glass, the way you always did when your dreams left you flushed and frightened. The nighttime sounds had gone silent again. 
And then he was just there. 
Standing at the tree line just beyond the garden fence. Unmoving and unblinking. Lit only by the moon in the same striped shirt, the same loose collar, his hands in his pockets like this was nothing unusual. Like he belonged right there. 
You didn’t scream or dash away from the window. You just stared because a part of you had been expecting this. Dreading it and needing it in the same capacity.
His head tilted again, same as before. Curious. Amused. That slow, knowing smirk unspooling like thread across his mouth with those razor-sharp teeth as the needle.
 A chill slid down your spine like the slow crawl of a water moccasin, cold and coiling. Your heart jittered wild in your chest, beating like a grasshopper’s wings. Part of you screamed to look away, but some buried piece of you—that part the prayers never reached—couldn’t drag your eyes from him. 
You hoped he wouldn't see the internal tremor of your bones, but you knew he did.
He just watched you, like he was trying to decide whether to devour you or let you rot sweetly on the vine. The air felt thick with something unholy. Then from the darkness, a sound soft and low and syrup-slick. 
A laugh straight from the depths of Hell. 
He moved then, pushed himself from the fence post like it cost him nothing, the slow drag of his boots through the grass loud enough through the closed window. The garden seemed to hush around him; even the insects ceased their chattering. 
The moonlight reached for him as he stepped forward, bent toward him like it knew him. Like it’d been waiting to kiss his skin. 
You’d heard plenty of stories in church warning folks about demons who walked only in the dark and wore man’s skin like a borrowed coat. You’d never put much stock in them. 
But now?
Now he was standing in your garden, eyes burning like embers and teeth too sharp, framed by a mouth that smiled like it knew the taste of brimstone. 
He was beautiful in the way demons often were depicted hunting for mortal souls. Terrible and magnetic and full of ruin. 
And every bit of him seemed to say just one thing.
Come closer, little lamb. The door’s already open.
You didn’t remember unlatching the window. Just that your fingers were already there, trembling against the iron hook.
It groaned softly as it opened, just enough to let the air in. Enough to let him near.
He was closer now, no longer by the fence but halfway through the garden, where your mama’s tomato vines curled up splintering stakes. His boots were sunk into the dew-dark earth, but he moved like something that didn’t need to touch the ground to get where it was going. 
When he made it to the window, you gripped the sill to steady yourself. 
“Why you tormenting yourself like this?” His voice was whisper quiet, but it slithered right under your skin like smoke through a crack in the floorboards. You flinched but couldn’t bring yourself to move away. 
“What d’you mean?” Your voice sounded so small in this moment. 
He stepped closer still, until he was just beneath the window. His hands stayed in his pockets, body loose with an ease you’ve never seen another person possess. But his gaze was the only restless thing about him. It was fixed on you shining bloody, sharp, and starving.
“Lookin’ at me like that,” he murmured. “Pretending I’m the one you’re still scared of.”
Your throat worked around the thickness gathering there. 
“I don’t—I was just—” You broke off. Words slipped through your fingers like running water.
He tilted his head in that slow, animal way. “Oh, darlin’” And then with a quick click of his tongue, he frowned at you, like it saddened him that you couldn’t see the way he did. “You ain’t really afraid of me.”
The thought made your stomach twist. “I am,” you said too fast. 
“No, darlin’. You’re afraid of what you feel when I’m close. That heat in your belly. That little pulse in your throat. You were raised to call that fear.” He leaned forward just a hair, voice going lower. “But it ain’t.”
Your eyes stung as you blinked the emotion away. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.” 
He looked at you like something half-ripened and trembling on the vine. A peach not yet plucked, but splitting at the seam just the same. 
You turned your face slightly, ashamed of how badly you wanted to hear what he might say next. The window creaked as you pushed it open a little more. Not to get closer to him, but to let in some more air. That’s what you told yourself.
His eyes followed the movement. “You ever ask yourself why I keep comin’ back here?” He asked. 
You couldn’t find an answer. 
“You think I hang around ‘cause I like the scenery? The garden?” His mouth carved, those fangs of his poking out. “It ain’t the tomatoes bringin’ me, sweetheart.”
You pressed a hand to your chest, as if you could calm the racing in it with sheer will. “What are you?” you whispered. 
He smiled wider but didn’t answer. “Why’d you open the window tonight?” He asked instead. 
That struck something deep in you. A place none of your daddy’s sermons had ever managed to reach. You just stood there, bare feet on old wooden floor, moonlight kissing your cheekbone, your heart loud enough you were sure he could hear it. 
Then, with his eyes fully shining crimson and his voice softer than breath, he spoke with a flicker of something ancient. “Come outside.”
The words hit you low in the belly. And for a split second, you almost did. Almost pulled yourself over the sill without a second thought, like a girl in a folk tale about to be taken by the monsters lurking in the woods. 
But you didn’t. Something made you stay where you were, clinging to the windowsill like it was the edge of the world. Or the edge of your sanity. 
“I can’t,” you whispered. 
He watched you a moment longer, the red glow fading from those unnatural eyes. He nodded just once, like he expected that response from you. His grin lingered as he turned away. 
“That’s alright,” he said. “You will, or either I’ll hang ‘round long enough for you to invite me in.”
He seemed to blink out of existence then. There one minute and gone the next. With his presence no longer holding you in thrall, you stepped back from the window like it had burned you. Heart hammering all the way up your throat as you slammed the window shut. You dropped to your knees without thinking, palms slapping the floorboards, breath coming entirely too fast. 
You prayed, but not out of devotion; out of desperation. 
But no amount of prayer could vanish the image from your mind. 
His face in the moonlight. 
That devilish grin. 
The way his preternatural eyes seemed to strip you bare without even trying.
It was demeaning how intense the thought of him felt, how vivid it was. How warm. He’d crawled under your skin like a fever and made home there. Uninvited and relentless. 
And worse, it was disgusting to want like this. To fantasize in such a way about a man you’d only spoken to twice. One who you knew nothing about. A man who might not be a man at all. 
Because what you’d seen…the flash of red in his eyes, the fang-like teeth, the way the light didn’t touch him, the stillness that came with him that felt wrong in a world always rustling. 
You were certain he wasn't human. 
And still, he’d become the subject of every dark corner of your mind. 
Your nightmares, yes—those came first. Dreams of him dragging you into the woods, tearing into you with those monstrous canines.
But the fantasies came after.
Sinful ones that had your fingers curling in your sheets. Your thighs pressed tightly beneath your nightgown. The shame bloomed fresh each time when you saw the sunrise and realized your soul hadn’t been struck down for the things you let yourself imagine.
You hated it. 
You hated him.
You hated yourself most of all.
And yet, even as your knees ached and your lips whispered psalms too fast to understand, a single, damning truth settled at the base of your spine like a stone.
You weren’t praying for him or even the thoughts to go away. Because in the most blasphemous parts of yourself, you enjoyed this.
The night after he visited the window, you dreamt of him. 
He came not through the door, but through the trees. Born of shadows and honeysuckle, and grinning beneath the weight of the moon. His presence pulled the night close, like even the dark bent towards him in reverence. 
The grove bloomed around you, but it was wrong. Cyprus roots split the ground like vines. The air was thick with humidity and the heavy, heady scent of sweet rot. Moonlight filtered through the branches, pale as spilled milk, and everything was silent, as if the world held its breath. 
You stood barefoot in the middle of it all, nightgown clinging to your thighs, the hem damp. The trees whispered in a language your bones seemed to know. There was no wind. 
Then he appeared—just was, suddenly—behind you. Closer than your shadow. 
One hand came to rest on your hip, the other brushing your hair aside, fingers cold but careful, like he was unwrapping a relic.
“You ain’t a saint. Not a sinner neither.” He breathed, voice like molasses poured slow. “Just a…sweet-blooded thing.”
You couldn’t speak. You wanted to, but no words made it free before they died in your throat. Your body pulsed with some kind of rhythm not taught by sermons, but by earth, bone, and blood. His hands roamed without urgency, touching you like something holy, as he hummed low with his sinner’s breath. 
Your knees gave out when his hands wandered too close to between your legs. He caught you holding your weight up with one arm. He lowered his mouth to your throat, inhaled, and sighed like he’d come home. 
And then—
Then the woods split with light, hot and blinding, and his eyes—pale as salt, rimmed in red like dying coals—met yours for a single, damning moment.
You woke with a sharp gasp violent enough to cut through the air. You shot up in bed, heart galloping and skin clammy. The dream clung to you like moss, heavy and damp. 
You felt it before you even looked. 
The wet heat between your thighs and the ache low in your belly. The blood smeared across the sheets like rust on Sunday white. 
You didn’t scream.
You just wept. 
Curled into yourself on the stained bedding, rocking like you had done as a child during storms, when thunder shook the windowpanes and Mama told you to hush. That the rumbling was just God. 
You buried your face in your hands and whispered like a sinner at the feet of the Lord. 
“I didn’t ask for this.”
But somewhere, somehow, you knew you had.
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THE NEXT MORNING BROUGHT YOU NO MERCY. You woke in a fever of shame, the sheets damp and streaked rust-red. 
You’d barely stripped them from the bed and gotten them to the basin when your mama walked in, face already drawn with suspicion. She stopped short when she saw the washboard and the clear water turning pink.
Her mouth flattened. “You ain’t due,” she said simply, but it wasn’t a question. 
You kept your eyes on the suds, hands starting to shake as you scrubbed harder. 
“You been temptin’ something,” she murmured, voice gone cool and critical, like a snake easing through garden grass. “Lord sees everything, and so does a mother.”
You didn’t answer; you didn’t need to. Nothing you said would’ve made a difference. 
By noon your daddy knew. She’d told him in hushed tones over the breakfast table, her words laced with worry and faithful dread, her hands trembling around her coffee mug. 
The blood was a warning, she said. A sign that the devil was whispering, and her daughter was startin’ to listen.
The preacher’s face went hard as wood. There was no screaming, no belt. Just that look, and that was always worse. 
He sent you to the chapel before lunch, said it was time you remembered what it meant to be clean. Pure. God’s own daughter, not some wild thing led by flesh and fever. 
So you knelt all day.
Until your knees throbbed and your spine locked straight, until the air inside the church went stale and sweet from summer heat, and your throat was hoarse from whispered pleas.
You weren’t allowed water or allowed to sit. 
Just kneel, pray, repent. 
By the time evening came, your whole body ached. But the ache inside was louder. A low, relentless pulse that no prayer could silence.
When your daddy finally opened the chapel doors and sent you home, you walked like a ghost through the dusk, eyes empty.
You didn’t try to sleep that night. You knew it would be no use. So, you sat on your bed and waited. Waited because you knew he’d be out there. 
And when the animals fell quiet, when the breeze turned cool and still, and the moonlight poured soft and white through your curtain like cream in a glass, you knew. 
He’d come back. 
He wasn’t at the window, though. He’d gone to the tree.
The old white oak out front, the one your great-granddaddy planted with his own two hands nearly a century ago. Mama always called it the family’s spine. Said its roots ran so deep it could hold back Hell itself. Said it shaded the porch like a preacher’s hand. Protective and watching.
But tonight, it didn’t feel holy. Tonight it felt like it was aiding him, and he was anything but holy. 
You went out the front door before you could change your mind. Quiet as a fallen soul slipping out of confession, you opened it. The screen groaned on its hinges and snapped shut behind you.
The air outside was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and something faintly coppery, like blood in well water.
He leaned lazily against the oak’s trunk like he’d grown from it. Like he owned it. His sleeves were rolled, and his shirt rumpled. Shadows seemed to tuck themselves around his boots like hounds curling at their master’s feet. 
Once again, he let the silence simmer between you for a moment. If he was surprised you came out, he didn’t show it. 
You looked right back at him, jaw locked with some emotion that wasn’t quite courage. 
“I oughta tell you to leave,” you said, voice stifled but firm. 
He didn’t move. “Why don’t you?”
Your fingers knotted in the fabric of your nightdress. “Cause you won’t listen.”
That made him grin. “You’re smarter than you let on, preacher’s daughter.”
The night air wrapped tight around the both of you. The oak branches swayed without wind.
You stepped off the porch, slow like stepping into a grave you’d dug yourself. Dry leaves crunched beneath your feet as you got close enough to see his eyes already glinting that wrong shade. Like moonlight kissing iron.
He didn’t look monstrous tonight. Just wrong, like words spoken in reverse. 
You’d meant to confront him, to tell him to leave you alone. To make him. But now you stood before him, your voice softened like wax near flame. 
“Are you the devil?” It came out thin, breathy.
He let that sit in the air for a moment. A beat, then two. 
Then finally, “Would it matter if I was?” The words slithered straight down your spine.
You stared at him, heart thudding, lips parted, but no response seemed good enough. No verse, no warning, not even a whispered prayer. Because a part of you already knew. 
The devil in the pulpit wore rage and brimstone. 
The devil in the garden wore moonlight and a smile that made your knees weak. 
He pushed off the tree like he was just stretching his back, Like he hadn’t shattered your whole world view with those words.
You stood there like a deer caught by a hunter, bare feet in the loamy dark. The grass kissed your ankles, damp from the dew. The moonlight carved both of you into something unreal. Him all shadow and sharpened grin. You soft and lit from within like a lantern half-extinguished.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, but it came out too fragile. It didn’t sound like a protest; it sounded like longing dressed up in your Sunday best.
He stepped leisurely but with a certain deliberateness as the night seemed to part for him. “I ain’t the one who came knockin’, lamb,” he murmured. 
“I didn’t knock on nothin’,” you refuted. 
He looked at you through those searing eyes. “You came out the door, though.”
He reached you, then stood right in front of you. Close enough that you could smell the faint hints of aged cedar wood and burnt ashes and the unmistakable stench of blood. One of his hands lifted, slowly, to hover by your cheek. Not touching you yet, like he wanted you to touch him first.
“Tell me no,” he insisted.
Oh God, you should’ve. It was right there on your tongue, but you couldn’t get your voice to work. Not even as you felt a bead of sweat roll down your temple. From the heat, or fear, or something else you didn’t rightly know. 
Instead, you leaned forward like a sinner falling from the clouds of Heaven straight to the pits of Hell. It was just enough to let the tip of your nose brush his. Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt his exhale ghost across your lips like a curse. 
His fingers slid into your hair at the base of your skull and gripped. Not too tightly, but firm enough, as if testing whether or not you’d pull away. 
“Tell me no,” he provoked again, letting the sharp points of his teeth bare beneath a grin. “Go on, fight me.”
You did nothing. You said nothing. 
He chuckled. “Thought so.”
Then, before you could blink, he seized your shoulder with a grip like iron and spun you, swift and brutal as a summer storm. Your back hit his chest with a thud that knocked the breath from you, his body a wall of heat and muscle. 
One arm banded tight around your waist, the other clamped low on your hips, unyielding and possessive. Like he meant to etch his touch into your skin, make sure no part of you ever forgot it. 
You gasped, a soft, startled sound that was half swallowed by the night.
His breath dusted along your cheekbone, slow and scalding, as his hand slid up—up—to your throat. Not squeezing, just resting there. As if to remind you how easily he could. 
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. 
“That noise?” he hummed, voice with a growl like thick honey. “Ain’t even half of what I’m gonna have you singin’ for me.”
Then his mouth was on yours.
It was rough, yes, but there was an underlying horrible delight in it. Like he was savoring a ripe apple from the Garden of Eden itself. 
He kissed you like he was committing sacrilege. It wasn’t tender or kind; it was sin made flesh and pressed to your mouth. Heated like he wanted to scorch your skin, ruin your body and soul alike. 
You whimpered into it before you could stop yourself, shame and want bleeding into each other. Becoming something you couldn’t tell apart from the other. His other hand came to rest at your waist, splayed over your hip like it belonged there. Like he’d known the shape of you long before you’d met, long before you were even born.
You were shaking, not from fear, but from the weight of everything you’d been told you must never want. 
He kissed you like he already owned your hunger. And maybe he did. 
Because when his lips left yours and trailed down the edge of your jaw, you tilted your head like you’d done it a hundred times. Like your body recognized him, even if your soul still hadn’t caught up. 
“You feel that?” He whispered against your neck. “That ache in your belly?”
You nodded before you realized you were moving. 
“It ain’t shame, sugar. That’s you wakin’ up.”
His tongue brushed your skin, and you whined, the sound catching on the back of your throat. You should’ve slapped him. Should’ve fled. 
But instead your fingers reached up to curl into his hair. 
You were dizzy. Drunk on the darkness and whatever he was made of. Your thighs pressed together as if they could cage the heat rising between them. As if they could quiet the throb that started the moment he touched you. 
“You know I can smell it, right?” He said, drawing back just enough to look you in the eye. “The blood dripping outta that pretty cunt.” His thumb swiped the corner of your mouth. 
A ragged gasp ripped out of you, loud and trembling, like it’d been wrenched from the bottom of your lungs. Heat flooded your cheeks—hotter than Hellfire, hotter than a July sun. You tried to turn, wide-eyed, unsure if you’d even heard him right. But his hand stayed steady at your throat, a quiet pressure that kept you still. Anchored in place like a lamb frozen before the slaughter. 
Your breath hitched again, this time rougher, rougher than the words he’d just spoken.
No one had ever spoken of your body like that. As if it weren’t sacred in the way of being a temple of God’s creation, but sacred in the way of what being his would feel like. What being hungered for felt like. What being known felt like.
Your whole life had been Bible verses and closed doors and whispered warnings. And now here was this…creature, saying the unsayable, grinning like he’s torn a veil straight off Heaven and made you look at what was behind it.
“You gonna let me taste?” His voice sang into your ear, raspy and filled with near giddy enthusiasm. 
“W-what?” The word barely made it out, brittle and panting, like it didn’t belong to you at all. Your head was spinning, thoughts colliding like thunderclouds. You weren’t sure if you’d imagined what he said, if the world was tilting, or you were simply losing your mind. Everything inside you recoiled and leaned in at the same time, like a moth drawn to flame. 
“Just a little taste. It’ll be good, I promise.”
His words slid across your skin like velvet and barbed wire. You felt them in your chest, in your belly, in the places of your body that remained unexplored. The world has gone too quiet around you. The branches, the air, your own breath. 
You froze in his arms. Not from fear, but from the nearness of the house just behind you, your parents asleep in their bedroom not twenty steps away. From the raw ache between your legs. From the heat twisting inside you and the shame curling around it like ivy. 
You wanted him. 
God help you; you wanted him.
But not here, not in the front yard. Not under your great-granddaddy’s tree. Not with the windows dark and your daddy dreaming just feet from where his hand gripped your waist like he had every right to.
Your hand left his hair to press against his chest. 
“I—” You swallowed hard. “No, I can’t.”
He went still. Real still. If you were a smarter girl, you’d be afraid right now. 
After a beat, he let out a low breath that sounded somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle.
“There she is,” he murmured, voice coaxing instead of mocking. “Little lamb has teeth after all.”
His hand dropped from your throat slowly, the other sliding away from your waist. He didn’t lurch back or scowl. He didn’t curse or shame you; he just let go.
“You ain’t angry?” You whispered.
He tilted his head, grin turning softer than what you’d seen before. “Nah, I’m not angry. ‘Cause you will say yes,” he said certainly. “One night soon.”
“Tomorrow,” you blurted out.
His brow lifted, one corner of his mouth ticking up. “Tomorrow?”he echoed, slow and teasing, like he wanted to roll the word across his tongue again just to savor the taste.
You nodded abashedly. “It’s Sunday. Mama and Daddy’ll be at evening service. I’ll stay home. Say I’m unwell.”
A smile bloomed across his face like the devil hearing a hymn warped just enough to suit him. “Well, now,” he drawled. “Ain’t you full of surprises?”
Your breath came fast, chest rising like the air had finally remembered how to move. 
“You’ll come?” You asked, quieter, like part of you still doubted he was real. That all this was just temptation stitched into a dream.
His eyes roved over you one last time. “You’ll be the one invitin’ me in.”
He took one more step back into the dark, the shadows seeming to reach out to surround him. He gave you a final crooked grin, then, like always, he was just gone.
The air sighed after him. The oak creaked softly, as if exhaling too. 
You stood in place for another moment, your heartbeat ringing like church bells in your ears.
Tomorrow.
 You’d spilled the word without thinking, without planning; now it hung in the shadows. Stitched into the air between the tree and porch. It felt inevitable, though. This moment, you, him. 
You turned toward the house, and the screen door groaned as you pushed it open. The hallway was still, lit only by the faint moonlight seeping through the kitchen lace. Your bare feet whispered across the floorboards, each one squeaking like they wanted to tattle.
When you entered your room, you didn’t go to the window. He wouldn’t be there, but he said he’d come back. And you believed he would. Not like a boy who was hungry and impulsive. But like something old and well practiced in the art of patience. 
As you lay in bed, quilt pulled to your chin, your knees ached from the chapel. But your lips were sore from his mouth. Somewhere beneath your ribs, a hunger had bloomed.
Because the devil in the garden hadn’t asked for your soul. Only your permission. And you’d given it.
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MORNING CREPT IN SLOWLY AND SWOLLEN, HEAVY WITH THE SCENT OF RAIN AND YOUR DECISION. The sky outside hung pale and dull, as if the sun had second thoughts about rising. You stirred beneath your quilt, limbs stiff with ache, the ghost of his touch still clinging to your skin.
At the breakfast table, your movements were brittle, precise—a porcelain doll feigning breath. Spoon untouched. Biscuits going cold. You pressed a hand to your forehead, faking the flush of fever, and let your eyes linger unfocused on the woodgrain in the table like scripture too worn to read.
Your mama’s gaze was a blade behind her coffee cup. She eyed the tremble in your fingers, the pallor in your face. “You’re lookin’ a shade unwell,” she said at last, voice wrapped in thin linen concern, suspicion tucked neat beneath.
You didn’t look up. “Didn’t sleep good.”
The words rasped out like smoke from a chimney long gone cold.
You played the part through morning service, like a seasoned actress cast in her shining role. You wore your sickness like silk, light and convincing. Spoke only when spoken to. Let your eyes blur with imagined weariness. Folded your hands as if they weren’t stained with things that meant you’d burn in Hell. Sang the hymns like psalms of penance, though your mouth felt dry as ash.
When your daddy called for the wayward to rise, you stayed seated. When the prayer commenced, you bowed your head and kept your breath shallow. If they’d looked closer, they might’ve seen the lie curling beneath your lashes. 
But they believed you as easy as breathing. 
Easy as sin. 
By the time evening rolled around, you should’ve been in flames for how much you’d lied. But no lightning split the sky. No voice boomed from the heavens. Only the quiet nod of your father, the distracted sigh of your mother as she tied her shawl.
“A girl ain’t any good to the Lord if she’s too weak to stand,” your daddy said.
The words carried like a benediction, final and unquestioned. Your mama’s mouth twitched, tight as a drawstring purse, but she didn’t argue. Only adjusted her shawl and spared you a glance that lingered on your flushed cheeks. 
She left chicken broth simmering on the stove, the pot sweating like a guilty man in a prayer tent. “Don’t let it boil over,” she muttered, already halfway through the door.
You nodded, small and solemn as a lamb offered up on an altar.
The screen door clattered shut behind them, the sound sharp and thin in the warm hush of the house. A moment later, you heard the truck rumble to life, tires groaning down the gravel path like some beast being roused from its slumber. Then thick golden silence. 
The sun spilled sideways across the kitchen floor, the last light of it butter-yellow and dying. Shadows stretched long across the wood, and the house exhaled slow, as if even the walls knew what you were gonna invite in.
You sat at the edge of your bed with your hands folded tight in your lap. The lamplight fluttered beside you, casting the room in warmth and shadow. 
Your knees bounce once, twice, before you caught them with your palms. You swore you could hear the mantel clock ticking from the front room, but it could’ve been your ears ringing too. It grew louder with each passing second, like the calling of vultures as they circled a carcass. 
You shouldn’t have done this.
The thought passes through your mind as quickly as a hare. 
Any good girl would’ve known better. God-Fearing girls kept their windows closed at night and didn’t go out to have conversations with demons. They didn’t ache like this, in their bellies and bones.
Your window was closed, the front door too. He couldn’t come in unless you invited him. 
You could still stop it. You could still crawl into bed, hide beneath the hush of your parents’ God, and pray till your tongue went dry.
But the truth was, you didn’t want to pray no more. Not to a God who never answered you. Not to a god that was full of so much hatred and wrath.
You felt closer to the divine when he touched you. When he acknowledged the ache inside of you and didn’t shame you for it. When he decided your longing was his very own guitar string to pluck, then you ever felt when you cried out to God.
You wanted to know what it was like to be chosen. Not by God, but by the thing that watched you from the darkness like he wanted to devour you. You wanted his wickedness to ravage you. Let it seep into your soul and let you free.
But it still didn’t stop your fingers from shaking. Didn’t stop the thin sweat from blooming at your neck. 
The house had gone still. Too still. The kind of hush that settles on graveyards before storms. The kind you’d grown to recognize the last few nights. You could feel it building in your marrow. The pressure, the waiting. The dread that didn’t feel quite like dread. 
The clicking of the parlor clock bleeds through the walls, every second scraping against your skin like the bite of a distant insect. 
There was a knock.
Your breath caught, snagged in your throat like a fishhook. The room seemed to pulse with the sound. The wallpaper breathing. The floorboards holding their breath.
You rose like something called from a grave, unsure if it was your soul or your sin dragging you forward. Each step toward the door was heavy as a church bell. Your nightgown whispered against the wood floors, and every inch of you felt stretched—thin, lit from within like a lantern at the end of its oil.
You could feel the thrum of him through the wood as you reached the door. 
It looked the same as always—plain pine, white paint flaking at the edges, Mama’s lace curtain tucked in the window. But tonight, it felt like a boundary. A final veil between the life you were born into and the one you’d invited with your own trembling tongue.
You placed your hand on the knob.
“Lord forgive me,” you whispered, but you didn’t mean it. Not really. Because there was no salvation in what you were about to do.
Just surrender. 
The brass was cool under your palm, a mercy against the heat rising from your bones. You knew what stood on the other side. Knew he was waiting. 
You cracked it open slow like. The night spilled in like a secret, soft and damp and full of promise. 
He stood on the porch, the light catching on the edge of his smirk. He didn’t move, didn’t even shift his weight. 
He stood with the patience of something older than the air around you, something well-fed on the rituals of yearning girls and the sweet rot of their defiance.
The threshold hummed between you like a live wire. You could feel it. That old, bone-deep rule, the one no sermon ever spoke of, but every trembling child knew. Evil couldn’t cross unless you let it.
His eyes gleamed beneath the brim of night, catching what little moonlight the porch allowed. There was no white in them, no mercy, just a glint like storm-wet iron and the promise of undoing.
“Well,” he drawled, voice low and velvet-thick, “ain’t this a pretty picture?”
He took a breath, though he probably didn’t need to, and the porch boards beneath him groaned as if straining under the weight of something not entirely flesh. “I can’t come in,” he said, quiet, like the words were meant to be stitched into the air and left hanging there.
“I know,” you answered. All you needed to do was say the words. 
His lips parted, not quite a smile this time, but something softer, something that made your belly twist. “Then say it,” he said. “Say it proper, darlin’.”
A shiver ran up your spine, cold as baptismal water. You stared at him, at the way the shadows clung to his shoulders like a mantle, at the way the porch light dared not kiss his skin. You thought of all the stories your mama told, of blood and beasts and doors left ajar.
But you didn’t believe in fairy tales anymore.
You believed in what was right in front of you. 
So you parted your lips and let the words fall, soft as rain on a coffin lid. “You can come in.”
The moment you said it, the air seemed to shift. Like the house exhaled, or maybe it was you. Something unlatched inside, something old and hungry and no longer chained to the warnings of your father’s God.
He crossed the threshold without a sound. Not a step. Not a breath. He simply was there, inside. Closer than you thought he’d get.
Your lungs seized.
He smelled like blood still. You were beginning to think he always carried the scent with him. He leaned in close enough that your heartbeat stuttered.
“Thank you,” he whispered, voice all honey and hunger.
And then the door clicked shut behind him with the sound of something final. 
He didn’t jump on you right away, just looked around your home with seemingly curious eyes. His gaze moved through the house like a ghost tasting the air. Like he could see the prayers still stitched into the wood grain. Smell the repentance caught between wallpaper seams.
You watched him, chest tight, body wired with something above nervousness. He didn’t say anything else at first, didn’t need to. The hush between you was a thing with weight, heavier still for what was about to be broken.
His gaze found yours again, and in it was that same stillness he wore like a second skin—like he was made of waiting.
“Do you... want anything?” You asked, the words foolish, half-wilted on your tongue.
He stepped closer. Just one pace. But it was enough to draw the warmth from your skin and replace it with something cooler. “I already got what I came for.”
His voice slipped over your ears like dark silk. The space between you seemed to shrink, and you weren’t sure if it was his doing or your own. He raised a hand and touched the edge of your jaw. Just the pad of his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth, where your breath caught and held.
“Told myself I’d wait,” he murmured. “Let you lead.” His eyes dropped to your lips, then returned, gleaming. “But I’m a selfish thing sometimes.”
And before you could reply, before you could decide if you’d stop him, he bent forward and kissed you.
It was softer than you expected. So unlike the first time. There was no fire, no bloodlust. Just the aching press of mouth on mouth, as if he meant to read you by taste. Your hands curled at your sides, then rose of their own accord, fingers brushing the stiff cotton at his chest. His palm came to rest against the curve of your back, anchoring you in the middle of the storm you’d conjured.
You moaned against his lips, a sharp and involuntary sound, and he pulled back just enough to speak into your mouth, voice roughened with want. “Show me.” You didn’t ask what he meant. You already knew.
You stumbled backward down the hall, his mouth never far from yours, hands on your waist like a brand. He followed you with that inhuman stillness, that predator’s grace. Each step was made not of footsteps but of intent.
And when the bedroom door groaned shut behind you—
He turned you with fluid, startling ease, hands firm as iron as he swept you off your feet. You gasped, instinctively clinging to him, arms locking around his shoulders. Your legs, guided more by instinct than thought, wrapped around his waist as though your body already knew what to do. The world tipped, spun, and all you could feel was the press of him, his hands, and the dizzying pull of gravity undone. 
Lowering you down to the linen sheets of your bed, he moved like judgment falling slow from Heaven. His hands hiked the hem of your nightgown up your legs, bunching the fabric like offerings at the feet of an altar. The mattress beneath you was soft, rich with rot and temptation. 
He positioned himself between them, a serpent coiled in the garden, barring any retreat. One hand dropped to the inside of your thigh, fingers trailing higher like a creeping passion vine. You felt yourself relax into the sheets, widening the passage of your legs for him without even meaning to.
He watched you earnestly, like you were the only holy thing he put faith in. His hands reached for the soft cotton of your panties, like he was peeling back a church veil, uncovering something too sacred for daylight. When he pulled the fabric aside and leaned in, he let out a moan like he was breathing in sin straight from the source. 
A sound rumbled from his chest, low and devout. “Oh God almighty,” he near groaned, voice thick with awe and hunger. “Ain’t you a sight, darlin’.”
In a flash, your panties were off, and you were exposed to him, the night air, and God Himself. You knew you should've been embarrassed; the shame should’ve been eating you alive. But even with your bleeding center, raw and red as a dogwood bloom in spring, all you can do is look down at the demon between your legs. 
By the lord, he’s drooling. Thick spit glistening on his chin, dripping slowly like sap from tree bark. His eyes were lit with hunger that bordered on worship.
You’d been taught since the first time you bled that it was a curse. That it made you unclean. A doorway for devils, a mark of Eve’s sin carved fresh each month into your flesh. Mama said that blood like that was how the devil spoke. That it had to be washed out, silenced with scripture, buried beneath cotton drawers and long skirts and locked knees.
But here he was, salivating at the sight alone, eyes blown wide as if your body’s bleeding was the beginning of a gospel only he could read.
That’s why when he said, “You smell so sweet, darlin’. You gonna let me taste you?”
You nodded, “Yes.”
His mouth is on you in an instant. 
You nearly let out a scream, but your continued piousness stitched your lips shut. Your fingers twisted into the blankets instead, clenching around them until your bones hurt. He licks a stripe up your center, pressing harder against the top where something shoots hot white spikes down your spine.
Stars blink in and out of view behind your eyelids like fireflies caught in a mason jar. His mouth moves slowly, like easing into cold creekwater. He leaves little licks on that tender bud of nerves at the apex, drawing sounds from you like spirits from a grave, keening soft in the back of your throat. His mouth feels like the first warm rays of a new summer sun breaking through the clouds as his tongue glides up and then rolls over that button. He presses a sugary sweet kiss to your slit, hands prying open your legs as wide as they’d go. 
Turns out, that sweetness of his was just borrowed time—grace before the ruin.
He growled into you, like something pulled from the floorboards of the church, thick with rot. Then his wickedness grins, all teeth and no mercy. He grips your hips tight, nails sinking into your flesh like marks left by the devil making a covenant. His tongue works you over with near evil intent. He consumes you like it’s the only desire he’s ever had, gulping down every drop of your essence like it’s a sacrament. Like you’re the altar and he’s been starving for centuries. 
Your legs shake in his hold as the moans you’re holding back threaten to spill out, scattering like dandelion seeds caught in the wind. When he moves to suck on that delightful spot, again you can’t help but cry out, “Oh God!”
The snarl that tears from his throat thrums through your core, like a storm shaking the rafters. When you glance down, you’re met with eyes glowing the color of fresh blood spilled on altar steps. Feral and lit with something not of this world. A predator’s gaze.
“No name you should be sayin’ but mine,” he growls, voice rough as bark and twice as deep. “Remmick, sweetheart. That’s all you need.”
“Remmick,” you say breathlessly, testing how his name rolls from your tongue. Like the strike of a match just before it catches fire.
He hums low in his throat. “That’s right, baby,” he said before his face disappeared inside you once again. 
Something warm is coiling in your lower belly, winding you up like a pocket watch about to snap. Each swipe, each roll of his tongue, has that feeling growing tighter and tighter. Your voice pushes past your mouth in quiet cracks. 
It’s so wrong, downright wicked, what he’s doing to you. Wrong that you’re lettin’ him, wrong still that you don’t want to stop. Can’t even bring yourself to think about stopping, not when it feels like this. Like salvation dressed in silken sin. How can something born of such pleasure be damnable?
It surely doesn’t feel like Hell. It feels like Heaven’s front porch, and you’re laid bare beneath a man that knows every secret you swore to bury. If this is damnation, then maybe it’s always been stitched into your skin. Maybe Remmick’s touch ain’t dragging you down… maybe it’s just showing you where you already belong.
That thought should scare you senseless, but you can’t feel anything aside from him drinking from you so deeply, like he’s trying to crawl inside of you.
He speeds up his ministrations, his tongue raking across your core, licking all the way up to that sweet spot. You gasp as a fire begins to accompany the ringing coil in your belly. His mouth is so warm against you, laced with carnal motive. Everything sounds so soaked down where he works: the glide of his tongue, the quell of your blood, and the wetness from your arousal. 
He’s done being slow; he’s done teasing you to death. The unhurried air about him is gone as he devours everything your cunt gives him.
“Damn,” he groans against you, lips moving to kiss the inside of your thigh. “Never tasted anything quite like you.” Then, quicker than you can draw a shaky breath, there was a small sting. A sharp and sudden feeling, like the prickle of a thorn. You felt his fang split the sensitive skin, felt the warmth of your blood bloom from the cut. 
Remmick chuckled low, the sound curling around you like smoke. “My bad,” he drawled, voice thick with mock apology. “Sorry, darlin’.” But the glint in his eyes betrayed him; it hadn’t been an accident, and you both knew it. Before you could answer—not that you had the breath to—he dipped his head again, tongue darting out to lick the trail of blood. 
His eyes flash for a split moment, and a rumble of pure animalistic satisfaction comes from his chest. He redoubles his efforts once his mouth is back on your center. 
You're shaking all over now, barely able to conceal your growing cries. You slap one hand over your mouth, the other going to fist in his hair.
His tongue focuses on that bud, circling over it with obscene faithfulness. Your fingers in his hair pull without meaning to, making him shudder between your legs, moaning into you like he wants you to rip the strands from his scalp. 
Remmick moves his attention lower, to the entrance of your very being. His tongue delves into that passage, thrusting deep enough it had your back arching off the ground. His nose nudges your bundle of nerves in time with the press of his tongue. 
That coil in your lower belly threatens to give. Fireworks burst in your vision as his mouth stays locked in that position. Thrust, nudge, thrust, nudge. Even as your hips begin to rise up to meet him, he holds you still with his arms bolted around your thighs. 
You squeal behind your palm, tears pricking in your eyes as the feeling that’s been building burns through you. Like the holiest Hellfire merged together by your coupling. It races across your every nerve ending, Remmick groaning when he feels you clench around his tongue.
And he doesn’t stop, not when your thighs close around his head. Not when your hand in his hair tries to pull him up. Not when you whimper his name to get his attention. 
He keeps running his tongue over you, cleaning up every drop of blood, and your arousal. When he finally does move away, raising his face to look at you, he’s an absolute mess.
The silence that followed was a different kind of divine. 
The kind never heard in churches, but in the hush of a forest after a storm. Not peaceful, but the aching stillness of something changed. Something that was never coming back. 
You laid curled in the mess of it, linens beneath your back, the ghost of him still between your thighs. Shame and satisfaction bleed together in your bones. 
Your body was still trembling as Remmick leaned back on his heels. His hands smoothed up your thighs, calming the shaking even if he didn’t mean to. His eyes no longer glowed red, but they hadn’t dulled either. They watched you like a man who’d found God in a place no one else thought to look.
“Well now,” he said, voice lowly laced with honey. “Look at you.”
You flushed, turning your face into the crook of your arm, ashamed of the tears still clinging to your lashes and the heat still pooling between your legs even after everything. Your body felt unfamiliar, like you’d been rewritten. 
Remmick chuckled, soft and smug, but not unkind. “Didn’t think you’d come apart like that. Thought I’d have to work harder.”
You shot him a look then. Half glaring and half gawking at him. 
He grinned wider, teeth white but not sharp now. “Ah, don’t give me that face. You should be proud, sugar. That was a kind of worship, what you just gave me.”
He reached for you, slow as syrup spilling from a spoon, hands sliding over your hips. You flinched under his touch from sensitivity, your skin feeling fuzzy with little aftershocks. And your body, the traitorous thing it was, arched into his palms like a flower reaching for sun.
“We ain’t done,” he said, voice curling low in his chest. 
Your breath caught when he dipped to kiss your belly. Once. Then again. Moving higher as he went, his lethal canines scraping along your flesh. 
You glanced down to look at him, gasping when you see what’s now decorating your stomach. Bloody kiss marks are smeared across your skin. His messy face making you stained right along with him. 
Remmick smiled against you, eyes flickering up to meet your stunned expression. “Let me ruin you proper,” he whispered with soiled lips. 
He moaned into you, eyes still locked on yours as he slid a hand between your legs. One of his fingers pressed into that passage, same as his tongue had done moments ago. 
You gasped at the foreign feeling, head pressing back into the pillow.
“Nuh uh,” he scolded. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
You do without hesitation, eyes darting back down as if beguiled. His mouth continued to press kisses to your belly while his finger worked in and out of you. Your breath began to quicken again, sparks of that fire reigniting. He added a second finger, making you whine at the intrusion. But it wasn’t an awful feeling; it was strange but satisfying. 
“Remmick!” You cried out when he curled them upwards, pressing against something that brought tears to your eyes. He kept that movement up once, twice, and three times before you went to close your legs around him. A pathetic few tears spilling over. 
“Oh, darlin’.” He cooed, prying your legs back open. He moved then, body stretched over yours, chest brushing yours with each breath he didn’t need to take, his weight settling on top of you. 
You shivered as you sniffled, caught somewhere between the aftershocks and the ache for more. 
“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your cheek. “I know what you need. I know how to help.”
One of his hands slid into your hair, fingers gliding through the strands with a sweetness you hadn’t expected. He stroked along your scalp, petting you like something precious. Like you hadn’t just let him defile you beneath your daddy’s roof. Like you weren’t still marked by his mouth and your own undoing.
“You want me to help you?” He asked, a certain amount of smugness dripping into his tone. 
You gave a soft, half-broken nod. 
That was all it took for him to rip your nightgown over your head. You had no time to be concerned for your modesty, because he was already fumbling with his belt, unbuckling and unzipping in a haste that was almost reeling. He tore the suspenders from his shoulders, shoving his trousers down before working on his shirt. Before you could fully prepare yourself, he was back over you. Your naked bodies perfectly aligned with each other. 
“Ain’t no sense in drawin’ it out,” he spoke against your throat, voice thick and taut with something close to hunger. “Cunt’s already beggin’ f’me. 
His hips rocked forward, not yet inside but threatening, the hard press of him sliding along the heat of you. You gasped, legs twitching to close around him, but he growled—low and guttural—grabbing your thighs and spreading them wider, anchoring them with his own. 
“Promise it won’t hurt too bad,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth, gentler than he had any right to be.
Your fingers clutched at his back, at his arms, nails catching skin, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, it made him press in harder, dragging the thick length of him through your slickness with a hiss through his teeth.
“God,” he muttered, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re soaked for me. Didn’t think you could get sweeter, but damn.”
Then, with no further warning, he pushed inside.
The air left your lungs in one shattered breath, back arching off the bed as the stretch burned through you. He filled you in one steady thrust, rough but precise, like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t see the point in waiting.
“Remmick—” you whimpered, voice high and caught between a sob and a moan.
“I know, I know,” he rasped, pressing a kiss to your temple even as he drew back to surge forward again. “It’s hurting so good, ain’t it? But you can take it. You will take it.”
He set a hard rhythm, driving into you in a way that’d leave you sore later on. You swore you could feel his craving wrap around you with each thrust, tight and invisible, choking out everything else. Your hands had started fisted around the sheets, knuckles bone-white, but now they raked up his spine, wanting just to feel him. His muscles jumped beneath your touch, a tension coiled tighter than wire. 
With your hands occupied, your moans and cries were free to float through the air. Remmick’s hold on your hips allowed him to pull you into him. He did so roughly, as if to remind you where he was, what you’d let him do. 
An especially harsh snap of his hips had you sucking in a stuttering breath. It felt like you were being split apart, like a log sliced through with an axe, but it was the most divine thing you’d ever experienced. He made love to you deeply enough that it felt like he was caressing your soul.
Remmick is groaning and panting above you, seemingly losing his own composure right along with you. Cock pressing into you as one hand moves from your hips to between your bodies. His fingers find that bud again, pinching and teasing it until you were crying again. 
“Keep crying, sweetheart,” he moaned into your neck. “Y’tears are just as sweet.”
You shuddered at his words, tears still spilling, core clenching around his length. He grunted at the increased tightness, breathing deeply to steady himself as he drove inside of you with more urgency than before. His tongue darts out to lick up your throat before sucking a mark there. His fangs teasing their sharp edges over the sensitive skin. 
“Remmick, I…” Your damp eyes rolled back as a loud moan interrupted you. The incessant movement of his hips made it hard to form a coherent thought. Along with his fingers swirling your bud with faster and faster motions. Your body quivered as you felt that fire build up once more. 
“You gonna cum again so soon?” He chuckles, basking in the control he’s got over you. 
“Yes, please,” you can’t help but plead. 
His eyes flash that dangerous crimson, fangs bearing as he grins down at you. He picks up his pace, all but battering his cock into you. He still works his digits over your bud, overwhelming you with the onslaught of feelings. 
Your belly coils tighter and tighter like before. That warmth bubbling within you, begging to boil over. When it finally does, it’s the most violent thing you’ve experienced. It burns but in the most euphoric sensations, making you clamp down around him as you nearly scream his name. 
Remmick paws at you, movements faltering just a bit. He moves your legs higher up on his waist, letting himself sink deeper inside of you. Stars blink in and out of your vision; you whimper as you feel him invade every corner of your being.
His moans become more frequent, more loud. His hold on you becomes more bruising with each sharp thrust. Watching him lose even a piece of his control seems to draw out your release. You clench around him again, making an almost pained grunt leave his parted lips. 
“I need—” he mumbles barely audibly before he’s slicing a fang along your neck. That small, recognizable sting blooms across your skin again as he splits it open. Hot blood flows down your throat, but he’s licking it up before covering the cut with his mouth. 
He sucks your blood from the wound, still slamming into your center. It only takes a few more before he freezes, a deep moan reverberating against your skin. Warmth seeps into you as he finishes. 
You both remained still for a moment. The room smelling of sweat and sin, like a baptism gone wrong. Every shuddering breath you took felt like it snagged on something unseen, a seam torn open and left to bleed. 
Your body trembled beneath him, limbs slack, soul aching in the hollows where his name had carved itself. There was a warmth between your legs that wasn’t all yours and a dull sting at your throat that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. His mark. His claim. And you had let him do all that and more. 
Remmick collapsed beside you, not with the grace of shadow, but with the slow, satisfied sprawl of something fed full. One arm draped heavy across your waist, anchoring you in place like he feared you might float away.
Neither of you spoke for some time, only breathed each other in. The tip of his nose brushing against your temple as if he needed to memorize the scent of you post-ruin.
Then his voice came, low, rough-edged, and tender, like gravel soaked in molasses. “You alright, lamb?”
Your throat was too raw for speech, so you just nodded, once or twice, eyes fluttering closed.
He shifted, careful this time, easing the tangled linens higher to shield you. His fingers found your hair again, dragging through it in absent strokes. Not with lust now, but with reverence. Like you were a song he hadn’t heard in a long time.
“You’re shakin’,” he murmured.
“It’s a good shake,” you whispered back.
He grinned as he kissed your shoulder with blood stained lips.
You turned your face into his chest, where his heart didn’t beat but his warmth still lingered. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” you confessed.
He curled around you like the dark curling around a dying candle. “That’s alright,” he assured. “Reckon you never liked who you were before anyhow.”
You couldn’t think about how he was probably right. Couldn’t think about how at some point he’d have to leave. Maybe never come back. You didn’t want to think about going back to normal preacher’s girl life after this. After him. 
Even if it meant your soul was damned, you didn’t care much. You just wanted to be his, not saved, but his.
Outside, the cicadas sang like mourners, but in his arms, you knew salvation. Not the kind Heaven promised, but the kind that came with being held in the devil’s gentle hands.
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﹙taglist﹚ @001-side
Listened to Ethel Cain on repeat while I wrote this.
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sarishim ¡ 2 years ago
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rudimentary tag drop, i'll add more as i think of them!
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— the man dressed in linen‚ who was standing above the river; visage. — hebrew nonsense (affectionate); ooc / jewish stuff. — always some kind of fucking temperature; ooc / misc. — how will you hear my words and pleas; ooc / psa. — the current hyperfixation; ooc / research. — adinah's ramblings; ooc / tbd. — my sword has been sharpened since the sixth day of creation; muse study. — i have stretched out my hand‚ and no one regards; psyche. — from endless lights‚ I come back to thee; dash games. — i was born to pave the way‚ to let the masses hear; prompts / memes. — i am the spark that sets the flame of truth alight; prompts / opens. — i am the prince of fire‚ i will perform a miracle within a miracle; musings. — through fire and water‚ i shall walk with thee; aesthetics. — i shall be with thee through good and bad; verse / main. — g-d grant me the serenity to know i had to do it to 'em; pinned / DNI. — on all levels except physical‚ i am hugging you / promos. — take my hand and let us walk for miles / playlist. — the golden wine follows through my veins‚ i know the holy words; threads. — thy empty words shall avail thee not; headcanons.
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ruinix ¡ 1 month ago
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The think fast I'm a random girl tik tok with Will Smith or Quinn Hughes?
Hello, lovely. With Quinn, yes, yes. (Sorry, I don't write for Will 😞 he's my child). I doomscrolled for this and another challenge in my inbox. I tried, of course. I always do. I hope you’ll like this. My bad for taking so long! You asked this back in April. I hope you’re still there. We thank @mrshelenhoran for sending me the picture on the left (of the banner). It visually screams QUINN—the facial hair, the nose, the plump lower lip.
Outfits & Evasions
TW/CW: 18+, Fluff, lots of kisses, Tiktok Challenge: Think fast, I'm a random girl. Slight suggestive tones.
Count: 1907 words | Masterlist | Taglist
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You are blasting songs in your shared walk-in closet. Hearing you sing along in some verses perfectly eases Quinn while he prepares for your date.
He combs through his hair with his fingers. When his hair keeps poking out by his ears in an uncomfortable way, he puts the tiniest bit of hair wax to tame his waves, tucking them behind his ears. After doing his hair, he washes his hand, drying them soon after.
He stares at himself, examining his beard. He runs his hand over it, tilting his head from side to side, his fingers feeling its length along his jaw, his chin. He squints at his moustache which is the same length as his beard. It is more than a stubble now but still tamed in his opinion. He wonders if he should’ve shaved it earlier.
You did tell him that you liked his beard, but that was two days ago. What if you don’t like his beard for your date? What if you prefer him to be clean shaven? Or maybe a shorter beard? Maybe he should trim it. Will you hate him for his facial hair? Why the fuck is he getting antsy right now?
He should stop.
So he does.
Sighing, he exits the bathroom, still hearing you rummage through your things behind the slightly ajar door beyond music. He wants to peek in and ask about his beard, but he also doesn’t want to interrupt whatever you’re doing. He knows that you take your preparations seriously, especially for dates.
However, he is curious if he is matching you. He likes it when his outfit matches yours, or at least, compliments it. He holds himself back because he also wants to be surprised if you are, so he doesn’t peek. Besides, despite being so proud of his fit—a safe combination of white linen-shirt with sleeves rolled up and khaki colored dress pants—he is open to change when he finally sees you. He doesn’t want you to change because of his clothes. He can do it himself. It will take him less than a minute to put on a new outfit. It will be easy. Well, he hopes it will be.
After he put on his dress shoes, ignoring the call of his sneakers, he sits down on the couch, throwing a slight glance to where he hid a bouquet of flowers he got delivered an hour ago. He lets the minutes pass, patiently waiting for you.
He scrolls through the messages from his family and replying to them while ignoring the “important” mails from Canucks management. At some point, he is humming a tune of one of your songs as he goes to Instagram. He instantly goes to your profile, staring hard into your posts like it’s his first time seeing them. He undoes the second button of his shirt after his body heats at the simple sight of your beauty. What can he do? You’re marvelous. While he is a simple man who easily gets turned on by you.
He hears your footsteps, halting his horny thoughts. He looks up, his jaw dropping instantly. You’re wearing a cream-colored dress with light brown ribbons crisscrossing down your sides, cinching the waist before it comes down to a flowy skirt that ends just a couple inches from your knees. Your neckline is low enough to hint your cleavage, giving ample space for your well-coordinated necklaces—some he had gifted you throughout the length of your relationship. You wear a particular flower-shaped earring with tiny diamonds on their centers and a few bracelets. . You looked amazing, so comfortable and pretty.
The shoulder bag that is perfectly the same shade as his pants is brimming with keychain trinkets, loudly blinking against each other. Quinn bets those trinkets weigh heavier than your bag and its contents. He will, for sure, carry it by the end of the night and he won't mind that. He’ll be delighted to carry your stuff for you.
You are matching him. The colors of your outfits fit and compliment one another. It makes him feel giddy, a slight blush coloring the tops of his cheeks the more he looks at you. He wants to say that you’re beautiful, but his words keep getting stuck on his throat as he stares while you set up your phone against the window. He’s utterly mesmerized by the way your skirt moved with your steps. You look ethereal.
"Quinny. Come." You grin, beckoning him with your hand and especially with your sweet smile.
That smile distracts him. He doesn't notice that you have this devious look in your eyes. That your phone is already recording, red circle blinking as time increases. That you are giggling, not just because of him following you without protest, but also because you are clearly concocting something. Quinn usually can see when you are planning something, but not now.
All he can think about is that you are calling him, so he needs to come to you.
He’s so lost in your smile, in the sparkle in your eyes, in you.
"You look handsome," you praise him the moment his hand touches yours.
Now, Quinn is full-on blushing. Your compliments truly hit him down to his core. There was something about compliments when they came from you. They mean so much more, because he knows that you mean your words. You are pure like that. The light of his life.
"You're beautiful," he throws back, grabbing your waist, pulling you flush against him, sighing when you wrap your arms around his nape. It emphasizes how perfectly you fit against him, in his arms. “We match., my Love.”
“Yes,” you murmur.
Quinn gazes at your lips that shine with your tinted lip gloss. He’s getting too focused on them, his mouth watering. His need to kiss you grows by the second, so he does. Just a soft peck. Then another, his tongue darting out to lick your glossed lips, groaning at its taste mixed with you. Again, another, slipping his tongue past your pretty lips, meeting your tongue. Perfect. You taste perfect.
He cups the back of your head. He feels absolutely greedy as he kisses your lip gloss off your lips, as he keeps on deepening the kiss when you want to take pictures with him. He can’t help it. He needs to kiss you. All the time.
"Quinn," you murmur, smiling into the kiss.
You giggle when he groans a whimper, because you’re torturing him now. You pull away just enough to not allow him to slip his tongue into your lips again, to make him be at ease with small desperate kisses. He needs to kiss you as deep, so he tries to beg his way with those kisses, panting as you reciprocate some kisses but not all. His brows furrow together as confusion settles in his gut.
Your hand presses on his chest, pushing him away, so he backs off. Hesitantly. Tears almost burn their way out of his tear ducts. He finally notes the evil glint in your eyes. What the fuck is happening—
"Think fast, I’m a random girl,” you say in a raspy tone that almost draws him in.
No, it does draw him in. He almost kisses you again, your words not sinking into his hazed mind until they do. They sink in a snap. The hair at the back of his nape stands. Sharp shivers ran down his spine as you lean in, luring him in like a siren singing to lure weak-willed men who don’t know they are walking to their deaths.
He instantly recoils from you, instantly six feet away. Maybe even more. Especially when you try to chase after him.
“No,” he grits out.
The word almost doesn’t come out because he never likes saying no to you, but he has to right now, because you’re a…random girl?  Honestly, he’s confused as fuck. He only wants to kiss you and you’re not you? This is fucked. He doesn’t like this. Is this a test? He doesn’t like this test.
“Come on, let’s kiss, Quinn.” You manage to grip his arm. Your nails graze his skin. “Just one kiss.”
Quinn nearly folds. How can he not? You are looking at him with such wide eyes. Your touch electrifies his whole body down to his soul. You’re telling him to kiss you, the one thing he wants to do right now. Your tongue licks your lip before you bite down on it. You blink up at him, your hand running up and down his arm. He’s so close to doing what you ask.
Instead, he grips your hand, firmly pushing it away, then he turns away. His heart pounds in his chest from the adrenaline, from the sting of the mere act of putting his back on you. His body tenses. His whole being is protesting. He hates this.
When you try to touch him, he moves away, refusing to look at you directly. He side-eyes you, but even then, he is only looking at your hands to avoid them. He can’t look at your face. He knows he’ll lose it. He tries to be mad at you for trying this test on him, but he can’t. He is only upset that he wants your hands to touch him again. The sound of your giggle is making him cave.  
“So this is what you’ll do when you have a persistent girl on you?” You ask, stepping back, holding your hands behind you. “Saying no and not letting them touch you?”
Quinn finally looks at your face. He’s refusing to speak, his lips pursing together. He’s getting annoyed by the distance between you two more than he should be annoyed that you are laughing at him doing his best because this is literally unfair. You are never going to be a random girl. Not when you’re you. He will easily just walk away if there is an actual random girl trying to kiss him. Fuck, he might even just call security, wherever he is. He should say that, but he is really upset that you’re too fucking far.
He knows you can see him being upset, because your laughter dies down, your lips pouting. “It’s a TikTok challenge, you know.”
He grunts, his hands twitching from the need to pull you in his arms.  
“Aww, come on, Quinny.” You spread your arms for him to which he squints at. “I’m no longer a random—”
He rushes to you, hugging you tightly.
“Kiss me,” he demands. He melts when you kiss him, appeasing him. Your proximity pushes his upset out of his system. “If you’re going to test me, don’t do it when I’m desperate for you. Is that clear?”
“Okay.” You shiver, nodding, gripping and crumpling his shirt.
Quinn doesn’t care about his fucking shirt. He only cares that he gets his point across. It’s clear that it is. So, he punishes you with a deeper kiss, holding you to him with a hand on your lower back and on your nape.
He doesn’t stop.
He kisses and tastes you for minutes, until he feels you rubbing your legs together, until he hears your tiny whines and moans.
It's his turn to tease you. Not with a challenge. Just with a promise of more.
He stops kissing you, grinning when you groan.
“Time for our date, my Love.”
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nerdygirlramblings ¡ 3 months ago
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previous
Nearly half an hour later, Gaz leads you to a table along the dance floor. You've been collecting scraps of data every time he's waltzed you past Spinner's table, but without Arella on the hook, the op's about to be a bust. Suddenly, Gaz's eyes widen just a fraction, so quickly you could blink and miss it, but you don't blink, and you have a sneaking suspicion about what caused that reaction when you hear a pleasant voice behind you ask you for a dance. Gaz's reaction is the only warning you have to the fact that Spinner is standing there, hand out, wrist up, waiting for you.
You turn with a smile already on your lips and Price's voice in your ear, whispering, "Don't put yerself in danger, but see what ya can learn."
From the frown on his face, you know Gaz heard the Captain as well and isn't happy. You gently take Spinner's hand in yours and inhale the scent of linen and leather. It reminds you of secondhand bookshops, old tomes and leather binding with yellowed pages. It's a scent heavy that evokes a long history and rich legacy.
As is polite protocol, you flip your wrist and place it in his hand. He leans over and inhales deeply. You try to suffuse your scent with interest, slight enough to read as curiosity rather than desire. You lean to Gaz and brush a quick kiss near his ear, whispering, "Stay calm," before pulling back and more loudly announcing, "I'll be back in a moment."
Neither of you thought to play up a romance between you, which gave Spinner the opening to ask in the first place. A cheek kiss won't dissuade the man at this point, but it's a clear signal to him that you plan to return to your date. It's your only insurance to keep yourself safe.
Spinner gently takes your hand and pulls you onto the dance floor. His hold on you is tighter than Gaz's had been, and when you glance over, he's white-knuckling his glass. Trying to put your unease out of your mind, and clear it from your scent, you turn back to Spinner. On those outings around base, one of the most important things Price told you was to let your target share things of their own accord. Ask too many questions, and you'll look suspicious. But provide an opening, and you may get far more information.
So instead of saying anything, you let Spinner twirl you around while the music plays. Eventually he leans forward and takes another deep inhale. If you weren't sure of his secondary status before, this bold move screams alpha. But you bite your tongue and bide your time.
Spinner leans back and looks you in the eye. "I haven't been able to keep my mind my eyes off you. That dress and that collar make you hard to miss."
You thank him with a slight dip of your head and small, coy smile. He continues, "How have I never seen you at these kind of events, Miss..." He trails off leaving you space to introduce yourself. You give him your callsign, well versed at this point in how to turn it around into a cover. "Wren?" he asks, "like the bird?"
Another smile graces your lips, and you let your eyes briefly meet his. "Yes. My parents gave me the name hoping one day I'd grow wings, Mister..." You trail off as he had done. Though you know who he is, you want to see what information he'll give you voluntarily.
"Spinner, my dear. The name's Albert Spinner. But we don't need to be so formal, do we? You can call me Albert." He hand flexes around your waist, enough to let you know he's in charge and to call him by his name. There's no point in trying to resist as you want to keep him calm and talking.
You consciously work to school your accent into something acceptable in Spinner's circles. "Pleasure to meet you, Albert," you say. "You didn't recognize me because it's my first time at something so fancy. Do you attend these kind of functions often? I didn't even know about it until my friend," you tilt your head to the table where Gaz watches you both, "received tickets from his boss."
Spinner laughs, a deep rich sound that carries an undercurrent of condescension. "For some of us, these things happen far too frequently." You let him continue to spin you. "Why, I was at one in Kensington two months ago, and there's another gala slated for sometime next month in Waterloo."
"All charity auctions? For the same charity?" you ask, knowing, or at least guessing, the answer.
That laugh again. Grating. Though maybe only because you know something about this facade and the man underneath he seems desperate to hide. "Obviously not, Wren. Can't bleed a blue blood dry for the same cause over and over," he says. "But they're good opportunities to network. See who makes an appearance. Be seen." He leers at you at this last. "You must like being seen, Wren, dressed like that."
Your nerves spike, and you tamp down on the fear before it can send a slice of acid cutting through your scent. Spinner is a predator, and he's focused on you. You risk eye contact again and see his pupils dilate as he takes a slow, measured breath. "Don't be too scared, Wren. I don't see the point of putting birds in cages." His smile is sharp, all teeth. Your omega is clawing at the back of your brain, desperate to be away and safe. Dancing with him was a mistake.
Just as you're about to turn around and leave him, Price's voice cuts through your spiraling panic. "Ren, we've got ya. Gaz is thirty feet away, and me, Ghost, Soap 'ave eyes and ears on the whole ballroom." It gives you the reminder you need to recenter.
Spinner can't touch you with your team here. The song ends and though Spinner grabs for your hand, you smile, pour some exhaustion into your scent, and say, "Thank you, Mr. Spinner, Albert, for the dance. Maybe another time?" You slip through a few people before you chance a look back. There's a rigid set to Spinner's shoulders as he makes his way back to the table he'd been using, and you see disappointment on the face of the woman waiting there.
You don't know if you made an enemy or not, but you're sure Laswell and the others seriously underestimate Spinner.
Two more hours pass before Price calls it. Spinner and the woman who had been at his table left the main ballroom an hour after your dance. Arella still hasn't made an appearance. "Get back upstairs," Price calls over the comms. "We'll break down and debrief wi' Laswell before headin' back to base."
The whole evening has felt off. You're still not entirely comfortable or confident with these kids of ops, but what gets you most tonight is Spinner's comments. If you had a mating mark, would he have been so bold? It almost feels like the universe is reminding you of the protection a pack would provide.
Laswell's understandably disappointed that Arella didn't show, and while she grumbles about the sheer volume of data her analysts will have to sift through, you don't miss the nod of respect she directs at you. You share what Spinner said about the other event he attended and the one he implied he would be at soon. "I don't know if it's anything, but he seems like the kind of man who isn't going to come to something like this if there isn't a reason, something he can gain from it," you say. She tells you she'll have someone cross check the Kensington event timeline with suspicious activity.
As Price ends the call, you slip into the room next door and pull the dress off, sliding it neatly onto the hanger and pulling the garment bag over it. You treat the jewelry the same way, carefully placing it back in its boxes. Maybe it can be reused? You have nowhere to wear it, but the thought of it on someone else pains you.
The standard issue shirt and trousers irritate you more than normal, your skin having so quickly acclimated to the soft caress of the dress. Between the five of you, the room is stripped and packed and ready to move in less than thirty minutes. Everyone carries multiple cases down a hallway that seems miles long. The service elevator ride to the transport feels interminable. After everything is loaded into the boot, with your dress draped gently on top, you pile into the rear seat with Soap and Gaz.
They feel so much closer to you than they did on the drive into London, encroaching on your space. You squirm in your seat, trying to get comfortable between them. Your clothes scratch across your skin every time you move. You know your frustration is bleeding into your scent and try desperately to tamp it down, ignoring the looks Soap and Gaz throw in your direction. Make it back to base, just make it back to base you tell yourself. Then you can figure out what has you so turned around.
What seems like hours later, surveillance equipment is dropped off, the truck is back in base transport, and you're finally back in your barracks. The ballroom didn't seem too hot at the time, and being stuck between the two sergeants was uncomfortable but not cloying. But it must have been warmer than you realized because you're sweating. You strip off your top and trousers, quickly rearranging the blankets and things on your bed. As you toss your clothes in the hamper, your eyes flick to the calendar on the wall.
Your heart stops, and the blood drains from your face.
The uncomfortable clothes. How long things seem to take, moments stretching out like molasses. Being overly warm. Fixing your blankets.
Your heat is coming. Quickly. Before panic settles in, you scramble into your clothes again and head out the door to Price's office. You need a conversation with your Captain. Now.
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taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevalen @boogeysmoth @cryingpages @riley13 @luxylucylou @lucienofthelakes @ilyztwo @chaosundcoffee @lostintransist @thegreyjoyed @honestlymassivetrash @thebumbqueen @maliamaiden @mordacioust @bina-passion-fruit @kittygonap @wanderingoperator @marsbars09 @kawaii-michealmyers @muraaaaaa @rpgsandstuff @casualhel @akilababs @thatbeach0
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thanosscross ¡ 6 months ago
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Fake girlfriend, Fake boyfriend, silly! - Choi Seung Hyun/T.O.P x reader
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Summary: After your manager plotted a fake relationship between his two biggest signed rappers, you and Seung get very close, as best friends, but tell me this...would friends treat friends like how Seung Hyun treats you?
Warnings: None :)
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Whenever you were first asked by your manager to start a fake relationship with a guy from one of his boy groups you were complexed, Not recognizing any K-pop idol named Seung Hyun. The first time met him was out at a meeting with your shared boss, Seung Hyun was secretly excited about meeting you, while he found it irritating that his boss felt the need to fake a girlfriend for him, he liked the idea of having someone as cool as you around.
"Seung Hyun, this is Y/n, she's going to your show girl, Y/n, this is Seung Hyun, also known as T.o.p, he'll be your show boy" You manager stated, after that you two became close, using the excuse of having to make it believable to spend almost every minute you could with each other. While you were close with all of BigBang, you and Seung Hyun just clicked together, often sharing a hotel room whenever you'd tour with him for your collaborated shows or songs. It didn't take long after the announcement of your fake relationship for people to immediately either hate or love it, you weren't a rapper like your fake boyfriend, but you did rap in some of your songs, even having a few verses with him where you rapped together, but your manager liked to utilize your voice more, liking the way it wasn't too high pitched but still feminine and calming. You had been 'together' now for almost a year, getting ready for your first full tour with BigBang, you were nervous but also excited, this was big for you, hopefully.
Waking up in your hotel bed you groaned, stretching your body as much as you could before slowly crawling out of your bed before slipping on one of Seung Hyun's hoodies, you weren't sure what time it was, but the sun wasn't up yet, so you knew it was sometime in the middle of the night. You attempted to fall back asleep, but everything was making you uncomfortable, the airport lost your luggage, so nothing in the room made you feel like home, no pillow, blanket, nothing, just the smell of the half ass detergent the hotel used to wash the linens, standing up for the second time you slowly made you way to the connecting you, knowing beyond the door all four guys were most likely asleep, you contemplated on going on, not wanting to risk waking anybody up, but right as you started to turn around Seung Hyun's words echoed in your head 'Don't worry about some silly pillow, if you need something that reminds you of back home, we're all a door away' Turning to face the door again you slowly twisted the knob, watching as it slowly opened into their dark room, all the lights were off and from the faint glow from your bathroom light you could faintly see where everybody was. Ji-Yong and Seung Hyun shared a bed, and Dae-Sung and Tae-Yang shared the other. You pressed Seung Hyun's hoodie to your lips slowly making your way over to whom you hoped to be your fake boyfriend and best friend "Seung hyun" You whispered, feeling your anxiety start to creep up inside of you as he turned his back to you, forcing Ji-yong to stir as well. It wasn't that you were scared or scared of the dark, but ever since you were a teenager you would have severe anxiety in the dark if you sat too long, so standing in the basically pitch-black room wasn't helping your anxiety with not wanting to wake anybody or being in a new weird place.
Trying to stifle your whimpered you felt your hands start to shake as you tried to wake your friend up again "Seung Hyun please...I really need you" You whimpered quietly, instead of your intended target, Ji-Yong slowly sat up, turning his head around confused letting his eyes focus on you "What's up, y/n? Are you okay?" He asked, you bit your lip, trying to swallow the lump in your throat in your throat, sitting up more due to your silence, Ji-yong grabbed his cell phone using the screen brightness to see your face. Seeing your upset state he frowned, catching on to what you were trying to do, he tried to help you, and eventually after about five more minutes, you finally woke Seung Hyun up. As he woke up he shot you both a nasty glare, not wiping it off of his face until his eyes focused and he saw your shaking frame slightly in the dark, without saying anything Seung Hyun just motioned for you to go back to your bed, following behind you with his pillow under his arm. "I-I'm sorry" You whimpered, holding onto the cuffs of the hoodie sleeves, trying any way possible to calm your raging anxiety "Don't. Just lay down, dalkomi" He whispered tiredly, as he pulled the blanket back for you, for a moment you thought he was going to go back to his bed, but instead he just shut the connecting door before laying down next to you "Don't steal all of the blankets again" He warned before wrapping his arm around you pulling you close to where your head laid on his chest, his fingers caressing your spine as you rested your hand on his chest, the more he moved his hand on your back the more you could feel the anxiety slipping away and the tiredness starting to slip in. It didn't take long before Seung Hyun felt your slow relaxed breaths, and the way your hand barely rested on his chest anymore.
You both woke up with a startle, your bandmates standing in your room cooing with their phones out "Sooo cute!" Dae-sung cheered as Seung Hyun groaned slamming his head under the pillow, you just shot them all a tired confused look "Come on Lovers! We have an hour until rehearsals!" Tae-yang reminded as he placed two coffees down on the table, before ushering the others out. Tiredly you turned to look at Seung Hyun who was still hiding under the pillow, you absent-mindedly traced your nails up his back "Aein...handsome, come on" You called sweetly, it wasn't odd for you to call each other pet names, you were actually quite flirty with each other even outside of pretending to be together, you weren't sure about Seung Hyun, but you just liked the way you clicked with him, and you liked the way he'd blush anytime you'd call him into another room by calling him Aein. You watched as he slowly lifted his head "Do we have to?..I'm comfortable" He complained, you just laughed offering him a sympathetic smile as you patted his back "Yep, we have to, now come on, handsome" You replied before climbing off of the bed going towards the large costume bag your manager had dropped off earlier "ooo We're going to look hot, Aein" You cooed as you opened the black bag, seeing the deep red fabrics of a suit and dress, on top of other things, giggling as every outfit was coordinated together, Seung Hyun moved to where you stood smiling "You're going to look amazing" He agreed, you blushed slightly as you pulled out your first outfits, handing the suit to Seung Hyun before you disappeared into the bathroom. After a few moments you both called out "Aein?.." "Dalkomi?" Giggling you opened the bathroom door stepping out "Zip me up?" You asked playfully, he walked over, carefully placing his hands above your waist to hold the fabric of the dress, zipping the zipper up and clasping the small latch he smiled "Tie this damn thing for me?" Seung Hyun asked, playfully pouting as he motioned to the black tie "Of course, handsome" You teased tying the tie effortlessly. As you pulled away you both stopped, staring into each other's eyes before hesitantly pulling away, what was that?
As the show started you stood in the center of the boys, the smoke machines layering a thick smoke over the floor of the stage, as you all dispersed you waited for your cue to start singing. You were having fun, completely forgetting all about your moment with Seung Hyun until Fantastic Baby, you had sat down more to the back of the stage to watch considering you weren't singing and weren't required to preform currently, As soon as Seung Hyun started his first verse he made his way to you pulling you to your feet as he rapped, bringing you close to him before finishing, nodding his head along to Ji-Yong, smiling as he followed to chorography facing you, you just laughed at him starting to mimic his movements, he brought the microphone close to his mouth cheering into the mic before moving back to the center of the stage to continue his second verse.
After the song came to an end you smirked hearing you voice layover theirs, the song transitioning into one of your favorites of yours. As you rapped along to it you took notice of Seung Hyun nodding his head along to your words, throwing some of his own chorography in, Seung Hyun rushed over to you, spinning you around before shaking his hips as he jumped around you, obviously having fun with his free time. As the song ended you panting attempting to catch your breath, Ji-yong circling the stage talking to the crowd as you regrouped with Seung Hyun and the others "Fuck it is next, ready for it?" Tae-yang asked, knowing that was the song that required the most interaction and movement between you and Seung Hyun other than Bae Bae and your back dancing with Seung Hyun for Zutter. "I'm already so tired" You mumbled as the track started to play, Seung Hyun just smiled, kissing your cheek as he rushed past, grouping with the guys for the beginning of the song. Other than your small verse towards the end, your main focus during this song was moving with Seung Hyun and the boys, basically bouncing between them all as a long interest.
Whenever the boys preformed If you, you used your opportunity to take a break, sitting down and taking a drink of your water you smiled in awe. You never heard Seung Hyun actually sing often, but you always loved it, you thought it sounded exactly how you manager described your voice. Whenever Zutter came on came on you were proud of yourself, hitting every move and mark perfectly with the music, and even whenever you'd throw you own little moves in with Seung Hyun, he still always knew what to do somehow, you watched as he pointed at you while rapping, you just rolled your eyes as you danced, giggling whenever you felt Seung Hyun press his hips against yours from behind, bouncing his hips with the beat of the music, your face immediately broke out in a blush as you smacked his chest in shock.
Whenever it came to your last song you purposely saved the most sexual and vulgar for last, you liked the chorography a lot, liking how confident it made you feel as you slid on to your knees at the end of the stage, bouncing on your knees for a moment as you sang, letting yourself slowly fall back you slid back arching your back away from the cold stage surface, silently thanking the spandex shorts under your dress, your head arched just enough to see Seun Hyun running his hands up his body and neck, mimicking your song from his spot at the far with the other boys. As the song ended you stayed were you were, waiting a moment for Seung Hyun to make his way helping you to your feet "That move was new" He stated on your walk back "You think the boss is going to like it?" He teased, you just rolled your eyes "I don't care, I did it for you, Aein" You smiled teasingly watching his face go red, as you all made your way to the end of the stage you smiled, standing on your mark on the platform waiting for the boys to reach theirs before you posed, you immediately kneeled down, using your hands to stabilize yourself Seung Hyun moved forward, pressing his fingers to your cheeks for you, causing you to giggle as the bass to Fantastic Baby played one last time before you all made your way towards the exit of the stage. As you approached the mark you slowed down, blushing brightly whenever Seung Hyun's hand quickly touched your ass, you turned around pretending to storm off stage, Seung Hyun looked towards the ground one last time before winking and running after you.
As you got off stage you were a blushing mess, Seung Hyun quick to find you, a bright smile on his face "I knew you'd be amazing! That's why you're T.O.P Best friend" He said proudly, never noticing your face falling as he called out your real title.
Right..Best friend
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Ooo we love a slow burn with a fake relationship concept PLUS a clueless but cocky Choi Seung Hyun AND the rest of the band loving you? I dunno about you lovelies, but this gal likes a lot.
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Taglist!!
@ag022123
@acehasmyheart
@heartz4rubyy
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scriptastra ¡ 6 days ago
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❋ * 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝐏𝐎𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 * ❋ spilled spritz & sun-warm skin
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1. love found me where the garden met gin 2. our romance: rare print, sun-damaged, and worth everything 3. orange peel & epilogues 4. you came with champagne and a warning 5. in another life, I stayed for the second glass 6. laced in linen, I learned to feel again 7. aperol and afterthoughts  8. you were the fiction I wanted to believe in 9. a novel’s worth of glances in one long dinner 10. limoncello and longing 11. midnights scented like citrus & you 12. we lived like a Fitzgerald draft 13. I was too loud for their lawns and too lovely to leave 14. madness looks good in white linen and pearls 15. they wrote me off before they read me 16. holiday house never stood a chance 17. happiness was found in the condensation of your glass 18. somewhere between verse and vermouth  19. I am not your almost—I am your always 20. you love me like I’m the story you've always known 21. I stopped writing about you the day I truly felt happy and loved 22. you are not a villain in my story — you are a footnote 23. I am too in love with my now to mourn my then 24. I’m in my iced rosé and soft linen era 25. I’m sun-warmed, barefoot, and finally whole 26. a list poem: all the ways I chose warmth instead 27. love notes hidden between the pages of a hardbound first edition 28. honey, saltwater, and champagne 29. I dream in grainy polaroids and your july laugh 30. july ended, but the epilogue smells like you
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wandasaura ¡ 1 year ago
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TWO PEOPLE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER
summary — in an attempt to get wanda’s attention, you end up warming the strap you hoped she’d fuck you with.
warning(s) — established relationship, married wandanat, dom/sub dynamics, strap-on usage, mommy kink, brief daddy kink, cockwarming, holding/accidental wetting, degradation, praise, aftercare, oral fixation, subspace, humiliation, ¿nursing?, idk you suck on wanda’s tits, domestic fluff, men/minors dni
authors note — if you’re familiar with the song peace, i thought the lyrics from the second verse fit this little moment so perfectly! mommy wanda lovers this one is for you, it was heavily requested so nobody look at me! there’s also some soft daddy nat for those that wanted to see more of her
you are in love universe
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♥️⊹ ˚ . 18+, men/minors dni ⁺ 𓈒 ꒰💌꒱ ♡ ・ mommy maximoff ✧
You should have learned a long time ago that acting out with Wanda never ended the way you wanted it to. Natasha was easy to get what you wanted out of, a few bats of your eyelashes and a whispered cry of Daddy had her backtracking in seconds, but Wanda was unforgiving and found pride in that fact. You’d gained your footing in this new dynamic rather easily, and on some days, the three of you worked so perfectly together that it felt like you’d been a couple for your entire life, not merely a few weeks.  Wanda and Natasha had fallen into a healthy balance of being your girlfriends and being your dominants. There were days that passed without an ounce of tension, but other days feel like a battlefield. You still weren’t sure how to ask for what you needed from them, which is how you found yourself in the position you’re in now. With summer still lingering through the streets of Westview, you slept between warm bodies every night. There was no indication of what mood you woke up in when daylight painted the sky, but Natasha and Wanda had learned to wait for your not-so-subtle tells. When your eyes peeled open, it was easiest to gauge what side of you they were dealing with. When you wanted to spend the day, or at least a couple hours of your morning, as just their girlfriend, they gave you that without hesitance. Wanda giggled with you in the kitchen and Natasha tackled you onto the couch demanding cuddles, and it always felt easy and real. Other days, when you weren’t so willing to harbor full control of your life, you woke up clinging to your Daddy. It was always Natasha you sought out first thing in the morning, but Wanda can’t complain when she’s the one being smothered throughout the night. They were happy to be whoever you wanted them to be, but they’d slowly been working you up to asking for yourself. 
This morning was one of those days where Wanda decided that if you wanted something from her, you needed to ask and not just with your actions, but with your words. Natasha had gone into the office to oversee a development in a new high-profile case, leaving you to follow the Sokovian around the house like a little lost duckling. Where Wanda went you went, simple as that, well, unless of course she managed to close the door before you could get behind it. That had led to a series of whines and angrily stomped feet, but even then she hadn’t budged then. She hadn’t budged until you had wandered into her office with your hands clasped behind your back. She’d gone to ask what you needed, attempted to give you yet another chance to tell her that you needed your Mommy, but you’d dropped an all black strap-on into her lap and pouted at her with needy eyes before she could get the words out. When she’d pulled her linen shorts down her thighs and attached the harness around her hips, you’d thought you had won. When she told you to get into her lap and take the strap down to the hilt, you were sure that you had won. 
In case it wasn’t clear, you hadn’t won. It had been an hour since she’d asked you to come settle onto her lap and take the strap into your dripping pussy. You’d complied easily, sank down on the toy without her help, and had started grinded your hips against hers in a manner that forced the base to rock against her core perfectly. That pleasure hadn’t lasted long, barely three minutes, and just as your hips had found a comfortable pace, Wanda placed a bruising grip on your hips and completely stilled your movements.  Her lips had been wet when they kissed at the side of her neck, and a pleased hum reached your ears as she used a single slender finger to point your chin toward the ceiling. The full expanse of your neck had been both visible and biteable in that moment, and it hadn’t taken any convincing for her teeth to settle firmly into your skin. You found it laughable that at the start of your contract with Natasha, you’d likened her to a vampire, but Wanda was truly the vampire in your relationship. She possessed an incessant need to dig her teeth into any part of you that she could touch, and you allowed her to eagerly. She’d cooed at your whine when it tumbled from your lips, but there hadn’t been an ounce of sympathy in her face when she asked you, “What do you do to get what you want?” 
“Ask.” You had responded with bated breath, your eyes murky with lust that had been ignored for hours. If Natasha were here she’d have already fucked you raw, but Wanda wasn’t afraid of the long game. She’d never been shy about making you work for what you wanted, and even months into your dynamic with her, not as a couple but as a dominant and her submissive, it never failed to fluster you. Wanda was softer when you shared intimate moments outside of your dynamic. She still never let you top, but she was more lenient in giving in. Her being so firm with you had only cemented in your mind that she knew what you wanted, and the entire day leading up to you warming her strap had been merely a game to her. 
“Mmhm.” She had hummed haphazardly in response, and her hands had still been settled roughly on your hips but her eyes had left yours to trail over the documents that splayed across her desk in messy highlighted piles. You hadn’t had the slightest clue as to what she was really doing, but the rare sight of her so disorganized had felt serious. “And since you didn’t use your words, what happens?” 
You had whined and shook your head in a pleading protest, not wanting to lose your voice when you knew exactly what you wanted. Wanda hadn’t folded at your soft whine, she’d done the exact opposite. The tips of her fingers had pulled your hips down harder against the toy buried deep within your weeping walls, and the head of the dildo had nudged against your softest spot and made your torso fall slack against her chest. “Y-You decide what happens.” You’d finally forced the words into the space between your bodies, and it was rewarded with a sharp thrust of her hips that drove the strap-on further into your pussy. 
“That’s right. What should I decide, hm? I think I’d like to have my pretty little girl warm my strap for a while. What do you think about that idea?” She hadn’t really been asking you. You would’ve been condemned to the same fate even if you’d said no, but you found yourself nodding your head at her question despite how horrible it sounded to sit with your aching cunt filled with pleasure it couldn’t fully claim. “Good girl. Now settle down, Mommy has work to do that little girls shouldn't even be in here to see.” She had guided your head down onto her shoulder, forcing you into near complete darkness before her hands left your hips and returned to the stacks of important documents on her desk. 
You’d tried to remain still, knowing it was what she wanted and she’d have to reward your good behavior at some point, but as the minutes ticked by slower and slower not only did your core demand attention, your bladder demanded relief. The wiggling of your hips hadn’t been reprimanded when the movements started. Wanda had only hummed and shifted beneath you, easing the strap-on into a new position that did nothing for your desperate need to pee. She’d been keeping good on her promise of getting you to drink more water, and you couldn’t help but wonder if this was the exact predicament she had wanted you in when she forced you to finish an entire glass in the kitchen. Surely it wasn’t. Surely she didn’t want you squirming on her lap from sensations that weren’t caused by her, that wouldn’t make any sense. 
When your wiggling became more frantic and you couldn’t decide whether you wanted to moan out in ecstasy or sob in frustration, Wanda sighed and dropped her pen onto the stack of papers that she’d very nearly gotten through completely. Your full and sensitive bladder made the strap-on drenched with arousal feel so much better. Every time Wanda inhaled too deeply or exhaled too sharply, you felt every grove of the cock rub against your walls. The sensation was sharp, fleeting, but embarrassingly addicting and you found yourself trying to replicate little actions that provoked it. Wanda wasn’t as unaware of your intentions as you’d hoped, and when you wiggled a bit too harshly in her lap, finally being rewarded with the quick burst of pleasure, her fingers found your hips again and stilled them just as quickly as she did the first time. 
“Keep still.” She sighed her demand, keeping her tone unbothered which only further provoked your desperation. It was always particularly hot when she acted as though your body writhing against hers had no effect on her. Despite leaving her pen to sit abandoned on the desk, you hadn’t felt her eyes burn into your skin throughout the entire exchange. Your face was still pressed into her neck, hiding in the darkness that you hoped would make this situation less humiliating. 
When you finally had the courage to look up at her, unable to keep yourself still any longer, you cupped her cheeks and directed her attention onto you. “I have to go to the bathroom.” You whispered softly, beyond humiliated with the reluctant admission. Your face turned a flush shade of pink that Wanda thought complemented your eyes perfectly, and you knew you had her full attention when her pupils dilated just the farthest bit more. There was hardly any green left in her stare, but you clung to what little color remained. 
“What was that, little one? Mommy couldn’t hear you.” Wanda pouted her lips, her eyes filled with innocent confusion that wasn’t at all authentic. She’d heard you perfectly clear, you were too close to her face for the words to have fallen short before they met her ears, but she wasn’t letting go of your hips without a further explanation and you didn’t know how much longer you could hold yourself together for. 
“I have to pee.” You said just the faintest bit louder, hoping your pleading eyes would be enough to convey the desperation you felt within your weeping core and taut bladder. You felt so incredibly full, and every time you took a breath that feeling only intensified. 
“Oh, well you can hold it just a little bit longer I’m sure. Mommy’s almost done.” Wanda smiled a sweet sympathetic smile, the grip on your hips slowly becoming softer as she let the pads of her thumb soothe the aching skin with tight soft circles you wished would land somewhere else. 
“I can’t.” You pleaded with her to understand just how badly you had to go, you’d already been holding it for so long trying to make her proud. Wanda frowned at your plea, her cherry tinted lips the only thing you could focus on. 
“Well that’s too bad, milaya.” She said simply, shrugging her shoulders in a nonchalant manner that made your walls clench and your clit throb. “Try harder for Mommy, I’m sure you can do it.” She conceded when your frown didn’t waver, and ever so softly she pecked your lips before things went back to how they were before you’d interrupted her. Your head was guided back down onto her shoulder, and her hands went back to work shuffling through documents that you could only assume she was annotating. 
Another half hour had passed before you couldn’t hold yourself together anymore. You’d lasted longer than you’d anticipated with her full you felt, but the end was in sight as the muscles in your belly fought vicious wars to keep your dignity. You were so close to the edge that even Wanda’s gentle breathing felt like pin pricks against your spine. As your need to relieve yourself grew more intense, so did the coil in your belly that seemed to find fuel in your desperation. A soft cry tumbled past your lips before the dam broke and the coil snapped. You dampened her lap with more than just arousal, and the wet feeling that spread across hers and your thighs only made you cry harder. Moans tumbled past your lips when your cries fell short, and it became a desperate attempt to both seek harder pressure against your clit and get completely away from the wetness that was quickly becoming cold against yours and her naked skin. 
“Oh baby, did you have an accident?” Wanda cooed sympathetically, not even having to look down at your glazed over eyes to know what headspace you’d tumbled into. Your cries weren’t one of pain, nor were they really ones of frustration either. You weeped with humiliation and the desperate need to finally be spoken to. She’d been merely answering you all day, no ounce of elaboration in the short sentences shared. You needed your Mommy, and Wanda wasn’t going to deny you that any longer when you’d been so good for her. Granted, the accident hadn’t been a part of her plan. She’d only intended to make you hold yourself, but she couldn’t deny that it was hot, though a little uncomfortable to be sitting in a cold and wet chair. Despite wanting to get away from the mess, Wanda remained in her chair and devoted her attention to you. In truth, she’d finished her paperwork twenty minutes ago, she’d just been waiting for you to finally break. “Why didn’t you tell Mommy you needed to go potty, silly girl?” 
The words weren’t fully registering in your head, every noise felt miles away and muffled by thick cotton on your ears. If you’d been in a sounder mind, you would have snapped your gaze up to her so quickly that your neck would’ve broken, but that never came. You’d warned her as well as you could that if she didn’t let you up this would happen, but she had taken her chances and the outcome had been exactly what you’d expected. Wanda hummed soothingly when you burrowed your face into her shoulder and your mouth went to work on the little bits of skin that were available beside the collar of her t-shirt. The cock still in your pussy was the farthest thing from your mind, but when Wanda shifted you into her arms so she could finally stand and move away from your accident, you whined at the sensation of your full cunt being empty for the first time in hours. 
“Shh, it’s okay, malen’kaya. You’re okay.” Even in Natasha’s absence the Sokovian spoke Russian. She had no real connection to her native language that had died when her brother did, and whatever she said to you in this moment would fall upon deaf ears anyway. It didn’t matter what language she let fall past her lips, all that you could comprehend in this state was that your Mommy’s arms were wrapped tightly around you and she was so cruelly pulling something away the only thing that had been with you for hours. “We’re gonna get you all cleaned up. Just be patient with Mommy.” Leaving her office chair to be handled at a different time, she honestly might just order a new one, having no intense attachment to the black swivel chair that’s only purpose was to sit on, Wanda carried you back into the master bedroom.
She made quick work of undressing you, soothing your whines of protest when the cold air ambushed your flush and warm skin. Your shorts and panties had been discarded on the floor of her office, so all she had to strip you out of was one of Natasha’s old t-shirts that you had found in the back of the closet and adamantly adored. You reached for her throughout the entire process, a far away look in your eyes as you barely even registered her face coming so close to yours that her breath splayed across your lips. She kissed you softly, capturing your full attention as you returned the embrace, all the while her hands were pulling the piss soaked strap-on off of her hips and away from her core that throbbed to be dealt with, but she could handle the unsatisfied ache. Unlike you, Wanda was particularly fond of edging, the only problem that came with her interest was she never relinquished control for long enough to ever have it be done to her. 
You huffed when she pulled away from your lips in favor of throwing her t-shirt onto the floor with the already existing pile of your own clothes. She left you laying alone in the center of the bed, making a mental note to throw the comforter in the washer before any of you tried to sleep beneath them later on, and walked into the en-suite bathroom. She drew a nice bath, taking the extra minutes to add your favorite bath bomb into the warm water and light the few candles that remained around the edge of the tub. Bubbles were a must, you demanded them every time either of the redheads even suggested taking a bath, so while the water was still running Wanda added them to the tub as well. You didn’t like a hot bath, a fact that you had been sure to tell Natasha when she’d first tried to lower you into an aftercare session with one, so Wanda figured she had plenty of time to go back and collect you while the water cooled down some more. She could already see the bath bomb coloring the water pink as she left, and she knew both yours and her skin would smell like strawberries and vanilla once you crawled out and dried off. 
You had come back to yourself the faintest bit when Wanda re-entered the bedroom. You’d curled up onto your side, your head resting on one of your arms as you let your eyes remain closed. At the sound of her gentle footsteps, wide eyes still glassy shot open and searched for her. Unlike the state you’d been in when she left to run the bath, you were able to recognize her presence now and you made that very clear. “Mommy!” You cried, a fresh set of tears brimming your eyes as you reached a single hand out to her. Wanda kneeled down in front of the bed, gently taking your hand in hers and kissing it softly.
The hand that wasn’t occupied reach out to brush strands of fallen hair away from your face, and as expected, when she ran the pad of her thumb over your bottom lip, your tongue shot out to lick at it before soft lips claimed it entirely. Wanda smiled fondly, her other fingers gently stroking against your cheek. “Privet, moya milaya devochka.” 
You were still too far gone to comprehend the Russian sentence that you had become familiar with, but that didn’t bother Wanda who hadn’t been expecting a response in the first place. You were falling out of your head fairly quickly, and she worried that your humiliation was the leading factor in your unwillingness to let the fog linger fully. 
“Left.” You croaked pitifully around the soft weight of her thumb in your mouth, your wide eyes desperate for her to understand the message you were trying to convey and not let it happen again. 
“I didn’t leave.” Wanda shook her head firmly, placing another kiss to the top of your hand that curled around hers tightly, unwilling to let go for even a single second. You were always clingy when she got you in this state, and she adored every second of it. “Mommy ran us a bath. We’ve gotta get cleaned up.” She promised you, and at the mention of one of your favorite activities, your torso shot up from the bed and her hand fell away from your face. You wobbled in your disoriented and fuzzy state, leaning into her touch when she reached out to stabilize you. “Come on, sweetheart. There are bubbles waiting for you!” 
Wanda helped you into the bathroom, easing herself into the tub before she helped you over the edge and into her arms. You didn’t go for her fingers like she’d anticipated, merely wiggling your way down in her embrace until your head fell onto the swell of her breast. Not wanting to question you when you were so sensitive, Wanda merely dragged her hand across the inside of your thigh as you sat sideways in her lap, transfixed on the sharp edge of her jaw that clenched when you got too far into her head. She’d have to remember to thank Natasha for pushing to get the bigger tub when they’d remodeled the bathroom years ago, it was certainly coming in handy now. Your body was washed with tender touches, the loofa used a light blue color and saturated in Wanda’s own body wash. She didn’t know why you continued to buy your own, when the only one who ended up using it was her after you’d taken the last of hers. 
It was a comfortable silence that fell over the both of you as the bath water slowly became colder and colder, and with each minute that passed in combination with Wanda’s gentle stroking of your hip or your cheeks, you fell firmly beneath the blanket of fuzzy emptiness that you’d been fighting off before. You felt so loved and so cared for, there wasn’t a single thought in your mind beside her. The humiliation of your accident had waned away, replaced by only flourishing warmth. 
Eventually, your lips began to root around for something to suckle on. Wanda’s fingers hadn’t moved to your mouth quick enough, and your tongue sought out the first soft thing that it could find. A gasp fell from Wanda’s lips when you took her sensitive nipple into your mouth, a sharp sensation shooting through her body that was in no way sexual. She’d always had her speculations about this kind of contact, but now that she had it for herself to experience, she understood. She had all of your mind in her hands at this moment, but you had all of her body. It was a delicate balance that further emphasized how your relationship could only thrive if all parties were equal and respected. Wanda trailed a soft finger over the bridge of your nose, her own scrunching up in admiration. 
“Find something you like, little one?” She teased, but there was no bite behind her words as she gently adjusted your latch to be more comfortable for the both of you. The bath water was officially cold, no longer able to be passed off as warm, but Wanda would allow you to sit in it just this once. She was always such a stickler for crawling out of the tub when the water went cold, but even she didn’t want to leave the intimacy of this moment as your eyes fluttered closed and your tongue made gentle sweeps across her nipple. “You did so good for me. So so good. Mommy’s so proud of you. My good girl.” She whispered delicate praise into the otherwise quiet bathroom, her eyes appreciating how the dim candle light made your glassy eyes glow like a fire had been placed behind them. 
She could faintly hear the front door open downstairs and she smiled knowing that Natasha had finally made it home. It wasn’t often that the Russian went into the office alone, but today had worked out weirdly and Wanda wouldn’t trade it for anything. Natasha had noticed how quiet the house was upon entering, and she tried her best not to disturb the stillness that you and Wanda had created. She took the stairs one at a time, peeking into Wanda’s office when she noticed the door was oddly ajar. Wanda either had the door firmly closed or entirely open, it was never left in the half-opened state it was now. Two pairs of shorts and the puddle on the floor told her everything she needed to know about what had happened while she was away at work. Anticipating your blissed out headspace and Wanda’s full hands, Natasha cleaned the scene, still dressed in business slacks and an off-white satin blouse. The chair had been scrubbed and sanitized, and the floor had been given the same treatment in only a matter of minutes. There was no need to buy a new chair now, and memories of this afternoon would linger in the room anytime either one of you set your sight on it. 
Natasha carried yours and Wanda’s shorts back into the bedroom. She picked up the pile of clothes that had been left on the floor, adding them to the laundry basket they kept hidden away in the closet before her own clothes were thrown on top. She dressed quickly, able to hear the one-sided conversation that was happening on the other side of the wall. 
“Daddy’s home.” Wanda cooed sweetly to you, her eyes filled with gentle love and admiration that felt so full she wanted to cry. You barely heard her words, and if you did, you didn’t fully comprehend them, but she didn’t expect you to. “She’ll be so proud of how good you were for Mommy. The best little duckling.” 
Natasha had decided then to make her presence known, two big and cozy towels in her hands. The initial sight of you and Wanda together had shocked her, her eyes transfixed on where her wife’s nipple was in your mouth, but she didn’t make it a big deal. Lowering herself onto the tile floor beside the tub, placing the towels just out of what she deemed the splash zone, the Russian reached out gently to caress your still flush cheeks. 
“How did this happen?” Natasha questioned Wanda, keeping her voice soft so as to not disturb you when you looked so content and fulfilled. The scent of strawberry and vanilla clung to the air in the bathroom, enough for Natasha to know that one of your favorite bath bombs had been thrown into the tub. 
“She’s down deep.” Wanda merely hummed, leaning over the edge of the tub to lay her lips against Natasha’s. “It was the first thing she found when she decided she needed something in her mouth.” Wanda laughed softly, the vibrations jostling her breasts much to your displeasure. Your hand fell onto the swell of her breast, keeping it still as you suckled contently despite the near interruption. 
“I can’t say I blame her.” Natasha teasingly pinched at Wanda’s nipple, not missing the way the Sokovian’s eyes fluttered closed and she chased the sensation when it was pulled away. Wanda had sensitive nipples, it was a known fact that Natasha loved to abuse, but something about this moment with you just felt entirely pure and wholesome. “Let me be the bad guy and get her out. You’re freezing.” Natasha frowned when she noticed just how cold to the touch Wanda’s skin was. She grabbed at you instantly, noticing that the sections of your skin that had been submerged in the water were just as cold as Wanda’s. 
You whined in protest when you were pulled away from Wanda’s chest and wrapped up like a little bug in the towel that Natasha had brought into the bathroom for you. Natasha didn’t bat an eye at your pitiful whimpering, carrying out of the bathroom and toward the guest bedroom when she gathered the hint that the comforter needed to be washed before any of you laid beneath it that night. It was scary how in tune she and Wanda could be at times, but you weren’t fully present enough to comment on their freaky telepathy. 
Natasha got you dressed into a pair of summer pajamas that still occupied the guest room from when you’d first started spending the night. Your clothes occupied nearly every room at this point, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. She adored the little traces of your presence that popped up at random moments, which might be the reason why she no longer scolds you for leaving your shoes in every corner of the house despite the large collection at the front door. By the time you're beneath the blankets in the guest bed, Wanda’s coming into the room in a pair of pajama shorts, though she’s still void of a shirt. 
“Giving in so easily, moya lyubov’? And here I thought you were the strict one.” Natasha teased, knowing fully what Wanda had intended on when she purposefully left the matching top in the drawer where the shorts used to lay. 
“I introduced her to a lot today. I’m not going to try and get her to take my fingers when I know that’s not what she wants.” Wanda merely shrugged, allowing her soft heart to bleed into her words for the briefest minute before she was slipping back into the headspace you craved. “Come here, my little duckling. Let’s get you all comfy.” Wanda pulled your body into hers, guiding your lips down to her chest. Her nipple was sensitive, sore from the earlier abuse, but she didn’t mind the sting of pain that came when your lips wrapped firmly around her skin. “You did so good today, milaya. So good.” 
Natasha curled herself around Wanda, keeping you close between the both of them. It wasn’t long before your lips fell slack around Wanda’s nipple and your breathing evened out. Wanda and Natasha smiled down at you endearingly, deciding there was no harm in taking a little nap after the day that they'd had.
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valentine-cafe ¡ 2 months ago
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hello dearies ♡
I want to thank you for fulfilling my previous ask! It was no less than spectacular and mouthwatering, what you wrote.
I noticed in my previous ask, you mentioned for affogato that the reader managed to make him whimper, stutter, and all. And god, did that image linger in my head.
So, for affogato, may I request [top male] reader overstimulating him? The sex being gentle or rough is totally up to you!
Thank you dearly (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡
-📖
🍒 𓂃 𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑬𝑹 𝑼𝑷 : affogato !! . . . vampire ⊹ top m reader .
. ᘛ 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔​​​​​​​﹕verse 781 ꮽ  vespasiano 781
 𐔌𖹭 ˖ ࣪  who's that ?⠀﹕a charismatic, vampiric lieutenant. with years of experience turning his hair grey and a sharp eye
ּ  ֗ recepit ℘ ... you overstim vesp, who's still not used to being with a man — or being topped ⊹ cw ٬٬ overstim ⊹ notes : thank you dearie!! of course you can be our 📖 anon!
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"Doing so well baby . . ."
His pants fan your soft hand as you stroke along his tanned face. Your thumb strokes over his facial hair while you lean down to kiss over his lashes. The gentlest of touches, as if he isn't twitching, whimpering, with every sinful caress.
"Can't. . . " his deep groan has you smiling. You knew well, your dearest is not used to be treated like this. It's why your hips roll in a slow, fluid motion against his ass. Tenderly smooching your skins together with every sensual thrust.
It's why your hand finds such a careful pace around his throbbing dick. So gently squeezes on his head and working down to his base. The languid movement might just do his head more in than the rest. Coupled with your words? Oh he's a goner.
"Can't? But you're doing so well." You croon comes with more kisses over his face. Your hips pick up in pace just a tad when he tightens around you again. Your hand moves slow, more attentive to his tip while you trace tender kisses to his ear.
"Look at you. Gonna cum for me again. What number's that?"
He groans. Tosses his head back and needily bucks his hips into yours. Searching for answers and pleasure only you can provide. You reach to lightly tug on his strands while simultaneously swirling your thumb on his cockhead.
"Asked you a question baby."
"Four -!"
His rasp has you smiling. Your hips speed up. Tempo rising. Chasing his fourth release while all he can do is scramble on the sheets and grip at whatever he can. The linen. Your hand. The second has you crooning and leaning over him to ghost a kiss on his forehead. "There we go. Cum for me baby, need it so bad."
Your faux little whine tenses him up. Hot bubbles smear your hand and you smile into his temple as you keep him on that high. Hips slowing down, but not once stopping. So that he's whimpering, clinging, just as he deserves.
"Doing so fucking good for me." Kisses to his neck add onto your praise as you take him for another high. "Again Vesp, gimme another. You can do that, right?"
His choked sob widens your smile. It's alright, you'll hold his hand through his fifth, sixth and seventh. He deserves not a single thought behind those tired eyes.
꒰ ۪ ˖ ࣪ 𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑢 ... info ꮽ mlist ꮽ verse ꮽ wiki .
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mental-health-and-jesus ¡ 3 days ago
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7-04-2025 | Bible App Their Verse of the Day | 2 Corinthians 3:17
🕊️💞 “Now יהוה is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of יהוה is, there is freedom.” Qorintiyim Bĕt ‭3‬:‭17‬ ‭💞🕊️
Bible App | Psalms 23:3
🕊️🦅 “He turns back my being; He leads me in paths of righteousness For His Name’s sake.” ‭‭Tehillim‬ ‭23‬:‭3‬ ‭🦅🕊️
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YouTube♥️ Channel Nathan Reynolds The Linen Railroad Title :When NaMan Comes Around | Bible App 2 Kings 5:14
🕊️🏖️ “Then he went down and dipped seven times in the Yardĕn, according to the word of the man of Elohim. And his flesh was restored like the flesh of a little child, and he was clean.” Melaḵim Bĕt‬ ‭5‬:‭14‬ ‭🏖️🕊️
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Bible App | Matthew 6:10
🕊️☀️ “let Your reign come, let Your desire be done on earth as it is in heaven.” ‭Mattithyahu‬ ‭6‬:‭10‬ ‭☀️🕊️‬‬
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Bible App | Proverbs 4:4 & 4:8 & 4:18 & 4:20-23 and Mark 8:7-8 & 8:19-21 & 8:29 | #Day 4 Proverbs Challenge and also Re-Reading 📖 Mark Chapter 7: & 8: 🩷
Chapter 4: 🩷
🕊️💗 “Then he taught me and said to me, “Let your heart hold fast my words; Guard my commands, and live.” ‭‭Mishlĕ 4‬:‭4‬ ‭💗🕊️
🕊️💗 ““Exalt her, and let her uplift you; She brings you esteem when you embrace her.” ‭‭Mishlĕ 4‬:‭8‬ ‭💗🕊️
🕊️💗 “But the path of the righteous is like the light of dawn, That shines ever brighter unto the perfect day.” ‭‭Mishlĕ 4‬:‭18‬ ‭💗🕊️
🕊️💗 20: “My son, listen to my words; Incline your ear to my sayings. 21: Let them not depart from your eyes; Guard them in the midst of your heart; 22: For they are life to those who find them, And healing to all their flesh. 23: Watch over your heart with all diligence, For out of it are the sources of life.” ‭‭Mishlĕ 4‬:‭20‬-‭23‬ ‭💗🕊️
Chapter 8: 🩷
🕊️💗 7: “And they had a few small fishes. And having blessed, He said to set them also before them. 8: And they ate and were satisfied, and they picked up seven large baskets of broken pieces.” ‭‭Marqos 8‬:‭7‬-‭8‬ ‭💗🕊️‬‬
🕊️💗 19: “When I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many baskets filled with broken pieces did you pick up? They said to Him, “Twelve.” 20: And when I broke the seven for the four thousand, how many large baskets filled with broken pieces did you pick up? And they said, “Seven.” 21: And He said to them, “How do you not understand?”” ‭‭Marqos 8‬:‭19‬-‭21‬ ‭💗🕊️
🕊️💗 “And He asked them, “And you, who do you say I am?” And Kĕpha answering, said to Him, “You are the Messiah.”” ‭‭Marqos 8‬:‭29‬ ‭💗🕊️
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#Bible App | Romans 5:1
🕊️❤️ “Therefore, having been declared right by belief, we have peace with Elohim through our Master יהושע Messiah,” Romiyim‬ ‭5‬:‭1‬ ‭❤️🕊️‬‬
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Bible App | Matthew 5:4
🕊️💚 “Blessed are those who mourn, because they shall be comforted.” ‭‭Mattithyahu 5‬:‭4‬ ‭💚🕊️‬‬
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LORD✝️ YHWH✝️ אֲדֹנָי✝️ אלוהים✝️ Is Always With You 💗
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alexanderlightweight ¡ 8 days ago
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Omg been not as much on tumblr and so excited to see you back on writing Wednesday! Would love any pray to the hunters. Maybe how the clave-Alec interactions go in that world? Nswf/swf
thank you! here is some of that and it does have some clave interactions and here is the last bit. i have had a few very stressful days and wasn't able to write and so when i tell you, having the spoons to write tonight was a fucking relief. as usual with this verse, corpse desecration, cannibalism mentioned, sex mentioned etc 3DNE.
on that cheerful note, i hope you enjoy!
<3 lumine
pray to the hunters
Alec isn’t summoned to Idris by the Clave, but that doesn’t stop him from summoning himself.
He steps through the portal to Alicante and the guards have no recourse but to bow and let him through, not when Alec is barefoot and barechested and unarmed.  The only thing he’s wearing are thin linen pants, his runes and the blood of enemies.
If he looks understated, then all the better. It will be a pleasure to teach those who assume that by showing up unarmed, Alec is without weapons.  Alicante is a rich and fertile land.  It is also the nephilim homeland and is the cradle of their life and death.
Alec is related to every single being who now lays beneath the earth — though their spirits have be reclaimed by their sire — by blood of Raziel.  They care not for politics or lineage.  They care for the sacred duty that Alec carries through his oath to the dead and well, Alec is a bit spiteful.
It’s always something of a tease for him, to pretend an ancestor is so disappointed in their descendant they released their own bones to serve Alec’c cause against their own bloodline.
But that’s the thing no one besides Alec and the rare practitioner over the last centuries have understood.
To be nephilim is to be a part of them all. While Lightwood and Trueblood ancestors offer some of the strongest weapons he wields, they are not the only bones he bears.
You do not have your body remade by the blood and claiming of an angel and remain the same.  The mundane blood that ties the individual lines is both limited and unique, but the shadowhunter blood is all the same. They are all related, all coiled amongst each other in Raziel’s bosom both before and after he collects them.
The blood that pulses in Alec’s veins — Raziel’s blood — pulses through every nephilim.
So when Alec walks among Alicante, he is never undefended and though he is unarmed, a weapon is never far from his grasp.
—
“Must you only arrive unannounced and uninvited?”
Maryse reaches out and nearly brushes a curl out of the way, but stops for fear of smudging the still dying, tacky blood on her son’s brow.  It’s with a sigh that she redirects and tucks a lock of dark hair behind his ear instead, her touch lingering in a gentle caress before the cold becomes too much even for her.
All nephilim run cool.
Alec however is frigid.
His aura carries a glacial mist and the look in his eyes is never hot, unstable rage.  It’s cold, calculating and the kind of frost that freezes you in it’s embrace before you even realize there was ever a danger.
Alec’s interest in that warlock could not have come at a more perfect time.
The Clave — while not thrilled at who he’s picked — is just relieved it’s not one of their own. They’re also relieved that at the very least, Alec didn’t go for Valentine’s daughter.  Apparently, there had been some assumption that Alec would be drawn to bloodlust along with the assumption that Valentine and Jocelyn’s daughter was competent enough to interest him.
Fortunately for them all, Alec both has better taste than a Morgenstern and Clarissa has not yet come into her bloodline. Instead still having the bearing a nephilim toddler without any discipline.  The Clave will be meeting her for evaluation in a few days and after they’re done, Maryse imagines that they’re going to be very grateful and confused as to how she’s still alive.  The answer, which Maryse will provide only because she owes it to her son, is Magnus Bane.  Who seems to be centering Maryse’s most untamed child in a way no one has ever managed.
Especially not her.
—
Magnus isn’t expecting him.
Oh he’s always thrilled to see his boy, but Alexander normally shows up for a reason.
Looking tired and completely done with life and covered in strange runes drawn with blood rather than a stele, only wearing pants and his feet bare of anything but dirt is not a reason.
Alexander comes when Magnus calls or when he wants to tempt Magnus with a hunt or with death.
He doesn’t show up, looking vulnerable and delicious and Magnus ignores his thoughts —because they will hardly serve him — to instead boldly step forward. He pulls Alexander into a gentle but firm kiss, hands claiming as much of Alexander's bare skin as he can between them both.
Alexander is sensitive to energy and setting the mood into something softer and calmer than their normal hunger is better. Let it be a steady flame rather than a raging fire that warms his boy.  Let Magnus melt his sharp edges rather than shatter him with force.
Magnus licks Alexander’s cheek after, tongue sliding through the dried blood of a rune and the magic of nephilim blood lingers on his tongue. 
But not Alexander’s blood.
“You went hunting again.” Magnus chides, because Alexander is selfish to keep himself and his hunt from Magnus. Especially when he loves the sight of Alexander covered in blood and offering death and decadency to Magnus.
“The Clave needed to meet with me.”
“They can demand you so quickly?”
Alexander laughs, the echo of his laugh the whisper of a wail.
“I said they needed to speak with me, not that they wanted to. I went to them. They did not call me.”
Now that’s a level of power that Magnus was unaware existed, or that Alexander had.
Perhaps that’s the point though.
Alexander has a power that even the Clave recognizes.
“They know about you. Mother is smoothing it over.”
Magnus knew Alexander had no intention of hiding. However Magnus also never expected that a relationship that so far has no labels, be announced so officially.
He’s never felt more gleeful satisfaction, yet even as he exudes smugness and scratches his nails down Alexander’s back, the restless part of his brain where his thoughts coil like ever-heated lava stirs.
There’s a danger here.
Alexander is more dangerous to the Clave than Magnus had been able to comprehend.
A shadowhunter — no matter than they are the head of an Institute — does not simply go to Idris and walk into a meeting of the Clave and be allowed without reprimand.
Alexander does not act like someone allowed to do anything. He acts like he demanded, like he never expected to be allowed anything less.
“Just what are you, darling?”
Alexander’s smile is a vicious, cunning curve of his lips. It's a wordless answer and Magnus memorizes it with greed, because that’s his.
Alexander is his.
His joys, his triumphs, his hunts and his powers and the Clave, one day when they realize it They won’t be as willing as they are now, to let Magnus keep him.
Magnus will need to consolidate his own power, to ensure no one tries to take back the treasure that’s surrendered itself to him.
Alexander nuzzles his jaw with a sigh that gusts cold air down Magnus’ throat.
“Can I stay here, till I'm needed at the Institute tomorrow?”
Magnus’ fingers tighten and he steps back, automatically pulling Alexander with him until they’re through his balcony doors.  The doors slam shut behind them and Alexander stays relaxed in his arms even as the bolt slides shut with an ominous click and the wards visibly go up.
“I don’t think I can let you go before then.”
—
Alec knew this was the best choice.
Magnus is warm and solid and the magic of his wards is as dazzling as it is reassuring.  Magnus has made it so that Alec can rest, truly and securely and without having to expend any of his own energy warding and runeing the space.  It’s a nightly ritual for Alec and yet Magnus takes the burden with ease and so casually that it has Alec hoping it’s not obvious how thrilled he is.
He doesn’t want Magnus to think he’s taking advantage of him.  It’s just that it’s nice to be able to relax without effort, for once.  Which is the entire reason Alec risked coming here, rather than go directly back to his Institute.
Beyond that, Magnus will protect him from both annoyances and headaches, which is even more valuable than his protection. 
There will be no siblings bothering him with their red-haired menace and no menace to pester him.
“Alexander,” Magnus says and Alec really wants whatever Magnus is going to offer but then Magnus is looking at him considering and then raises Alec's hand to his mouth and kisses the rune drawn there. "I was considering using magic, but I think I can still find a use for the blood. No need to be wasteful."
AN:
alec really enjoys fucking with and trolling the clave and yes, apart of this is small revenge on his mother. she can clean up his messes after the weight she put on him.
maryse is tired of herding cats. so tired. but it's part of her penance so she does it anyways. she and magnus won't really ever interact unless at the institute. this is not a universe where they have dinner with her or she comes over for drinks etc. she's accepted alec's relationship with magnus because otherwise she'll lose her kid and she knows it. she'll support it for the same reason. that doesn't mean she's changed or reformed. magnus isn't going to waste his time on her and alec wouldn't want him to.
K so, Magnus doesn’t care that they don’t have labels and that even he doesn’t really know what he and alec are yet. The point is that they are something to each other and it’s a big deal and something that really delights him, that his alexander is proud enough and sincere enough and secure enough in being something with magnus, that he’s not only mentioned it to his family but his government and his technical bosses.
That is very much a big deal and Magnus is thrilled, seriously. Alec is also like, incredibly into and in awe of Magnus. He’s so fucking proud he has no intention of not letting everyone know, expect that would require talking to everyone so it’s just easier to go to the clave and announce it.  Make it clear so no one gets any ideas. Also he goes to idris on something of a randomly set schedule to make sure they don’t forget to be terrified of him.
Magnus is misunderstanding one thing and that’s the fact that the clave are more scared of alec then they find him useful and they also understand that an alec who is interested in something else, isn’t interested in them. The clave is smart enough (in this one thing and because maryse explains it to them like they’re three) to realize all they have to do is leave magnus bane alone. Magnus’ bane’s territory is Alec’s Institutes’s area, they are literally they’re own problem. They clave can just let them co-exist and pretend like nothing is going on and they don’t exist and yeah.
Look.
No one likes a skeletal hand punching through dirt with your family seal ring on the finger to offer up a weapon of bone (presumably also of your ancestor) to threaten to kill you with. Like, the first time alec pulled that shit on a high ranking clave member, it got the point across.
Threaten him and you’ll get killed with your own ancestors bones (huge shame, no raziel for you) and because they don’t understand that it’s because they’re all technically related, everyone believe that its the will of raziel. So alec has a lot of fucking power. He doesn’t use it very often tho for a variety of strategic/doesnt want to reasons and he mostly ignores it because running new york is the only thing he wants. This alec doesn’t need politics to be powerful or to marry magnus.
magnus is going to repaint each of the runes with fresh blood, do a ritual and then lick all of them off alec's body. nope, they're not going to have sex after. but yes magnus is going to be replaying the memory when he's alone A LOT.
yes magnus is being super blasphemous right now and alec is enjoying it. if magnus wasn't also into necromancy there might be consequences but they're too compatible so it gets a pass
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reallyromealone ¡ 1 year ago
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Title: Oh Look a mate(s)
Chapter 3
Fandom: obey me
Pairing: demon brother's x male reader
Warnings: omega verse, nsfw, male reader, gay, smut, attempted assassination, drugging, biting, torture
Notes:
🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️
It was tomorrow.
The wedding was tomorrow.
(Name) Was quiet as he waited in the altar room, candles circling the room as marble carved murals surrounded him, the ceiling glass and the moon directly above him.
He sat in silence as the moon reached its peak before shadows flooded around him, a cold smoke that strangely didn't strike him with fear but instead filled him with warmth and safety. "Good Omega" one of the voices whispered as shadowy hands grabbed at him, gently touching and smoothing over the linen nightgown he wore before a long finger sliced it down the middle "Shhh" he could hear Satan's voice whisper in his ear as the seven men materialized and kissed various parts of his now exposed flesh "beautiful..." Mammon whispered breathlessly before biting into (name) 's flesh, the others doing the same.
Each scent gland was claimed as a tattoo manifested onto their soulmate tattoos, the demons licking and kissing their soulmate marks "You're bonded to us forever... Whenever you need us, call for us..." Beelzebub said as his blackened eyes gently kissed (name) 's lips as the fire of the candles burned brighter "Alphas...." (Name) Babbled as he leaned into someone's shoulders, Levi he believed... "So beautiful..." Asmodeus whispered as his hand crept down to the other's abdomen and began whispering enchantments, hand glowing as a tattoo formed on his stomach "Your first heat will be in less than 24 hours, this will help keep it from hurting so badly"
Never would he be denied a heat again.
The men scented and kissed (name), they could smell the slick flowing from him but knew better and to wait, wait till it was time.
When morning came, (name) was kept from his alphas all morning as he was polished to perfection, traditional white robes and gold accessories set aside as they painted swirls on his body, apparently matching the marks that would be on his alphas.
He looked at himself in the mirror, the makeup, the paint, and the clothes... He hardly recognized himself.
But it was him.
All him.
Lucifer made sure the guards were on high alert as he and his brothers got dressed, in their traditional robes that were the color of their omegas eyes, as is tradition in the kingdom, they already had two people sneak in after all.
"Your Majesty?" A meek voice spoke out as the demon turned to see an Omega maid look nervous, his eyes sharp and calculating "What is it?" He said simply and the maid straightened her back a bit before speaking once more "His Highness... He's extremely stressed and I thought it would be best if one of his--" Lucifer was already darting out of the room for his mate, he didn't care if he wasn't supposed to see him till the wedding.
His mate needed him.
(Name) Was freaking out as his omega decided Kw was an excellent time to freak out over the lack of alphas.
To be fair he got scented every morning but today, was a very high-stress day.
"My, aren't you beautiful" (name) snapped his head up as the maids left the room with haste and (name) whined and ran towards him, shoving his face into the alpha's chest and whining "My, can't go a day without your alphas?" He teased and lifted (name) 's face to look at it "None of that, you will ruin your pretty makeup" he was only soft for his omega, gentle kisses "We have a wedding, right? We will dance and party and then when the moon is high we will take you back here" he promised and kissed (name), scenting him lovingly.
"Now be good for alpha" he commanded, a slight alpha tone that they found calms (name). He liked not being in control all the time, instinctually.
"Ok alpha" he whispered hazily as the maids came back in and Lucifer left to finish getting ready, confident that he calmed his mate.
(Name) Looked nervous as he was ushered into a beautiful fabric and mahogany palanquin, the finest silks used for it "To walk you to the temple, your Highness" a soldier said calmly and (name) nodded as the soldiers in celebratory costume lifted it and (name) tried not to yelp.
He walked through the city, a grand parade to show the people the next queen, and (name) shyly waved at them as the people cheered in joy and some looked in envy at him. He could hear screaming in the distance, too focused on the slight shake with each step the guards took and the loud sounds around him to figure out what direction it came from exactly but the bullet that flew past his nose as a man was pinned down by guards have his answer, the omegas palanquin lowering as the guards checked on him "oh thank goodness... Are you alright your Highness?" The general that was a bit ahead rushed to check on him and (name) though stunned and Shellshocked, nodded slowly the Alpha nodded with a sigh of relief "We will get there soon your Highness"
The parade continued and (name) tried to regulate his breathing as he lifted his sleeves and took in the smell of Lucifer that clung to him, too close to his heat to be able to properly handle this.
God, he was so tired...
"We're here your Highness" Had that much time passed?
(Name) Was helped out by his maids, dressed in floral traditional outfits, darker colors as to highlight (name) 's snow white robes that dragged behind him, gold accents matching his accessories "You got this, your Highness" (name) 's closest maid, the one in charge of his maids smiled and (name) nodded before walking up the steps of the temple as people cheered.
Traditional fan dancers danced in front of him, a beautiful display as the guests of the wedding sat and watched in awe as (name) locked eyes with his alphas and had to suppress a chirp. The dancers moved their fans away to make an entrance for (name) to walk closer to them, Asmodeus taking his hands and kissing them gently as the others looked fond at the sight of their beloved, even Belphegor awake and focused on (name).
(Name) Looked at the guests, from countless kingdoms the Royals down to the mayors from cities including the village he was from, and looked in awe at the realization of how large this temple was, it seemed so small in the darkness.
(Name) Barely focused on the priestess as he looked at his mates, shadowy magic binding them together as (name) agreed to the contract of marriage "bound by the fates and the demon king himself, his Highness (name) Morningstar is granted a gift from his majesty of immortality, may his heart beat so long as his alphas" the demon king sat in the distance, watching his younger sons fondly, leaving hell to witness such an event as a red-haired demon stood beside him while staring intently.
(Name) Felt warm as he was brought close by his alphas and danced with them, a grand party that was sure to go on for the next week as guests watched and the city partied and after brought around to be introduced to guests "This is our elder brother, the next king" Lucifer introduced the Omega to his elder brother, next king of hell and intimidating to say the least but the large grin that broke out on his face said otherwise "my, a pleasure to meet you! My apologies that it took me so long to be able to meet you! Let me know if they act up all right. It will be nice to not have a little brother that will get on my nerves!" He teased as he hugged (name) and seemed so warm and understanding to him.
"My mate couldn't make it sadly, they're too far along to make the trip but hopefully after you two can meet!" Lucifer felt warm that his elder brother and a mate got along so well as the other brothers were dragged to talk to guests and eventually Lucifer and (name) went to speak to others, the Omega passed from alpha to alpha to not hog.
"An hour and you don't greet your parents?" (Name) Froze under Asmodeus' gentle hold as he turned to see the mayor of his village and his parents... And sister.
How did they get here?
"Not even an invite, thankfully our dear mayor invited us as his plus ones as his wife and sons couldn't make it," she said casually as his sister altered between glaring at him and swooning over Asmodeus, the beta looking flirty and showing her bust at him but the demon didn't even acknowledge her as he tilted his head at his mate's parents with a cold smile (name) didn't recognize but the gentle thumb rubbing his hip told him he was safe "my~ isn't this a surprise, (name) darling... Why don't you go make sure Beelzie doesn't eat everything, yes?" He urged his hesitant Omega who looked so precious and watched him walk away.
"E-excuse me!" The dad tried barking out and Asmodeus smiled coldly, a beta demanding not just an alpha but a supernatural alpha. Laughable really "I will allow you to continue to enjoy this celebration but if I hear even a whisper of my mate's name from any of your lips that isn't shining adoration I will remind you of your place," Asmodeus said barely above a whisper as he towered over the stumpy beta and his family, he read the letter.
All seven brothers read the letter.
And despite not being wrath, Asmodeus was the most upset.
No flirting, no banter.
Just a thinly veiled threat.
"Now you best behave"
You would think this Would deter (sister), make her behave... But no no.
She was hell-bent on having them.
Breaking this farce is a marriage.
It was expensive getting rut enhancer drugs but it was worth it in her eyes she looked around and saw that (name) was moved to Belphegor who sat in a corner quietly and (name) said worthless words to him and saw that Beelzebub was enjoying his food.
Perfect.
The drug was a fine powder, easy to mask on the powdered cream puffs that the demon was gorging on, slipping past when he went for some ribs and sprinkling on.
She just had to be available when the drugs kicked in.
It was not too long before the demon returned his attention to the cream puffs... But other people took them as well.
Like servants bringing them to their kings.
Oh well, she thought as she focused on Beelzebub and deemed everyone else as a stepping stone to her happiness.
Beelzebub froze after ten minutes, eyes dilating as he stood and looked around "Are you alright?" She tried to seduce the Alpha, pressing against him but like her brother, she didn't quite understand how mating worked and believed he would go to the first willing hole.
But in reality, he sought out (name) who was talking to Diavolos butler, the two fondly chatting about something or another.
"Move," he said coldly as he locked onto (name) marched to him, and lifted him, the other brothers looked concerned as Diavolo decided to start a ring dance and nodded at Lucifer, they all seemed to understand what was happening. (Name) Was confused as he was held close by his alpha who left the temple gardens and spread his wings before taking off, (name) shoving his face in Beelzebub's neck and that's when he smelt the rut. He couldn't help but whine, he was trying so hard not to go into heat but fuck...
He closed his eyes and felt himself sink further, sounds distorting and he felt his clothes removed carefully as voices spoke around him "he will be upset if we ruin this" Asmodeus...? Or is that Satan? "Alpha?" He slurred as the alphas kissed his flesh, cold to the touch and he felt something hard press against his back before he was pushed into his back, he couldn't even formulate a feeling of shame or worry as Belphegor traced the body paint that was on (name)s flesh "pretty..." The sleep demon murmured as he touched the womb tattoo a wave of pleasure washed through (name) and a low moan broke through him "Any pain he feels will feel like absolute pleasure... We may be dealing with a very horny Omega" Asmodeus teased, they didn't have an incantation to make him feel no pain during heat or pregnancy so it was the best option.
Especially because he kept moaning and crying, without it he would be writhing in pain.
"Why don't you spread your legs for us? Hmm? Show us how an Omega presents?" Lucifer spoke low and deep to the Omega who spread his legs on the bed and yelped when Beelzebub shoved his face between his legs and gave a long lick, pushing his legs over his shoulders as half his body was pulled nearly off the bed, Beelzebub on his knees before the bed. "O-oh! Alpha!" He cried out as Beelzebub ate his ass, licking around the rim before pushing in ever so slightly as the smell of slick was heavy in the room "wanna make alpha feel good? Why don't you show Levi here how much you want his cock?" Asmodeus took the initiative with getting (name) to pleasure them as they pleasured him, the Omega opening his mouth so prettily as the shy alpha fed him his cock, (name) licking the underside as he sucked. "H-how did he get so good?!" Levi gasped as he felt (name) hollow his cheeks with a vice force "I have been teaching him how to be a good little cock whore~" Asmodeus teased as Belphegor sucked on one of (name)s nipples as Asmodeus and Lucifer got hand jobs, the two assisting (name) a bit as his body shook.
Satan kissed his navel before moving to the omegas cock and sucking on it, the pre-cum leaking like crazy as (name) struggled to comprehend all the pleasure he felt, hips being held down as Beelzebub inserted a finger, curving it upwards against his prostate as he ate his ass like a final meal and added another finger "you're gonna be-- fuck! Taking a lot tonight baby ~" Asmodeus stammered as Levi came down (name)s throat, the Omega choking slightly but managing "fuck..? Shit.." Levi was already babbling as (name) 's body shook and a climax rolled through, Satan drinking it all "You want more?" Lucifer asked the Omega who whined "Nest!" Beelzebub wasting no time, feral and horny As the other alphas slowly went into a rut from being around a heat-stricken Omega, their demon forms were on full display. (Name) Was settled into his nest as they let Beelzebub enter first his large and heavy cock pressing against (name)s ass as (name) made out with Lucifer, pretty little sounds as Beelzebub pushed in slowly.
Each inch made for louder and prettier sounds from (name) as his body glistened with sweat, another climax rolling through him as Beelzebub was halfway through bottoming out before his hips snapped forward and his pelvic bone was pressed against (name)s ass cheeks "oh! Big...!" He cried out and pushed against him as Belphegor went behind him and held him up, kissing his neck as the others watched hungrily.
Beelzebub wasted no time pistoning his hips as (name) clawed at his skin, body shaking and writhing in pleasure as he poured slick "puppy up!" He cried out as he begged to be bread, owned and full... Belphegor moved around to Sroke (name)s cock and kiss his neck before biting into its neck watching (name) unfold as Beelzebub rolled his hips at the tightness and his grip so tight it was going to leave dark bruises on his hips come morning.
"Please please! Pup!" (Name) Begged for cum, pulling Beelzebub for a kiss and tasting his slick as the alpha's hips slammed one last time and cum poured into him, hot and sticky.
Beelzebub felt some sanity return to him as he looked at a fucked out (name) who couldn't even form words but babbled nonsense as Belphegor kissed him and coddled him "Let's get water and food into him then the next round starts" Lucifer instructed as they already prepared the necessary things that morning, food tested by the demons along with the water before feeding it to (name).
(Name) May have immortality but they still didn't want anything to happen to him.
Though poison pains right now would probably give him six earth-shattering orgasms.
No! No! Bad!
They washed the sweat and paint off his body as (name) recovered slightly but soon grew whiny as he was placed on top of Asmodeus, cock pushing in with ease and crying as Asmodeus gave harsh and slow thrusts.
"Come now, you got more to take ~"
Mammon was furious, absolutely livid as he slammed his fist against the assassin's skull, not wanting this vermin alive as his mate struggled with his heat and six cocks currently "You are taking my precious time with my mate, who the fuck sent you?" He was bordering feral as the assassin finally gave in "The sister! She wanted him dead!"
Oh?
Interesting.
Mammon left swiftly, telling the guards to find her, she couldn't have gotten far after all.
For now, the greedy demon needed to sink his cock into (name)s cute little ass.
And maybe bite it.
Bite it.
When he walked into the heated room, already nude he was met with (name) being railed by Asmodeus and Satan, cocks moving in his hole at vigorous paces as (name) sucked Lucifer's cock like he would die "(name), look whose here" Lucifer pulled him off his cock to look at mammon and the whine and moan that left his lips as he cried for the silver-haired demon, hands reaching for him, and who was mammon to deny something like this?
Mammon shoved his tongue in (name) 's mouth and relished as the Omega tugged at his hair "Wanna make me feel good?" He didn't even have to show his erect cock as (name) moved and took it in his mouth, mammon sighing at the tightness of his throat "he's a natural" Satan slapped (name)s ass as he pounded as Asmodeus sucked on his chest, the omegas hands going back to work as everyone slowly found a spot for them, the Omega cumming again in the process.
(Name) Was unconscious with Belphegor, needing a heavy rest before the next wave and thoroughly fucked out, the other alphas getting their turns after as Mammon reported findings and what the assassin admitted "She most definitely drugged Bee, our ruts not till winter" Asmodeus said thoughtfully, he should have just let Satan do what he originally wanted to do but that was (name)s choice, not theirs.
But now it was treason that they were talking about.
An attempted assassination against (name).
You see when Diavolo was the next king of hell, they were given rule of the overworld and essentially made (name) queen as they were to be overworld kings come coronation granted by their eldest brother.
And after this, (name) would be carrying their heir.
God, they were half erect at the thought of (name) pregnant.
"I have a manhunt for them, a bounty will be put up as well"
For now, they would care for (name).
When (name) woke, he couldn't feel his legs and his head felt foggy as he was placed into a warm bath "Good morning, lamb" Satan caressed his cheek "Alpha?" He said weakly, voice hoarse from their activities as Mammon gently massaged oils into him, the alphas already washing the cum and sweat off him "Hello pretty baby~ you took us so well, we are so proud of you" (name) chirped at the praise as he received loving kisses "after this was gonna feed you" Lucifer promised and (name) felt a slight sense of clarity "cuddle? Before heat comes back?" He asked as the others smiled, unable to resist the request.
(Name) Was naked and dried off as he cuddled the others who doted on him "You did so well, absolutely beautiful my love" Asmodeus cooed, and (name) let him kiss and love him "My garden?" He asked softly, why that was his worry beyond anyone but Lucifer eased his worries with the promise of the gardeners taking care of it.
For now, he was to relax.
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lunette-png ¡ 3 months ago
Text
Not Just a Name
in celebration of waves of ithaca reaching 10k reads on wattpad
art used: mine! :DD
dividers by: @thecutestgrotto
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Ithaca shimmered beneath a rare golden sky. The sea lay still, the wind carried warmth, and for a brief moment, the weight of worry lifted from the island’s shoulders. Banners unfurled from every archway, dyed in deep ocean blues and the burnished orange of fading embers—hues steeped in history and hard-won glory.
It began as a celebration meant to welcome those returning from Troy: fires lit along the shore, songs rehearsed on wind-chapped lips, hearths prepared for the weary. But not all found their way home. In time, the festivity changed. What once was waiting became remembrance; what once was hope, now reverence.
Now, the day belongs to heroes—no matter their legend, their legacy, or whether they still draw breath.
Y/N stood in her room, one hand resting on the windowsill, watching as Ithaca readied itself. The courtyard below bustled with movement—flowers being strung into garlands, linen banners raised along sun-bleached stone walls, a slow rhythm of drums marking the start of remembrance.
The sea breeze tugged at the edges of the curtains, carrying with it the scent of salt and thyme. She stayed quiet, letting it wash over her.
Something shifted in the corner of her eye. There, draped on the old chest beside her bed, was her grandmother’s shawl. The dye had long faded from deep ocean blue to a soft, smoky azure, and the fabric smelled faintly of lavender, though it hadn’t been worn in years.
Her feet carried her to it before she could think. She lifted it gently and wrapped it around her shoulders, the weave snug and warm like an embrace across time.
The door creaked open.
“You’re not ready,” came Penelope’s voice, fond but unimpressed.
Y/N turned slightly, an eyebrow raised. “I am, actually.”
Penelope stepped in, graceful as ever. She paused, then smiled at the soft blue shawl. “Your grandmother would’ve liked that,” she said, brushing a bit of lint from Y/N’s shoulder. “It always suited you better than red.”
She reached up, starting to fix Y/N’s hair with deft, familiar fingers. “Honestly, you’ve had servants dressing you for years, and still—nothing beats a mother’s touch.”
Y/N said nothing, but didn’t pull away. The quiet gesture said enough.
Later, as they passed through the hall, Penelope reached up to adjust the laurel wreath slipping sideways on Telemachus’s head. He huffed out a long-suffering sigh.
“I’m not a boy anymore,” he muttered.
“No,” Penelope agreed, her voice warm. “You’re taller and older—but still can’t figure out how to wear a laurel without it tilting.”
Y/N smirked, and Penelope glanced between the two of them. “At least you still match,” she added. “Same earrings. And those braids—you always had to have them the same.”
“They look better on me,” Y/N said, voice dry as dust.
Penelope laughed, and even Telemachus cracked a reluctant smile.
The moment lingered, warm and light, like a breath before ceremony.
“You’re both grown,” Penelope said softly, her hand lingering just a heartbeat longer on each of them. “But you’ll always be my children. That’s one of the things no war, god, or time will ever take from me.”
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The palace gates opened to the public square, already filled with people. Dancers spun in spirals, their anklets ringing in rhythm. Merchants handed out fresh figs and olives to passing children. The smell of roasted lamb and honeycakes filled the air. Laughter echoed alongside the bards' first verses.
Bards and poets took turns in the circle, their voices rising with pride and passion. Names were sung—Achilles, Hector, Ajax, Odysseus—each legend a chorus passed down. Odysseus, king of Ithaca, master of guile, man of the horse. The Trojan Horse tale was recounted like a mythic hymn, the war that made men into stories.
Penelope’s face tightened. She didn’t look away, but her fingers curled into her palms, an instinctual defense. Y/N’s gaze shifted to her mother, and for a moment, she saw her as she had been years ago—fragile, holding pieces of herself together.
Without turning her head, Y/N said in a low, dry voice, “At this rate, they’ll say he was born from Zeus’s knee and weaned on ambrosia.”
Penelope’s lips twitched. It was a subtle thing, barely a motion—but it was enough. A breath of quiet amusement broke through her tension, her shoulders easing just slightly.
Telemachus, beside them, chuckled under his breath. “Careful. Say that too loud and someone will put it in a song.”
Y/N arched a brow. “Let them. I look forward to hearing about how he tamed Cerberus in his spare time.”
They sat together, quietly watching as the crowd cheered the stories.
But the crowd, ever eager, moved on. And so too did their praises.
“Odysseus’s daughter,” someone declared mid-recital. “A sailor, they say. Bold as her father. Though far too stormy, some whisper.”
Another laughed, “Or perhaps just desperate to be remembered. Can’t hold a candle to her father’s cunning.”
The suitors nearby sneered. Antinous clapped mockingly as another added, “She thinks herself Poseidon’s chosen. But what is a wave to a storm like Troy?”
The words stung like brine in a fresh wound. Y/N stood stiff, eyes glazed. Her jaw clenched. Was this how the world saw her? Was this all that would remain when her sails stopped catching wind?
Behind the crowd, older sailors and grizzled merchants murmured. “They don’t know her,” one said. “She’s navigated waters half those boys couldn't name.”
“Aye,” said another. “Saw her reroute a storm without blinking. They only speak of what they think a hero should be.”
Then, a new voice entered the bard’s circle—a traveler, face half-shadowed, steps so light it seemed he walked on air. No one noticed where he’d come from, only that suddenly, he was there.
He flipped a small coin between his fingers, smooth and practiced. It caught the firelight—a flash of gold. Y/N blinked once. She knew that coin. It had been hers.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“They speak loudest of what they understand least,” he said. “They recite names and victories, as if legacy were louder than truth. But I’ve seen a different kind of strength—one that doesn’t ask for attention.”
He stepped into the firelight, still toying with the coin.
“She is not her father’s shadow. She is the lantern lit in the wake of his passing. She doesn’t echo—she endures.”
Each word landed softly, like something sacred.
“Most never notice the kind of hero who stays after the storm, who cleans the deck in silence, who steadies hands that aren’t her own. They think loudness makes a story true. But there’s courage in the quiet. In kindness when it’s easier not to be. In keeping promises no one asked her to make.”
The coin shimmered again. His gaze flicked toward Y/N—unreadable.
“She bears loneliness like others wield swords. Wears it light, so no one else has to feel its weight. That’s a strength bards forget to sing about. But I see it.”
A hush had fallen. Even the fire burned gentler.
“She’s walked through rooms that never learned how to hold her. Laughed where no laughter was meant. Learned how to leave before she was dismissed. People like her aren’t remembered in statues. But they’re the reason others survive.”
Then softer—just for her:
“She moves like a storm at sea—not sent by gods, not summoned by fate. Just wind, and grit, and the knowing she was never meant to stay still.”
The coin spun once more. “Little storm,” he murmured.
No lightning split the sky. No wave crashed. But the wind stirred.
Not to mark divinity—but to echo something quieter. A girl who sailed both with and against the tide. Who shaped her blessing not into a crown, but a compass. Her strength was never what she carried—it was how she moved forward.
He lingered a moment, then turned to go, his step as quiet as his arrival.
Just before the dark swallowed him, he glanced back.
The coin gleamed between his fingers—a lazy twirl, half a wave.
Their eyes met. Mischief, yes—but beneath it, something gentler. Deeper. An understanding.
That he saw how fiercely she fought—not with force, but with fire. That he admired how she carried loneliness—not as a wound, but as unsharpened armor. That her refusal to bow to any god, even him, made her radiant.
That she trusted him—not blindly, but deliberately. And that trust meant more than awe ever could.
That she challenged him—not with defiance, but with presence. That maybe, for the first time in his immortal life, he didn’t want to win.
Because she didn’t just impress him.
She moved him.
And for a god who had walked through centuries of hollow praise, that was the rarest thing of all.
Her breath caught.
And for the first time all evening, her jaw loosened. Not in surrender—but in recognition.
The royal family sat on their platform, silent observers. Until Telemachus stood. A hush fell.
He walked to the center, unsure but steady. People stared. It had been years—perhaps decades—since anyone from the royal family had taken part in the performances. And now, Telemachus would be the first.
He cleared his throat, then spoke:
“I’ve never met Odysseus,” he said. “Not truly. I’ve heard his name more than I’ve heard his voice. I’ve grown up with stories—of his cunning, his bravery, his victories. But that’s all I’ve known. Stories.”
He paused. “But standing here, I realize… I’ve grown up alongside two people far greater than any tale.”
He turned toward the raised platform, where Penelope and Y/N stood together.
"My mother—she is the reason Ithaca still breathes. While others raised swords, she raised a kingdom. She has held this palace together through nearly twenty years of doubt and silence. She protected my future when the rest of the world tried to take it from us. People call her patient. They forget that patience is not passive—it’s power. Every day she chose to believe in something greater, and that belief kept this island from falling apart.”
Penelope looked away, tears threatening, but Y/N nudged her gently with her elbow, as if to say take the praise, mother. Penelope gave a half-laugh through her emotion.
"And my sister,” Telemachus continued, “is the fiercest soul I know. Not because she’s my sister, but because she’s dared to live boldly while carrying a name too heavy for anyone. She’s fought storms, led fleets, outwitted traders and nobles alike. But more than that—she’s shown me that being a hero isn’t about being remembered. It’s about showing up, again and again, even when no one sings about it.”
“She was my shield when I didn’t know how to hold one. She made sure I survived long enough to learn how to stand on my own. And whether the world remembers her or not—I do.”
He took a breath, words slow and deliberate now:
“So no, I don’t know Odysseus. I know Penelope. And I know Y/N. And if the stories forget them—then the stories are wrong.”
Silence followed. For a heartbeat, the entire square stilled. Then, slowly, applause began—not wild or performative, but genuine. Like rain falling gently on parched earth.
Penelope turned to Y/N and gripped her hand. “You both make me proud,” she said, voice tight. “You carry pieces of him, but… you are yourselves.”
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As the festivities dimmed with dusk, Y/N wandered. She found herself near the quieter corners of the city. Lamps flickered. Music softened.
She turned a corner and collided gently into a man.
He smiled. Eyes the color of shadowed olive branches. Hair tied back. Simple robes, but not plain. There was something about him—something sun-warmed, and yet hidden in half-light.
“My apologies,” he said. “I tend to walk where stories linger.”
Y/N tilted her head. There was something in the way he spoke.
“And yours,” he continued, “is one I’ve watched from afar. A tale still being written.”
She studied him. “You speak like a poet.”
“Only when moved,” he answered with a soft smile. Then, more softly: “You don’t shine like others,” he said.
She glanced at him, uncertain if it was meant as praise or something else.
He didn’t smile, but his voice held something soft. “You glow like twilight. The kind that lingers. The kind sailors look for when they’re lost.”
“Twilight?” she asked, caught off guard by the image.
His gaze flicked over her—not possessive, not even admiring, but quiet. As if he were watching the last light before night and trying to remember its shape.
“That’s what you are.”
The words hung between them, gentle as breath.
She tilted her head. “Why?”
He looked at her then—really looked. And for a moment, the world seemed to still.
He saw the way her fingers curled slightly, always ready to brace for something no one else noticed. He saw how she listened when others spoke, not just to reply, but to understand. How she never interrupted, even when her silence left her underestimated. He saw how she carried grief not like a chain, but like a compass. How she folded her fears into quiet acts of courage—standing when others turned away, holding firm even when no one was watching.
“Because there’s a kind of light that doesn’t shout to be seen. It just… stays. Steady. Familiar. You carry that. You show people the way without asking for thanks. You hold space for others without losing yourself.”
He hesitated, voice gentler now. “Twilight doesn’t try to be day or night. It just is. And somehow, it’s enough. More than enough.”
A pause passed between them like the hush before stars appear.
“You remind people they’re not alone. Even when you feel like you are.”
Y/N didn’t speak. Something in her chest pulled tight—like a string tuned just right. She wasn’t sure what part of her he had seen, only that he had seen it. And hadn’t turned away.
And she didn’t look away either.
He smiled again, gentler this time, almost apologetic. “Forgive me. Sometimes I speak too freely.”
But she didn’t ask him to take it back.
They parted ways slowly, with glances over shoulders.
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As night blanketed Ithaca, Y/N stepped into the throne room. The torches were low, flickering gently. She paused before the empty throne—Odysseus’s.
From her pocket, she pulled a small wooden compass. The one she had carved as a child, clumsy but full of hope. She placed it on the seat.
She lingered before the empty throne, the carved compass resting quietly at its center. It looked small there—just wood and memory—but it had been hers, once, and his too, in a way. A thing made of hope.
Suddenly, she was a child again. The throne room, silent and empty then, had been a place of quiet warmth. Odysseus sat beside her, the carving knife in his hand, guiding her small fingers on the piece of wood.
"You don’t need to be perfect," he had said softly, eyes flicking between her and the compass they were shaping together. "Just carve what you need."
She had looked at him, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Like you did with your plans?"
He smiled faintly, as though the thought amused him, and gave her a brief nod. "Exactly. Survive, think ahead. It's not always about strength, but knowing when to bend the rules."
The faintest flicker of memory passed through her. They had worked in silence for a while, carving the compass slowly, shaping it into something useful—imperfect, but strong in its own way.
"Do you think it’ll help me find you?" she had asked softly, eyes wide with hope.
"Not everything needs to be found. Just follow it when you need it," he had answered, his voice steady as always, but there was something in his gaze—something fleeting.
Her fingers brushed the throne’s edge, a quiet gesture, almost reverent.
“To the man who outwitted kings and nearly got away with staying home,” she said softly, a half-smile playing on her lips. “Until someone put my baby brother in front of a plow and ruined the act.”
Her voice held no bitterness—only affection, threaded with something older and fonder.
“You taught me that wit can be a weapon. That survival is its own kind of valor. That there’s more courage in cleverness than most will ever admit.”
She paused, glancing toward the open doors, the sea just barely visible beyond the courtyard.
“To the man who made the sea feel smaller just by promising he’d return.”
The words hung in the air. Y/N’s shoulders lifted slightly, as if to brace herself—but something faltered. Her throat tightened. One tear slipped down, trailing silent and slow along her cheek.
Just one.
She didn’t wipe it away.
“You never wanted to be a legend. Just a man trying to get home.”
Her voice caught on the last word, not enough to break—but enough to show the crack beneath all that strength.
“You’re still late, Father,” she murmured, and then, with a faint, dry smile: “Try not to make us wait another ten years, alright?”
She turned and walked away, leaving the little compass behind—quiet, steady, and facing home.
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The halls were hushed now. The laughter of the festival had softened to murmurs and harp strings. Lamps flickered like fireflies along the stone walls as Y/N made her way upward, step by step, shawl gathered loosely around her shoulders. Her throat still ached from holding that one tear in place for so long.
At the top of the stairs, she paused.
Penelope and Telemachus stood by the upper balcony, silhouettes bathed in starlight. The sky above Ithaca stretched endless and dark, scattered with constellations the sailors used, the ones the sailors and merchants had taught her to name long ago.
They didn’t speak when she approached. They only shifted slightly—just enough to make space.
Y/N stepped between them, resting her hands on the cool stone railing. For a while, they said nothing at all. The silence wasn’t heavy; it was shared. Comfortable in its quiet ache.
Then Penelope reached over, wordlessly adjusting the edge of the shawl at Y/N’s shoulder, the same way she used to fix loose braids when Y/N was a child. It was barely a touch, but Y/N leaned into it, eyes still fixed on the sky.
Telemachus exhaled softly beside her, arms crossed, gaze distant. “Do you think he’s looking at the same stars?”
Y/N’s lips curved faintly. “Probably cursing them for not pointing the way home faster.”
Penelope gave a breath of laughter. A quiet, watery sound.
They stood there, the three of them, beneath the open sky—no longer waiting in silence, but remembering together. Not just the man they had lost to the sea, but the parts of him that had stayed behind: a compass, a story, a stubborn spark in each of them.
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Far across the sea, beneath those same stars, Odysseus sat beside a low fire on a quiet stretch of foreign shore. His beard was thicker now, salted with time, his hands roughened by years of salt and war. In them, he held a piece of driftwood, carving slowly by firelight.
Scattered beside him were small figures—rough-hewn, each one shaped by memory. Polites, with his easy grin. Eurylochus, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, ever questioning, ever cautious. And others—his crew, his brothers-in-arms—each reduced now to worn wood and remembrance.
He had carved them over the years, when silence stretched too long or the guilt pressed too close. He couldn’t save them. But he could remember them.
Tonight, he carved something new.
A woman—steadfast and radiant in her quiet strength. A boy with a lion’s heart. A girl with wind in her eyes and the stubborn look of someone who never let go.
He didn’t know what they looked like now. The years had blurred the lines of their faces. But he remembered how they felt.
The gentle steadiness of Penelope’s presence, like harbor light on a storm-wracked night. The weight of Telemachus asleep against his chest, dreaming without worry. The sharp laughter of his daughter as she tried to best him in riddles, always reaching.
He ran his thumb over the carved faces, rough but real.
There were nights he feared they wouldn’t recognize him. That whatever was left of him—after Troy, after gods, after storms and blood and the sound of screaming men—might not be enough.
That he might come home a stranger.
He placed the new figures—his family—among the old. Not above. Not apart. Together.
A silent promise.
Then he looked up to the stars—steady, distant, unchanged.
And in a voice too low for the sea to steal, he whispered: “I’m still coming. Just… stay who you are. Stay bright for me.”
As if their light could guide him back to the man he used to be.
He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the fire crackle and pop. The ocean stretched before him, endless and waiting.
Ithaca waited, and so did they.
AN: hi- surprise, i am very sleep deprived rn but here's a lil celebration interlude?? idk words rn🎊
"is this canon to waves of ithaca?" honestly, it's up to you. i just wanted to write some good ol' angst (and hermes and apollo interactions) idk if i succeeded with it being able to stand on its own, but i wanted to explore ideas i honestly scrapped. aaaa i might edit this because i am genuinely sleep deprived, i wrote this while outside as soon as i saw the milestone so it's kinda rushed. i'll upload this later on wattpad(it's 12 am) soo, yeah
i decided not to include Ctimene and Argos because there's enough angst already (i might for future chapters maybe???)
CAN YOU TELL I WAS LOWKEY PROJECTING
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verbenaa ¡ 1 year ago
Text
air so deep and sweet
𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: “You’re just utterly shameless, aren’t you?’ He tsks, “Seducing me away from my work like this.”
Astarion’s eyes rove your form laying beneath him in reverence, the silken strands of your hair spread like a halo around your face and your dress a mess around your waist.
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𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: Astarion/Reader 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: smut, fluff, slice of life! 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 7.1k 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: body worship, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, hand jobs, vampire bites, mentions/discussions of anal, vaginal sex, vampire sex, soft dom astarion
MDNI, 18+ CONTENT
𝑎/𝑛: This is my first ever fanfiction despite a literal 20 years of reading them LOL i truly have lost the plot. Find me on ao3 too, my username is leadii 💕
ao3 here
masterlist
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Dim candlelight plays along the walls of Astarion’s studio, illuminating the discarded bolts of fabric leaning against the wall with haphazard grace, the threads of linens, silks, and cottons a riot of color against the muted walls. Spools of silken thread and tangles of ribbon lay sprawling across the work table, interspersed with pincushions and stray needles waiting to be threaded.
The studio itself is small, humble in its nature. Set aside on a small street within the city walls it wasn’t a far walk from your shared home, making it an easy decision to join him on the nights he decided to work.
Lush velvet draperies hang heavily across several leaded windows, while multicolored rugs layered themselves over the floor. Fat pillars of candle wax sit haphazardly upon several surfaces, filling the room with moving pockets of light, their dance helped along by the light summer breeze blowing through the open windows. It was undeniably one of your favorite places to be.
Despite Astarion’s initial claims to the contrary (if you could even call his half-hearted condescension to the concept such a thing), he was decidedly well suited for a life of domesticity. Much like a spoiled cat, he very much enjoyed his luxuries. Vials of scented oils, a soft bed covered with blankets and quilts, piles of books in the corners of rooms waiting to be read at his decision. You were very quick to learn that Astarion was nothing if not a creature of comfort. And he made it so very easy to spoil him, accepting your love and affection with open arms.
You nestle deeper into the nest of pillows that made up the corner you had decided to call your own, novel discarded beside you and your goblet of wine long emptied of its contents resting against the floorboards. With a small huff your attention turns from your surroundings to said owner of the studio, watching him weave the needle in and out of the fabric in his hands, focus intent on his art.
He had such beautiful hands, you couldn’t help but think. Hands as well-versed in sowing chaos as easily as they could thread a needle to create the tiniest of embellishments upon a single piece of silk. Hands as intimately versed in the art of death as they were in the art of drawing pleasure. Sometimes, you think, he is secretly desperate to prove that his hands no longer have to steal, cheat, or seduce for others and instead were capable to creating something soft and vulnerable for himself instead.
With a small stretch you sit yourself upright, adjusting the lovingly embroidered straps of the light linen dress you wore to compensate for the overbearing warmth of summer. You were always content to accept any creation Astarion made for you and your dress was no exception, tailored to perfection to sit on your curves perfectly with small decorations of lace and embroidery as he saw fit.
As though drawn by your thoughts, his carmine gaze glances up to meet your own. Astarion’s eyes linger upon your form as you slowly stand and stretch your arms high above your head, back arching slightly with the motion before you step to the nearest open window. A light breeze ruffles your hair as you rest your elbows on the sill, careful of the several plants currently residing there as your eyes move to watch the people below weave through the streets in the darkness.
“Dearest, do you mind lending me those ever-so-lovely eyes of yours for a moment?” His voice is a casual drawl. “I wish to seek your opinion on this particular color scheme.” 
You turn to face him from your spot at the window as he gestures to the work in his hand with a small movement of his wrist, and quickly step across the floor to stop at his side. You glance down to see the wooden embroidery hoop he holds with measured regard in one hand, the other carefully grasping a small, sharp needle. You lean in slightly to see better, your breasts adding the barest of pressure against his arm.
You focus your vision upon the delicate pattern of his needlework, the threads weaving together to create an intricate pattern of scrolling vines and abundant spring blossoms in a warm milky white adorning the collar of a cream colored linen shirt, the colors almost ethereal together in their similarity. 
“I hate to break this to you, but…I do believe it is simply cream upon cream,” you say with a small smile gracing your lips. “What ever is there for me to even give my opinion on?” 
“It’s called monochrome, my dear.” Astarion gives you a look of affectionate exasperation before continuing, “Despite what everyone seems to think, I am capable of subtlety when the occasion permits.” You briefly turn to look at him, an elegant eyebrow arching in amusement. 
He rolls his eyes and scoffs slightly before murmuring, “Certainly those pretty eyes of yours can see the differences despite the similarity of color?”
Sure enough, upon further inspection you could pick out the slightest hint of metallic gold threaded throughout the creamy colored delicate flowers and surrounding vines, the only detail differentiating the colors from one another. The subtle shine of the golden threads were mesmerizing to follow with your eyes, the candlelight bouncing off of them creating fiery highlights on the raised embroidery. Like everything Astarion touched, it was undeniably beautiful.
“I suppose it looks decent.” You tease, pressing your chest further into his arm while your attention shifts to the elegant planes of his face. He was simply so easy to admire, the way his hair always seemed to fall so perfectly into place, his mouth held soft in concentration looked so inviting.
A noise of protest leaves his lips at the mere thought his creation was only ‘decent’, and you can’t help but laugh at the reaction while leaning in to press a soft kiss to his pale cheek.
“It must be so hard to have such artistic merit, Astarion. I’m afraid such a talentless individual as myself can’t fully appreciate such craft and workmanship.” You playfully lean your body back and throw a hand up your forehead in mock distress, earning a short laugh from him. 
“Despite such questionable opinions, you are far my talentless, my dear.” Astarion sets aside the hoop and needle to the far edge of the worktable and turns in his chair, settling his full attention on you.
“In fact, I would be more than willing to remind you of the several of the talents you possess.”
Slowly, he draws his eyes from your features to glance down at the twin pinprick scars decorating your neck before slowly continuing lower to finally rest on a spot above your breasts. He brings his fingertips to brush lightly against the skin, pressing against the delicate lace trim of the neckline, sweeping slowly and softly back and forth against the swells. He watches the sudden intake of your breath with interest before his eyes glide up to meet your own again. 
A slow, feline smile graces his lips. “Such a distraction, dearest. Especially when you press these lovely breasts of yours into me.” 
You match his smile with a sly one of your own.
“Can you blame me?” You give a half-hearted shrug, hardly caring that you had been caught in your so-called crime. “It’s quite hard to not want to be close to such a beautiful individual like yourself.”
“Ah yes, there it is. Talent number one: flattery.” 
He moves the hand tracing patterns against your skin upward, glancing touches against your neck, before curling his fingers underneath your chin to bring your face closer to his own. 
You knew he could easily see the effects of his relatively innocent ministrations, could view the inevitable pink beginning to decorate your cheeks. 
Could smell it in the blood beginning to race through your veins. 
Astarion had always known exactly what to say made you breathless and had never held back on using that knowledge to his advantage to make you weak to his whims. 
“Now be a good girl and take a seat.” His voice is low, hungry; he leans forward and both his hands find your waist and pull. 
You feel your body relax easily into his touch, letting him smooth your skirts out of the way as he brings you towards his waiting lap. Your hips instantly connect together, fabric the only barrier between you. You feel a telltale twitch beneath you, signaling his pleasure at the slight friction created by the connection and your hips grind against his own instinctually, the friction and pressure adding to the growing warmth deep in your belly. 
Astarion leans forward, connecting his mouth with your own in a scalding kiss, moaning into your mouth as his hips roll against your own, his growing erection pressing closer to your covered center. 
Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull yourself even closer to him as your hands card through the silver curls sitting at the back of his neck. Opening your mouth, you lick against his lips hoping he will open them for you. Astarion obliges, meeting your tongue halfway. 
Your tongue brushes against a sensitive fang, drawing another moan out of him and he slowly pulls away from the kiss, lightly nipping at your bottom lip as he leaves before moving to press small, sweet kisses across your jaw. 
“Would you indulge me a snack, dearest?” He presses a quick kiss followed by a small lick to the skin behind your ear, sending a shiver of pleasure down your skin.
“I suppose I could be convinced…” Breathy sighs fall from your lips as he peppers kisses down the elegant column of your neck. “Quite easily perhaps, too.”
“Will you give me a small taste, my dear?” he mouths the words against your skin, lips hot.
Your eyes fall closed at his kisses. “You know you don’t even have to ask to have my blood. I give it to you, freely, and I always will.” With a tilt of your head you grant him more access to continue his search.
“I don’t deserve you.” “Absolutely false. You deserve everything.” The words roll off your tongue with quick ease, certain you’ve never spoken truer words.
As Astarion moves the straps of your dress aside to hang off your shoulders and free the expanse of your neck and collar he finds the spot he had been looking for, laving the area with his tongue briefly before he bites down.
A split second of burning heat as his fangs dig into the flesh of your neck with as much delicacy as he can manage before he finally begins to suck, the pull of the blood leaving your body as he drinks brings a decidedly indecent moan to your lips, the heat of your core growing wetter with every draw of his mouth.
As Astarion drinks in your lifeblood in slow gulps, you feel his hands moving to the neckline of your dress and he grabs at it, pulling the fabric down across your chest, exposing more and more of you with every pull of the fabric. You had forgone a corset today in an attempt at comfort in an unending battle against humidity, trusting the bodice of your dress to instead keep your (somewhat questionable) modesty in tact. 
The rush of cold air combined with the sudden brush of his chilled hands against your breasts as he lets the dress fall to hang freely around your waist draws a surprised gasp from your lips. You move your arms out of the straps before burying them again in his silver locks.
He quickly brings a free hand up to grasp a breast, brushing his thumb over a newly hardened nipple. Extricating his fangs from your neck, his tongue moves to lick up the blood tracing down from the wound, not letting a single drop go to waste.  
“Such a delightful little treat,” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing with every movement as your hips grind downward against his growing erection in slow rolls. 
His lips move further down your chest, no longer following the trail of fresh blood but that of the blood in your veins leading to your heart. 
Astarion presses a chaste kiss over the place where your heart beats, your back arching with the movement of his lips as he moves lower to capture a hardened peak. A soft cry at the touch of his mouth falls from your lips, the motion of his tongue drawing circles around the bud sending a flash of heat straight to your core. 
He laves at the bud, alternating licks and soft bites in a bid to stoke the fire inside you even higher, his free hand coming up to massage its twin with delicate motions.
Astarion cants his hips up into yours as he sucks hard at your breast, his prominent erection pressing into your growing wetness before his mouth moves to your other breast, continuing his ministrations.
“Astarion, please, I need more.” You whine, attempting to press harder against his erection in hopes the touch will grant a reprieve from the building heat between your thighs.
“As you wish, my love.” He grants your request with a whisper, his hands falling on your thighs to support you as he moves to stand, bringing you with him. Chair pushing back with the movement, he places you on the desk in front of him as his hips spread your thighs. 
Desperate to keep the connection between the two of your bodies, Astarion stands between your legs, pressing close. His hands skate up your body to land on your cheeks, tilting your face to look up at his own as a thumb brushes absentmindedly against your bottom lip. He leans down to press his lips to your forehead, your eyes, cheeks, nose, and finally your lips. 
“Lay back, love,” His words are a whisper as one hand makes it way from your cheek to rest on the back of your head. “It’s alright, I’ve got you.”
His eyes never leave your own as your body relaxes, trusting him, and he leans you back onto the tabletop with care until your body meets the wood. 
Barely breathing, you watch as his hands made their way teasingly downwards, skating over your bared breasts to find the skirt of your dress, moving to push the thin fabric tantalizingly up your thighs to settle around your waist and out of the way. Astarion’s eyes settle upon a tiny, lacy pair of panties, the fabric the only thing keeping you from being completely bared to him. 
“You’re just utterly shameless, aren’t you?’ He tsks, “Seducing me away from my work like this.” Astarion’s eyes rove your form laying beneath him in reverence, the silken strands of your hair spread like a halo around your face and your dress a mess around your waist.
He was so beautiful it made your heart feel like it was going to beat out of your chest. 
With bated breath, you raise a hand to draw your fingers softly over his cheek, capturing his attention. 
“Promise me that you will tell me if this gets to be too much for you,” Your eyes meet his as you watch his expression fill with sudden affection at your request. 
“What a sweet thing you are,” Astarion brings a hand to cover the one you had placed over his cheek. “Thank you for always taking care of me so.” With a small movement, he turns his head to bring his lips to press against your palm. 
“I promise you that anything and everything I do with you is my choice.” Astarion moves the hand that covers yours to flit down your body, teasing touches over your peaked nipples, down your belly, before brushing against the line of your underwear. A sudden intake of breath escapes your lungs as he watches your stomach jump with the touch. 
A smirk graces his face as he moves those same fingers lower, brushing lightly against the gusset of your underwear before pressing harder against the growing damp of the lace. His touch creates a sweet friction, your wetness mixed with the texture of the lace and the pressure of his fingers drawing a soft moan from you.
You whine as his fingers pull your underwear to the side, Astarion moving to slide his fingertips up and down your exposed slit, spreading your wetness. He makes teasing passes around the small pearl that rests above; close but never quite touching where you need him, your arousal aiding the smooth glide of his motions.
“I’ve barely touched you and you’re already this wet for me, darling?”
“You know I always aim to please.”  The words are hard won but you manage to  give him a haughty smile nonetheless, trying to maintain the last shred of willpower you have left to pretend to be unaffected.
He moves to pump a finger shallowly inside you, not nearly deep enough to provide any relief. You gasp at feeling, attempting to roll your hips in hopes to bring his finger deeper. But just as quickly as he enters he leaves, eliciting a noise of frustration from you.
“Patience, patience.” He tuts, hands moving to your hips to tug at the lace resting over them. He yanks at the fabric, and you raise you bottom to aid him in finally removing them. Astarion pockets the pair with a smug look as his hands move to spread your thighs further apart.
With every push of your thighs Astarion bares you to him, your arousal glistening against your center in the low light.
“You know, dearest, I think I would maybe like to have a taste of something else as well.” You feel your cunt clench at the prospect, adding to the building heat deep inside you. 
“Consider me at your mercy, then.” A smirk from him at your blessing as he slowly lowers himself to his knees before your spread legs.
Astarion is supplicant before you as he rests his head on your upper thigh, unfairly close to where you want him most. Your hips jump in anticipation as he begins pressing tantalizingly soft kisses into the crease where your hip meets your thigh.
You feel his fingers touch you finally, delicately spreading your folds as he watches your most intimate place open for him. His thumb comes to rest against your clit, rubbing lightly at the small bud and you release a contented hum at the warmth of the pleasure inside your body growing with the movement of his fingers.
Your eyes fall shut at the sheer relief of his attention, his expertise in knowing exactly how and where to touch to drive you wild drawing a moan from you. Your hand falls from its place in his hair to land beside your head, jostling errant sewing supplies from their resting place next to you.
“Careful, darling. Watch those lovely hands of yours to not catch on a needle. I would so hate for you to bleed so needlessly.” A roguish smile alights his lips as he lowers his mouth to lick a slow stripe up your center, intent to collect as much of your wetness on his tongue as he can.
Your hand immediately finds its way back to his hair, gripping his silver curls mindlessly as he begins to work his tongue up and down your center, tracing patterns against your sex as he goes.
His tongue moves to finally circle your clit with small movements, intent to drive your pleasure higher and higher with every pass. His mouth moves lower, licking across your folds as he finds your entrance, tracing around it with agonizingly slow motions.
Astarion is quick to move a hand to rest over your belly as your hips jut up, applying soft pressure as he grows bold in his motions and his tongue moves to push inside of you. Your grip on his curls grows harder with every thrust of his tongue inside your body, head thrown back and moans growing louder as he brings you closer and closer to completion.
The hand resting on your stomach moves to press lightly at your clit, once again resuming the small circles round and around as his tongue continues its exploration deep in your core, eating you out with fervor. 
Astarion continues to lave inside you, his soft tongue whorling against your walls as his fingers expertly work your clit in tandem with your cries as your hips ride his face, thighs shaking as your orgasm barrels towards you. 
And it’s just like that when you cry out and finally come, his tongue moving deep inside as his finger strums your clit with practiced motions and the feeling is white-hot as you plunge into your ecstasy. He licks up your come greedily, tongue never stopping its endeavor as you ride the wave of your orgasm, breathy cries leaving your lips and hips rolling until your body finally relaxes. 
Shaking in the aftermath of your orgasm, your hand falls from Astarion’s hair to rest over your eyes as your breathing begins to even out and you finally come down from the high, Astarion cleaning up your cum until you can take it no longer, hips jerking in overstimulation away from his mouth.
Astarion places a light kiss over your clit before raising up from his knees back to his full height, your slick glistening on his chin and lips in the light of the candles as his still clothed cock brushes against your empty center.
Astarion leans forward, arms caging your head as he leans down to nuzzle your cheek whispering ardent words, “Out of all the beautiful things in this room, you are by far the most gorgeous.”
His admission momentarily stuns you. Astarion had never been shy in his admirations of your beauty and while you had grown more used to them during your time together he still managed to catch you off guard with such compliments from time to time.
“Can I please touch you? Taste you?” You pant, desperation coloring your words in the wake of his earlier admission as you begin to push yourself up onto your elbows. Astarion’s hand comes down and gently presses on your chest instead, and you lower yourself back down at the gentle command in the gleaming red of his eyes. 
“You can put that clever mouth of yours to use later, my dear. I have other plans for you, I think.” His eye rove your features before pressing his mouth upon yours in a fevered kiss, his tongue licking against your lips asking for entry. You can taste the essence of yourself on his lips and groan at the taste, opening yours to tangle his tongue with your own.
Astarion deepens the kiss as his hands find your own and grasping them gently, he brings them down his body to rest upon his still-clothed cock. 
“You said you wanted to touch. Indulge me, lover.” His lips never leave your own as he speaks the words, tongue sneaking out to lick at your bottom lip.
Your hands spring to action immediately to palm his cock through his leather pants before you find the laces holding him and undo them with deft fingers familiar with the task.
Astarion’s thick cock springs free of the confines of the pants and your fingers find the beads of precum decorating the tip and spread the wetness down his length. your fingers glide from top to bottom in smooth motions over the veined velvet of him, his essence aiding your ministrations as his mouth falls open from the sheer indulgence of your touch. His head falls heavily onto your shoulder and his lips move over the spot he fed from earlier, kissing and licking the area as your hands work him closer to closer to the edge. 
Lifting a hand from him you bring your fingers to your own wetness, drawing your fingertips through your slick before pumping two of them inside yourself in an imitation of his own motions earlier as you moan at the feeling.
Astarion glances down to see your fingers buried in your own cunt, the sight making him go impossibly harder as he watches you briefly pleasure the both of you. With a whine, your fingers leave your body to return to Astarion, a mixture of your arousal and come coating your fingers as your spread it onto his waiting cock, increasing your rhythm to rub him faster.
“Gods Above, you really are something else.” His pupils are blown out in lust as he groans at both the sight and feel of your hands working his shaft, one hand massaging the crown of his cock while the other works him closer to the base in quick motions.
A wicked thought strikes your mind, and you almost feel badly for even entertaining the idea. Almost.
You can feel his breath fanning your neck with every pass of your hands, his moans growing more unrestrained as your ministrations draw him to edge of completion. Without warning you withdraw your hands from his weeping cock, cruelly denying him the climax he was so close to.
Astarion’s head flies up from where it rests on your shoulder as a noise of disbelief leaves his lips and he shoots you a look of pure shock. The knowledge you caught him so unaware has you riding another kind of high, one you rarely had the privilege of reveling in.
“You little minx! Who knew you were capable of such cruelty. You’re going to pay for that, you know.”
Mischief settles on your features. “Maybe that was the goal.”
“Ask and you shall receive, little love. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” His lips curve with a devilish grin, eyes glinting in the candlelight as his hands move to grip your waist, fingertips pressing hard into the soft skin.
“How should I make you pay for it, then?” He muses. “Should I shove my cock into that tight, sweet cunt of yours and fuck you so hard you won’t be able to stand? Or maybe I should make good use of that wicked little mouth of yours and fill it instead?”
His darkening eyes bore into your own, your cheeks heating at his suggestions as you shift under his contemplation.
“You do look quite beautiful like that, you know. Mouth stretched around me as I fuck your throat. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You give an enthusiastic nod at the prospect, excited for whatever punishment he deems appropriate to hand out.
Without warning, you feel the hands upon your waist move to lift you up and flip you over, your stomach making contact with the table as your bare breasts press tight against the wood grain. His hand comes to rest in the center of your back, pushing you further into the surface. You move your head to rest your cheek upon the table, the coolness of the wood a welcome sensation to the quickly rebuilding heat inside you as your eyes glance up to meet his own in curiosity. 
“Too bad. I have another idea instead.” His voice is deep with promise.
Such trouble you had gotten yourself into, it seems. 
Cool hands move from your back to the forgotten skirt of your dress to flip it upward to rest around your waist once more, exposing your ass and glistening center to the warm air. 
Astarion brings his hand down hard against one of your cheeks, the sharpness of the spank making you cry out as surprise and pleasure mingle into one. He rubs the growing red mark left on your skin before bending down to press a his lips to it, soothing the area with barely-there kisses. 
He brings both hands to your ass now, rubbing soothing circles over the area before moving to pull your rear cheeks apart, allowing Astarion to see absolutely everything.
A wave of embarrassment hits you to be put on such display for his vision despite his knowledge of your body, and you fidget slightly under his intent gaze of your most intimate areas. 
“Astarion…” you let out a moan and he is quick to shush you as he moves a hand off your asscheek to brush his thumb in light circles over your asshole. 
“Maybe I should take you here instead, I know how much you love when I play with your pretty ass.” His voice is deep, eyes impossibly dark. 
“Oh fuck,” His words draw a ragged moan from your lips at the mere thought, setting your neglected pussy on fire with need.
“Prove to me you can be a good girl.” His thumb applies soft pressure before it leaves you to be replaced by his lips. He presses a soft kiss to the tight hole before kissing downwards and licking deep into your cunt without warning, lapping at your waiting wetness.
“Gods, Astarion…” your hips press backwards towards his waiting mouth. “Whatever you want, wherever you want, my love. I’ll do anything. I just want you inside of me.” Your voice is hoarse with need, no longer caring to win this little game you had started.
You feel Astarion’s mouth leave your pussy and whine at the loss, but he is quick replace your empty cunt with two of his elegant fingers instead, sliding them in and out at slow, measured pace. 
“Do you think I should let you come one more time before I fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk properly?” You are helpless to do anything other than nod your head in insistence, hoping he won’t rob you of your orgasm the way you had done to him. “I don’t know if you deserve it yet.”
Astarion slowly pulls his fingers out of your body only to add a third finger on the plunge back in, drawing a cry from your lips at the sudden fullness. 
His fingers push deep and curl inside of you pressing against that special spot over and over again, driving you to new heights as the lightest veil of tears begins to dust your lashes at the sheer bliss of the feeling.
Noticing the tears, you feel Astarion immediately stop his ministrations and lean over your back to look into your eyes with concern, a noise of protest at the lack of motion falls from your mouth as his fingers slowly leave your body to rest on your hip, brushing calming circles on your skin.
“Is this too much, love?” Any trace of his teasing dominance is gone from his voice as he speaks the words to you clearly, looking intently for any indication you needed him to step back from the scene the two of you had created. “We can stop, darling, if you need to. I don’t want you to push yourself too far to please me.”
You smile at genuine concern evident on his face, blinking away the sheen of tears. 
Pushing your hips back into him with as much motion as you can manage in your prone position against the table, you lean your body up in hopes to press a kiss to his lips. Astarion leans in, mouth quick to meet you halfway in a kiss as his spare hand moves to cup your cheek.
“The only thing you are pushing is my patience, love. Please don’t stop.” You beg, hoping he will acquiesce to your desire to continue as you lower your body back down onto the table. “The only thing I want in this moment is to come so hard I can’t think straight and then to have that beautiful cock of yours inside of me in whatever way you wish to give it to me.”
“Insatiable. Who taught you such language?” His body follows yours down, back pressing against your own as his lips brush against yours as he speaks the words, the concern leaving his eyes replaced with mounting desire.
“Believe me, there is nothing I want more than to be buried deep inside you,” The hand on your hip makes its way back towards your center. “Make me the same promise I made you earlier.”
The words come to your mouth effortlessly.
“I promise you that anything and everything I do with you is my choice.” You recite the words softly, with ease. 
Quieter now, you whisper. “I trust you, Astarion.”
You know how much your words and trust mean to him, can see it in his unguarded expression. Astarion didn’t put much trust in the Gods, but he would never stop thanking whichever one it was that brought your paths together. His fingers gently graze your pussy, ringing around your entrance with soft, teasing touches.
“I love you.” Astarion says before pressing his lips firmly to your own, those same three fingers finally slipping back inside.
Astarion renews the pace of his fingers right away, pressing and curling with precise motions meant to bring you to the brink.
You give into the sensation of every movement of his fingers, mouth open and eyes falling shut at the feeling and it’s not long before he has you once again close to your orgasm. 
“Please, don’t stop,” you whimper as your thighs begin to shake.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Astarion brings his other hand down your body to brush lightly against your clit. He sounds as lost in desire as you feel. “Want to feel you come on my hand. Can you do that for me, sweet thing?”
His words have you clenching hard on his fingers, the pressure of them against your insides combined with the fingers of his other hand brushing light, concentric circles over your clit have you coming within moments of his request.
“Such a good girl to give me what I want so easily.” You barely hear the words that fall from his lips through the haze of your ongoing orgasm, the feeling of his breath on the skin of your ear serving to only enhancing the moment.
Your body spasms around his fingers and cries of ecstasy fall from your lips as he continues, working you through your orgasm while his lips press soothing kisses anywhere his lips can reach—your face, your neck, the tip of your ear. 
“That’s it. You always look so beautiful when you come for me.”
Slowly, finally you feel your body begin to relax through the haze of your orgasm. Your mind comes back to you and you release a small laugh as your breath starts to even out, feeling him leave your body. Without breaking eye contact, he brings the fingers that had filled you so deeply to his mouth and licks them clean. The sight of it sends a wave of heat right back to your cunt, a shudder of anticipation running through you.
“I think you already succeeded in your wish to make me unable to stand.” You pant.
“And to think I haven’t even fucked you yet.” His cock is hard as his eyes scan your form from the flesh of your core to the flush of your cheeks, your eyes glassy with a haze of lust.
“I think I want to fuck you just like this.” He whispers into your ear as his hands run soothingly over your back. “I like you this, on display as you wait for me.” You desperately attempt to push your hips back to brush against his uncovered cock, looking for any bit of friction.
You watch him from your place on the table, the lithe way his body moves as he takes off his luxurious silk shirt to expose his chest.
His beauty was almost otherworldly as the dancing candlelight illuminates the carved marble of his skin, light and shadow creating a moving chiaroscuro upon the planes of his body.
He looked like a god.
“You are so beautiful.” Your words are a mere whisper as he moves his thick cock to finally brush against your center, slicking himself in your spend as the tip catches against your clit, drawing twin moans from you both.
Grabbing your hips, Astarion positions himself at your entrance and begins to slowly push inside, so familiar with your body he barely needs to guide his cock.
His head drops to press a kiss to your shoulder before righting himself again, hissing in pleasure at the feeling of your walls closing around him as he slides in, your wetness aiding him as he bottoms out and his hips press hard against your own. 
Low moans escape you at the sheer feeling of his cock stretching and sliding home and your hands move grasp for purchase on the desk as he slowly begins to rock back and forth. 
“If only you could see yourself now,” His voice is deep as he watches himself pull his cock out of your body almost completely, only the head left resting shallowly inside you before pushing forward with a hard thrust, hitting a place so deep you let out a ragged cry at the feeling.
“Gods, Astarion, just like that.” He fucks you hard, the force of his thrusts pushing you back and forth with small motions, breasts pressing hard against the wood of the table as one of your hands finds his own still holding your hips. You grab at his wrist in hopes he will take it, needing to touch more of him. Sensing your need Astarion takes your hand, bringing it to his lips to press a soft kiss on the back of it before resting your joined hands on your lower back. 
“No one takes my cock like you,” He pants through his thrusting. “You were made for me, weren’t you?” 
Supplications fall from his lips as he moves in and out of your body, showering you with worship as if you were his own private deity. His words further kindle the rising flame inside your belly, every touch of his cock against your walls serving to push you closer and closer to your third orgasm. 
“Only you,” you pant, hips canting back into his own to match the rhythm of his thrusts. “No one else.”
You feel so incredibly full with your body positioned like this, every movement of his cock has him pressing hard against your sweet spot, the feeling like heaven as cries fall from your lips.
“I love how wet you get for me, darling,” Astarion can feel you tighten around him as you grow nearer to your orgasm, your body trembling and cunt pulsing with pleasure as your hips drive back into his own. The feeling of you so close to your orgasm has hips losing their rhythm, his eagerness at the two of you reaching your end together driving him to move harder with every press inside you.
You love seeing him, feeling him like this. His hips finally moving with wild abandon, chasing pure instinct as he moves fast and deep inside your body. A hand comes up to settle in your unbound hair, softly gripping the silk-like strands in his fingers and in his passion he pulls softly, the motion lifting your head. His lips lower to your ear as his back presses fully against your own, the feeling of his cock moving even deeper inside you unmatched. Between his chest against your back and his cock moving so deep he was practically rutting inside, you were almost certain your cunt had never felt so full. Breathless whimpers escape your mouth at the feeling, eyes closing in complete ecstasy as the sound of his own moans against your ear leaves your cunt clenching hard as he hits your g-spot over and over again with each deep thrust.
“Beg for it. Beg for me to let you cum.”
And beg you do.
“Please, Astarion!” A chorus of pleas rise from your throat voicing your desperation as his tongue licks the shell of your ear, the hand in your hair tightening slightly with every word and moan that falls from your lips. 
You can barely think as you feel your orgasm careen towards you, unintelligible in your words as you lose yourself in the feeling of your bodies. Astarion’s cock hits that deep inside spot at your front wall once more, and you finally let go, orgasm taking over your body, stars behind your eyes in all-consuming pleasure. You recognize Astarion nearing his own end, his hips rutting into yours as you ride out your orgasm on his cock, cunt squeezing him in a vice. He comes with a drawn-out moan as he paints your insides with his cum, hips shuttering until his thrusts slow down.
Astarion stays inside you, cock softening as he rubs his hands up and down your sides as you both come down from your high, his cold cheek pressed against your shoulder. With deep breaths you take air so heavy and sweet with your shared lust into your lungs, the weight of Astarion on your back an anchor to the world.
With one final pump Astarion pulls himself from your body, watching as your empty cunt weeps with a mixture of his and your own cum. Before he can stop himself, he reaches two fingers up to catch the cum on his fingertips, gently pushing it back inside you before it can fall out onto the table resting below your hips. 
“Wouldn’t want you to waste a single drop, my love.”
You whine and buck your hips, overstimulated after coming so many times in a row. With one last press of his fingers, he leaves your cunt, leaning forward to place a kiss on the small of your back.
Astarion grabs a discarded piece of silk off the table beside your head and he gently wipes at the mess that threatens to leave your body before cleaning his own spent cock. As your breathing returns to its normal pace, you push yourself up slightly. 
“Silk. Really, Astarion?”
“Only the best for you, my love.” Astarion is quick to help you off the table, steadying you as you sway slightly after being in the same position for so long. He presses a kiss to your lips as he helps pull your dress back up over your breasts and into place. 
“I would ask if I was too rough, but I know you better than that.” His remark makes you laugh as you lean into him, throwing your arms around his neck with a wide smile.
“You know, I think I’m missing a tiny piece of my clothing,” Your eyebrows raise as you gesture to his pocket where a tiny piece of darkened lace sticks out from. "You wouldn’t happen to know where it is, would you?”
“Why bother?” Astarion gives a casual shrug as he waves off your query. “I’m just going to take them off of you again when we get home.” 
He stuffs the underwear in question deeper into his pocket, patting it securely before flashing you a crafty smile.
“After all, I haven’t even had my dinner yet.” He leans in, setting your heart aflame with a passionate kiss before grabbing your hand to lead you out the door and into the waiting night.
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eraserdude6226 ¡ 3 months ago
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Why did Jesus fold the Napkin?
Love this! He is coming back!
"I had dinner with some friends not long ago and we discussed this very thing. Why was the head linen separate from the linen clothes?"
Why did Jesus fold the Napkin?
This is one I can honestly say I have never seen circulating so; if this touches you, you may want to forward it.
Why did Jesus fold the linen burial cloth after His Resurrection? I never noticed this....
The Gospel of (John 20:7) tells us that the napkin, which was p[laced over the face of Jesus, was not just thrown aside like the grave clothes. the Bible takes an entire verse to tell us that the napkin was neatly folded, and was placed separate from the grave clothes. Early Sunday morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and found that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance. She ran and found Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved. She said, 'They have taken the Lord's body out of the tomb, and I don't know where they have put him!' Peter and the other disciple ran to the tomb to see... The other disciple outran Peter and got there first. He stooped and looked in and saw the linen cloth lying there, but he didn't go in.
Then Simon Peter arrived and went inside. He also noticed the linen wrappings lying there, while the cloth that had covered Jesus' head was folded up and lying to the side.
Was that important? ABSOLUTELY!
Is it really significant? YES!
In order to understand the significance of the folded napkin, you have to understand a little bit about Hebrew tradition of that day. The folded napkin had to do with the Master and Servant, and every Jewish boy knew this tradition.
When the servant set the dinner table for the master, he made sure that it was exactly the way the master wanted it...
The table was furnished perfectly, and then the servant would wait, just out of sight, until the master had finished eating and the servant would not dare touch that table, until the master was finished. Now, if the master were done eating, he would rise from the table, wipe his fingers, his mouth, and clean his beard, and would wad up that napkin and toss it onto the table.
The servant would then know to clear the table. For in those days, the wadded napkin meant, "I'm done."
But if the master got up from the table, and folded his napkin and laid it beside his plate, the servant would not dare touch the table, because...... The folded napkin meant, "I'm coming back!"
HE IS COMING BACK!!
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n1ght0f-nyx ¡ 23 days ago
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pt 3 of my royal au! cod series
warnings/tags- this will end in poly icl!! eventual smut, not much rn just warnings ahead, these are just introductory drabbles!!
knight! kyle 'gaz' garrick x princess! reader
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The training yard is blanketed in morning fog, the chill mist curling off the stone tiles like the exhale of some slumbering giant. It weaves between armored legs and the clangor of steel meeting steel, swallowing the sounds into a soft hush. You shouldn’t be here. This place—raw, loud, alive with sweat and calloused hands—is no place for royal silk and bloodline.
But still, you come.
Because he's here.
Sir Kyle Garrick, knight-commander of your personal guard, cuts through the haze like a blade through shadow. Each motion he makes—sword arcing, shield lifting—is refined, deliberate, disciplined. There’s an artistry to him that the court’s bards could never put into verse. Perspiration darkens the linen at his collar, glistens along his brow, dampens the curls that cling stubbornly to his temple. And yet, his poise never slips.
When he catches sight of you at last, he lowers his weapon and dips into a bow, his chest rising and falling with the deep rhythm of exertion.
“Your Highness.”
You cross your arms over your bodice, chin slightly tilted in mock reproach.
“Sir Garrick.”
He straightens with a lopsided grin, eyes alight with mischief beneath the edge of discipline.
“Spying on your knights again?”
“I prefer the term ‘inspection.’” Your tone is smooth, but your eyes flick to the sword in his hand, fingers twitching with curiosity.
His chuckle is low, warm, almost intimate. “Then what’s the verdict, inspector?”
You step forward, the hem of your cloak whispering over the dew-slick stone. You reach out, trailing your fingers along the weathered hilt of his sword. The leather is worn smooth where his hand has held it a thousand times, molded to him like a second skin.
“You fight incredibly,” you say softly, barely above the hush of the mist.
He blinks, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. His voice, when it comes, is quieter.
“Thank you.”
A heartbeat passes. Then, a flicker of something playful in his gaze.
“Care to try?”
You hesitate, eyes on the sword, heart thudding. “I might fall.”
He moves behind you, the heat of him bleeding through your layers of fabric. His voice is low, a promise.
“Then I’ll catch you.”
You don’t answer. You just take the sword.
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